Foreward

       I've had several question me regarding the use of Elvish within this story.  For those who read this at a later date, I offer a brief description of some of the terms used.

       Iorhael is the Sindarin translation of Frodo's name, both of which mean Wise One.  I usually have used it in chapters set either on the way to or within Tol Eressea, but here have used it in the debates Frodo has with the voice which argues.

       Samwise Tolkien indicated means Half-Wise; in one of the proposed epilogues Tolkien eventually decided not to put at the end of LOTR he has Aragorn address Sam as "Perhael who ought to be known as Panthael"--Perhael being the translation of Samwise while Panthael means Fully Wise.

       In the acclamations made for the Ringbearers on the Field of Cormallen, the names given in one of the languages, which I believe was Adunaic, were Conin (I believe for Frodo) and Berhael--obviously a variant of Perhael.

       The names which in The King's Commission I had Gimli inscribe on the circlets for Frodo and Sam were Iorhael and Panthail (another variant spelling Tolkien played with for Sam's Elvish name preferred by Aragorn).

       Cormacolindor is a translation for Ringbearer.

       Mellon nin means my friend. 

       Tithen nin means my small one.

       Muindor nin means my brother.

       Adar means father, ada means roughly dad, naneth means mother, nana means mom, daeradar means grandfather, daernaneth means grandmother.

       Hannon le means thank you.

       Ion nin means my son; sell nin means my daughter.

      Elvellon means Elf-friend, and was the title given to any mortal whose service to the Elves and all of Middle Earth was considered extraordinary.

       Snaga is Black Speech for slave, and is a popular epithet to throw at underlings. 

       Tarks and tarkil are Black Speech for Men, with the former being a slang version semi-translated to the Common Tongue.

       In ROTK Pippin realizes that the language the folk of Gondor use among themselves is a form of Elvish, particularly Sindarin.  However, that it has drifted from Sindarin as spoken by the Elves is shown in the use of Pheriannath instead of Periannath for Hobbits.  Depending on the point of view the story is being told from at the moment I use whichever variant the individual has come to associate with the Hobbits.  I assume that the folk of Umbar would prefer using Adunaic to Sindarin to differentiate themselves from the folk of Gondor, and so would not be likely to have a word in their vocabulary for Hobbits.  In my version of Middle Earth, the Northern Dunedain use Adunaic more commonly among themselves than Sindarin, and based my choice of that on the fact that they have used the Ar- prefix for their kings and chieftains for so long, that prefix having superseded the Tar- prefix originally used in Numenor when the estrangement between the rulers of the Star Isle and the Elves of Aman led to the preference for Adunaic over Sindarin.

       In my version of Frodo's life, he was born with a mild heart murmur which he eventually outgrew; but in the wake of his ordeals with the Ring, having been stabbed with a Morgul knife, and having been poisoned by Shelob his health was impaired, but that he was able to learn to mask this in great part.  In part I admit I was directly inspired by Lindelea's A Small but Passing Thing, but even moreso by knowledge of what longterm disabilities and diseases have been found to be associated with spider and tick bites, often beginning to manifest years after the initial wounds were inflicted. 

       I also wrote Frodo's initial problems with his digestion based on reports of Holocaust survivors, many of whom couldn't keep food down for quite some time after they were rescued from the camps.  Aragorn's orders that water be placed by Frodo and Sam at all times come from the same source, recognizing that for Frodo particularly the presence of water signified at a deep emotional level the fact he was through the trials of Mordor.  However, his long-term problems reflect the effects of the spider bite, such things having been shown to cause degenerative problems with circulation, the heart, the digestive system, and with connective tissue.  Symptoms he exhibits are consistent with acid reflux disease, irritable bowel syndrome, and a hiatal hernia or sliding hernia.

       My own husband died four years ago from a combination of ills (we joked he was dying from everything).  His condition was a degenerative one, and much of the pattern of appearing better and then appearing worse, then having symptoms suddenly change, the mood swings and such, are based on the experiences I saw in him and in others with similar clusters of disabilities I've dealt with.  Halargil's symptoms as a result of his stroke and the decision he makes to allow the pneumonia he's contracted to free him are based on personal experience with stroke patients, particularly my mother.

       Some of the ideas I present are expanded on in other stories I've written, particularly For Eyes to See as Can, The Choice of Healing, The Ties of Family, The King's Commission, and Fostering.  All of my stories, even my short stories, are tied together, as those who've followed my work for some time can tell you.

       I hope that those who are moved by this story will read some of the others as well.

       As for the source of the voice with whom Frodo argues from time to time--well, we will allow time to reveal that.

The Acceptable Sacrifice

1:  Unconsummated

            He was not surprised to see Gandalf--not at first, at least.  He awoke feeling calm, free of pain, soothed, his mind clear.  All was comfortable about him, and the air was filled with the sounds and scents of sweetness of life, of fecundity, of growing things and the beauty of the Creator.  To see Gandalf standing over him was precisely what he’d hoped for--for his first greeting in the place beyond Arda to be from him.  He smiled--he knew he smiled.  The sacrifice had been consummated and had been accepted; and Gandalf had smiled back, a smile of relief which gave him his first conscious hint he wasn’t dead after all.

            Then he’d tried to sit up, and realized he lay upon a bed, that his hand was bandaged, and that it hurt as he tried to put his weight on it; and that there was a familiar ache in his left shoulder as he flexed it.  His smile slipped slightly. 

            Gandalf reached behind him and with one arm pulled him up to sit, leaning him back against hastily rearranged pillows.  He turned and from under a draped cloth took up a mug--a rather battered metal mug similar to those they’d drunk from all during their quest.  It was filled with water--plain, sweet, clean water.  Oh, it was so good, after so long of having either nothing or the polluted drink from the cisterns along the orc roads.  He sipped thankfully, then allowed himself to lie back against the pillows looking at the wizard, and examined him.  “You aren’t the same,” he said as Gandalf returned the mug to the table between the two beds, as he again set the cloth over it to keep out insects.

            Gandalf laughed.  “Not the same?  Of course not!  None of us is the same, Frodo.  It’s done--the quest is fulfilled.”

            The memories were beginning to return, and part of the happiness he had felt fell away.  “I’m not the one who did it--Sam is the hero--or even Gollum.”

            Gandalf sat gently on the side of the bed beside him.  “All three of you,” he said quietly, covering the maimed hand with his own, “were needed to see it done, Frodo.  Only you could have brought It there.  Only Sam could have supported you there.  Only Gollum could have brought It into the fire.”

            He shook his head.  “I ought to have done it, Gandalf.  I ought to have leapt in myself with It.”

            The wizard shook his head.  “You, Frodo?  You are but a mortal, and that was not wrought by a mortal.  There It would most likely have taken even me.  It knew your heart, Frodo Baggins--It knew you intended to destroy yourself to destroy It.  There where Its power was strongest, do you really believe It would have allowed that?”

            The Hobbit sought to turn the subject.  “How are you here, Gandalf?”

            Gandalf sighed.  Frodo’s behavior disturbed him.  However, he decided to answer the question.  “I was sent back, Frodo.  I was sent to Middle Earth in the beginning to teach the Free Peoples to stand against Sauron--that was my sole purpose.  That need continued, and I was sent back to fulfill it.”  His expression softened again into his beautiful smile.  “And so it is that I was able to be the one to greet you when at last you awakened.”  Frodo reached out, and the Wizard gathered him into his embrace, felt the tears of mixed relief and regret against the breast of his white robes.

            Oh, Iorhael, even you were not immune to Its power.  You do not understand yet, do you?  Iluvatar does not rejoice in burnt offerings, but in living sacrifices.

            Troubled, the Wizard caressed the dark curls.

2:  Honored

          The weakness disturbed him when he rose and tried to stand.  Gandalf looked at him with a slight frown and shook his head, murmured quietly, “Are you really surprised, Frodo?  You have been unconscious for two weeks.  The first several days we could barely touch your skin, so fragile it had become; your muscles are somewhat wasted but will recover.  Only by rising and doing will you regain your strength and endurance.”

          Sam was also surprised, but laughed, grateful only to be allowed to stand once more, with no thought to the fact that he needed support at first.  It was the mark of the difference between them that Sam was simply grateful, held no resentment that he was, for the moment, less than he’d been before.  And, as always, his first thought was for Frodo--for recognition for what Frodo had supposedly done, for the loss of that tainted finger--Frodo himself was glad it was gone, for what other than grief and pain had it brought him since he’d realized what the Ring was?

          Couldn’t they see?  Frodo was no hero--it was all Sam.  He’d never have been able to accomplish anything without Sam!  He’d accomplished nothing but to bring grief to all others, to cause them pain and loss.  Sam had seen them to the Mountain--while he couldn’t even walk up it on his own!  And it was Gollum who’d taken It into the Fire at last, sent there--sent there by Frodo’s own curse uttered on the mountainside, that curse he’d made while holding the Ring.  His stomach lurched.

          They were brought out to be shown to thousands, and seated together on the throne carved not from wood or stone but from the living earth itself, the one intended for Aragorn, the one which Aragorn had quitted to seat them there, as if they were the victorious lords and not he; and he sat there and was overawed by the acclamations he heard, then felt himself the fraud--Sam deserved it all, not he.  Sam didn’t question, just accepted.  He felt Gandalf whispering into his ear, “Iorhael, Iorhael--you are not Sam.  Do not expect to feel as he does.  You were given the gift of analysis--but do not allow it to become a burden to drag you down!”

          He closed his eyes and nodded his understanding, did his best to let his overactive mind, stimulated by fighting the lure of the Ring for so long, relax and let go, simply accept as Sam did.  For a time he succeeded, and again he just felt the gladness he’d felt when first he awoke.

          When the minstrel of Gondor stood forth to sing the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers he’d been embarrassed--glad it happened for Sam’s sake, Sam, whose last thought before losing consciousness at the foot of the Mountain was of whether they’d be put into songs or tales; but embarrassed and horrified on his own account.  It was Sam for whom the lay ought to have been named, not for himself.  Sam ought to be the hero of all, certainly not himself in any form.  He’d accomplished nothing--nothing at all.

          But then he was being undressed and dressed again--by Gandalf, and his embarrassment hit him.  Was he but a living doll or was he a grown Hobbit?  He was growing tired, truly wished he could but lie down again.  The clothing made for him was not Shire make or patterns, wasn’t familiar at all, although it was comfortable enough.  He didn’t understand the silken shirt that fit so closely to him, until Gandalf brought out the mithril shirt Bilbo had given him, prepared to slip it over his head. 

          “But how----”

          “Be at peace, Frodo--what was lost has come back again--and that includes the two of you, you must realize.”

          In his heart he found himself growling, But I don’t want all this to go on.  I want to be a simple Hobbit again.  I’m no prince or great lord, to dress in mithril and silks!  I want to go back home, sit on the stoop as evening falls, smoke my pipe, watch Sam working in the garden, smell stewed mushrooms cooking from the kitchen....

          But a foreign thought countered that.  But you are not a simple Hobbit--you are more than that.  And you no longer belong only to the Shire.  You were destined to wear the mithril shirt as you were destined to carry the Ring.  Both came to you at the proper time, as each was meant to do.

          You have hidden the mithril shirt under your Shire clothing just as your great spirit has been hidden in the guise of a simple Hobbit.  Today is the day for the disguises to fall away--if only for a time.  It is not only Aragorn, you must realize, Iorhael, who has had to survive by being disguised and hidden.  Elrond raised up one born for the sake of hope to face his destiny; Bilbo raised up two more.

          One prince has at this time been raised to the throne; let the other two be brought forth to stand beside him, those intended to bring him to that great seat.

          He stopped arguing, watched as gilded mail was slipped over Sam’s head as well, a princely tunic set into place over that, as a fine sword belt was fastened about his waist, and his pride in Sam began to grow.  Sam was no mere Hobbit, he was a prince of Middle Earth and deserved to be seen as that.  Tears of joy and delight in how wonderful Sam looked and was began to gather and fall as he gazed upon his friend, seeing how right it was that this should be, as a circlet of mithril was brought forth to be placed on Sam’s brow....

          And then Gandalf was turning again to himself, was slipping a fine overtunic to be worn outside the mithril shirt over Frodo’s head, was now preparing to gird the shining mithril belt about Frodo’s waist, Sting back in its fine sheath to hang there.

          He felt revulsion at the thought of wearing a sword--any sword.  During the time since Amon Hen he’d been shown predominantly visions of death and destruction by the Ring, and the last moment with the Ring Itself had been the prelude to the worst death yet, as the curse he’d uttered had taken Gollum.  “If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom.”  And so it had been.  That last shriek of shock and Precious! would stay in his mind forever, along with the last taunt of the Ring--You see how it is, Frodo Baggins, how all die because of you? just ere the two of them hit the fires below, were swallowed up by the river of molten rock.

          How could he ever, ever again wear a sword, the symbol of the death and destruction he’d left in his wake for the past half year?

          The sword is not only the symbol of destruction, Iorhael--it is the symbol also of protection.  That is why you left the Shire, to protect that which you loved.  That is why you accepted the Burden, for only you at the time saw how It delighted in the growing strife It was seeking to spread at the Council, which was but a hint of what It would cause if one not strong enough to defy It until It reached the Sammath Naur were to seek to take It.  That is why you broke away from the others, to keep It from completing the corruption of Boromir and destroying the others as well.

          His own thought answered, But how did I protect Sméagol?  I brought about his death!  The Ring was destroyed at the cost of his life!

          It was as if he felt the one with whom he argued sigh in his mind.  Did you not realize that only if you destroyed yourself could you hope to destroy It?  You knew It had taken you so very deeply that you could no longer willingly give It up--that to see It on the hand of any other than yourself would drive you mad.  That is why you intended to throw yourself into the Fire with It, was it not?

          Eru did not wish you lost, Iorhael--not that way.  You forgave Gollum on the slopes of Orodruin because you realized that It had taken you at the last, there where Its power and will were greatest, that he and he alone had saved the quest.  Do not seek to take back that forgiving, for it cannot be done.  You saw truly--to destroy the Ring would cost a life; had you taken It into the Fire as you’d purposed, it would have cost three lives and not one, for he would still have died, and to less purpose; and Sam would not have left the Sammath Naur without you.

          And so it was that Frodo sought to take on himself the lesser sword.  If he must wear one in token of the protection he’d sought to give, then it must be that one he should carry.  Sam was the hero....

          This time it was Sam who overruled him, and he realized he no longer had the will to fight further.  He trembled as Gandalf hung Sting’s sheath on his belt and led them at last out to the feast.

3:  Feast Not Enjoyed

          Although most attending the feast sat on benches, Frodo and Sam were given heavily cushioned chairs to sit on.  The scent of the food brought to the tables was overwhelmingly tantalizing at the same time it seemed foreign and even repugnant after their weeks of privation.  They’d been given some food already--soft bread, a little fruit, watered wine.  The scent of roasted beef and fowl was almost too much to bear, and Frodo found himself feeling almost nauseous. 

          Yet the plate they brought him had but a little on it--a bowl of broth, sauce of apples, curds and whey, again soft bread but with no butter--not that this bread needed butter, really; apple juice, a very small serving of chicken, again a small amount of watered wine.  He’d been given a similar plate at the feast in Rivendell when he awoke, although at that time he’d not really cared; and after an hour’s time as they continued to sit still at the table they’d brought him more.  This time, however, he felt insulted.  He’d only barely missed dying again, and supposedly the feast was in his honor; yet they served him an invalid’s rations?  He’d not eaten properly for almost a month--he was hungry and wanted food--lots and lots of food.  Even if he didn’t really want to eat it, realized at a practical level of his being that he couldn’t bear more than he’d been given, he still wanted a bounty of food to be placed before him and Sam.  He wanted the reassurance he and Sam would never want for food again.

          Iorhael--be practical.  You and Sam are not the only ones receiving light meals and soft foods.  Look about you--that soldier with the bandaged jaw--he’s getting only broth, while that one over there with his belly wrapped is receiving the same.  They are feeding thousands here, and have had to bring meat or cattle here from the other side of the River.  Would you deny someone else the food you wish to have before you--food that you could not eat anyway--just to satisfy your own pride?

          Then his attention drifted away somehow.  Gandalf sat by him, urged him to eat what he could, to teach his belly to accept more than lembas.  He smiled up distractedly, managed to swallow some more, then sat back.  His shoulder ached, and he automatically rubbed at it.  Someone spoke to him, and although he answered back and must be saying the right things as no one was giving him odd looks, yet he afterwards couldn’t remember anything about the conversation at table.

          Then the meal was apparently over, and he was standing up.  Sam saw the small lurch he gave as he almost lost his balance again, put his arm about him to keep him from falling--but in such a way others didn’t realize how weak he was.  Frodo was both grateful and resentful.  Why did Sam feel the need to hide Frodo’s weakness?  Was he watching him so closely?  Did he think he had to do everything for Frodo and keep up the illusion Frodo was just fine?  And why couldn’t he just be well?  Aragorn was the King, and had the Healing Hands and all--why hadn’t he been able to just heal him completely?

          Someone in greens and browns over mail was speaking to him, and he couldn’t remember for the life of him who it was--king of somewhere, he thought; horses or something--well, the horses were rather obvious, worked into the leather hauberk over his mail, decorating the hilt of the sword he carried, on the buckle of his belt and stitched onto the banner behind his chair--even appearing in the heraldry of his crown!  He tried to be polite, nodded sagely, then excused himself and tried to slip away....

          There were too many people about him, too many conversations, too many eyes watching every move he made, too many thinking he was special--or ignoring him--or undervaluing him.  He wanted away--needed to be away.  Why couldn’t he just be allowed to be alone?

          And yet, the thought of being alone terrified him, too.  For too long he’d been kept isolated by the Ring--even in the cavern of Henneth Annun, surrounded as he’d been by Captain Faramir’s Men and with ever Sam by his side, he’d yet felt alone.  At the end it had been himself and the Ring, the Ring constantly ravishing his own mind.

          Somehow Aragorn came to be by him, and he felt such relief as the King looked down into his eyes, placed his hands upon his shoulders, knelt to hold him close in embrace.  And, as he experienced that embrace he felt safe as he’d not felt safe for a very long time.

          Oh, my brother--how I longed for you to be with me!  It was all for you, and I am so glad it was accomplished for your sake! 

          And he heard Aragorn whispering, “Oh, Frodo--we couldn’t be certain which way you’d gone--not at first!  You fled--you fled from one danger into a thousand others!  I would have gone with you--and yet, if I’d done so, in the end It would most likely have taken me as It did Boromir.” 

          Frodo pulled away enough to look into the Man’s face, and saw there the tears that filled his eyes, slid unheeded down his cheeks.  “You should not weep for my sake,” he murmured.

          “But why not?  What you have endured, Frodo--it ought not to have happened to anyone, but particularly not to you!”  Aragorn pulled him close again, sought to give back the feeling of comfort and safety and ease.  Frodo felt the healing warmth of the King’s touch fill him, relaxed in it, slipped to the edge of rest again.

          All too soon Aragorn had to leave him again to take up his duties as host.  But at least Frodo wasn’t expected to rejoin the throng--he and Sam were taken to a place where they could hear the river, smell the wonderful odor of growing things after ages, it felt, of the odor of ash and decay and poisonous fumes.  Merry and Pippin were released from their duties, were there in their uniforms to talk and comfort; Legolas and Gimli were there to guard and explain, Gandalf staying near at hand to watch that it wasn’t all too much.

          Sam was still excited, was wanting answers, and was kept busy wanting to know it all and to understand the unprecedented growth of Merry and Pippin.  And all were glad when at last Gandalf made them return to their beds, even Pippin.

          But in the night Frodo awoke, clutching at his shoulder, breathing deeply, his dreams disturbed.  He and Sam weren’t alone--Gandalf sat nearby, a goblet of wine at hand.  Immediately he was up and leaning over Frodo, his hand on Frodo’s temple.

          “What is it, Iorhael?”

          “The Eye--I dreamt of the Eye!”

          “And your shoulder?”

          “It ached--as if the Black Rider were overhead on his terrible beast again.”

          “Neither is any more, Frodo.”

          “I know--but the memory is still there--for that at least!”

          “For other things it’s gone?”

          “Yes.”  He lay still for some minutes.  “I barely remember from after we left the Crossroads.  Some moments--others I don’t remember.”

          “For now it is probably as well you don’t.”  The Wizard’s face was intent.

          “Why am I still alive, Gandalf?”  Even Frodo could hear the plaintive tone in the question, and was ashamed of it.

          The Wizard sighed, and gently brushed his hair back from his forehead with his hand.  “You gave up almost everything, Frodo, to accomplish your quest--and more was wrested from you by the Ring and Sauron’s will.  We cannot restore your innocence--as with virginity, once it is gone, that remains gone.  But we can hope for the healing of your spirit, and for you to be able to know joy once more.  Know this, Iorhael--” he leaned over the Hobbit’s bed, “--you deserve to know joy once more, full and unstinted.  You were created to know joy before you pass through the Gates.”

          Frodo could feel his face burning.  “And so, I can remain a virgin, but not know the innocence that goes with that state?”  He felt also the fury such could be true burn in him.

          Again the Wizard sighed.  “Frodo--virginity and innocence are independent states.  You can lose the one without loss of the other.”

          Frodo looked away, up at the swaying branches over the open top of their surrounding walls, fixing his gaze on a single star which could barely be seen beyond them.  Finally he asked, his voice low and tight, “Why am I still a virgin, then?”

          “Since the Ring came to you, before you knew what it was, have you desired any Hobbit lass?”

          Frodo felt himself shaking.  “I don’t know,” he said finally, in such a low tone even he had difficulty hearing it.

          “That isn’t quite true, is it?”  Gandalf’s tone was not accusatory, but sad.

          He finally wrenched his eyes back from the star to the Wizard’s gaze.  “What do you know about it?”

          But Gandalf was looking on him with deep compassion in his eyes, and Frodo couldn’t keep the anger as a shield any more, found himself weeping, weeping for his loss.  The Wizard sat himself on Frodo’s bed and lifted him up to lie against his chest, simply holding him, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

          Finally the weeping stilled.  Frodo leaned against Gandalf’s robes, breathing in the scents of wood and water and stone, pipeweed and its smoke, the scent of horseflesh.  He was surprised when he heard himself whisper, “Did the Ring geld me, Gandalf?”

          “You know it did not--not quite.”

          “Then why couldn’t I see how lovely a lass was any more without----”

          Gandalf finally prompted, “Without what, child?”

          Frodo swallowed.  “Why couldn’t I see how lovely a lass was without--without wanting to--wanting to take her by force?”

          “Did you ever know such thoughts before the Ring came to you?”

          “No.”

          “Can you remember what it was like in any of those times when the Ring took you, when it sought to make you reveal yourself?”

          After a pause he whispered, “Yes.”

          “Were any of the times you were tempted to take a lass by force like that?”

          After a longer pause and much thought, he admitted, “Yes, every time.”

          “What did you do when such thoughts filled you?  How did you feel?”

          “I was shocked.  I told myself No!  I didn’t know what could have come over me!”  He leaned back to look into Gandalf’s eyes.  “Was that the Ring doing that, then?”

          “What have you learned of the Enemy’s nature through your experience with the Ring?”

          Frodo was shaking again, and the Wizard held him to his breast tightly.  At last Frodo said, “He sought to dominate.”

          “Even so, Frodo.”

          “You mean, the Ring sought to make me--to make me like him?”

          The Wizard didn’t respond, knowing Frodo already knew the answer only too well.  He let his veilings slip some, let his own Light surround the two of them, let it drive away the shadows of fear and self-blame--for a time at least.  And the Hobbit in his arms sighed, relaxed at long last, drifted finally back into sleep, the former coldness in his shoulder driven out for a time.

4:  Who for Ringbearer?

          He rose by himself, saw clothing set out for him, including the quilted silk shirt to wear under the mithril shirt, went to put it on, then had to stop and sit down.  Legolas called out, “Frodo?” and the Hobbit answered,

          “I’m awake.”

          The Elf entered as Frodo looked up, horrified.  “No, Legolas!”

          Legolas paused in the doorway, his face grave.  “Aragorn asked me to come to you when you awoke, help you rise and dress.”

          “I can dress myself!”  He felt his face flush, then go white.

          Looking at where Frodo was sitting now at the foot of Sam’s bed and taking in the tremor of his hands, Legolas shook his head slightly.  “Oh, Ringbearer, I can see how well you can dress yourself.  Aragorn told us you would most likely be weak and sometimes nauseous for the first few days after waking.  I rejoice to be able to help you dress--I so much feared that I would never see you again before the end of days.”

          Frodo looked up at him, the echoes of Gollum’s last Preciousss! in his mind.  “Perhaps it would have been better so, Legolas.”

          Legolas stood most still, his eyes glinting in the light entering from over the fabric walls.  When at last he spoke, his voice was as sharp as the tips of his own arrows, as sharp as the edge of his white knife.  “Do not say that to me again, Frodo--ever.  It would be poor recompense to me to know you died, and still enslaved in part to that.  No, let you examine those times and then let them go so that you may be able to be filled once more with joy and peace as is right and proper before you leave the bounds of Arda.  It was for that the King called you back from the Gates.”

          Frodo sought to change the subject.  “Where is Sam?”

          “Aragorn took him to the privy, and advised me it was likely to be a prolonged time.  His body also was stressed to near the breaking point, Cormacolindor.”

          “I no longer wear It on a chain about my neck, Legolas.”

          “No, that you do not, and I am grateful.  Yet, there is no greater honor for me than to know you and to know that you did, that no others should know It’s power.”

          “Sam carried It--for a time.  He thought I’d died.  He took It to complete the quest.”

          “Did you take It back?”

          “Of course I took It back!  Do you think, once I’d awakened, I could bear to think of another holding It?  But I barely remember--just one moment I was being--was being beaten, and the next the orc had become Sam, then Sam became the orc again, fondling the Ring, driving me mad!  I snatched it from the orc--I think I may have struck his face.  I know I screamed at him--at Sam!  Then he was Sam again, and I knew he’d been Sam since the one beating me fell.  I was shamed--shamed and relieved.”  He realized that while they’d been talking Legolas had slipped the night shirt off over his head, then slipped the quilted silk shirt onto him, and now stood holding the mithril shirt, ready to help him don that.  “I don’t need that, do I?” Frodo asked.

          “Perhaps you don’t, but there still may remain some of the orcs in the Ephel Duath, and this at least offers you some protection if such should seek to harm you.”

          “I’m no prince to wear mithril and silk, Legolas--not as you are.”

          The Elf sighed.  “Frodo, some inherit their titles of nobility.  Others earn them, as you have.  You are far more worthy to wear this than any other I have known.”

          Reluctantly Frodo lifted his arms, and Legolas gently helped him don the mithril.  “It ought to go to Sam instead.”

          Legolas smiled at him as he examined him closely.  “No, even as thin as he has become Sam could not wear it, or not for very long.  But I sense it was intended for first Bilbo and then you.”  He picked up a clean surcoat and held it out, and became solemn as Frodo again reached up his arms to slip them into the sleeves.  “You must realize, Frodo--you took the Ring, and in so doing you saved the rest of us from doing so.  Sauron knew the minds of Elves as well as any who is not an Elf can, and the Ring was keyed to allow him to learn more from those who wore the Three, as It was keyed to learn of those who wore the Seven and the Nine as well.  But no one thought to make any ring of power for Hobbits, for there are no lords as such among you; and so he had not prepared that which you bore to rule your people.  Perhaps none but a Hobbit could have carried It to the last to Mordor, much less through it and into the heart of the Mountain itself.  To make it to the Cracks of Doom--that was unprecedented.”

          He picked up the trousers that lay there, casually straightened the blankets on Frodo’s bed and sat himself on them opposite the Hobbit, and held them out for Frodo to take.  “Had you not taken the Ring, I think either Boromir or I would have taken It next.  I thought I, being the son of Thranduil, would be able to resist the lure of the Ring--but that was ere we left Rivendell and I began to hear It call unto me--call unto me with Its promises and Its blandishments.  And I saw how you struggled ever more strongly to resist It than I could do, and I was humbled.

          “As for Boromir--It would have swallowed him whole once he actually touched It--swallowed him then spat him out as an owl regurgitates mouse pellets.  I might have made the Emyn Muil before It took me at the last--Boromir wouldn’t have made it, I suspect, to Caradhras.”  Reluctantly, Frodo nodded his agreement.  Legolas continued, “If Gimli and I hadn’t started to argue then, I suspect I would have claimed the quest, and in the end all should have been lost.”

          Frodo looked away.  “It was almost lost anyway.  Had Gollum not have taken It from me----”  He looked into the Elf’s eyes.  “I let It take me at the end, Legolas,” he whispered.  “It took me, and I claimed It.”

          Legolas placed a shapely hand on the side of Frodo’s face.  “Know this, Frodo Baggins, It would have taken anyone who was near It, there in the Sammath Naur itself.  How do you think one such as Isildur should have been taken by It, or one such as Lord Elrond compelled to allow him to leave with It still in his hands?”

          Frodo shrugged.  Legolas lifted a cloth off of a mug that sat on the small table that lay between the two beds, lifted the mug and smelled it as Frodo pulled on his trousers and stood up to fasten them.  Once Frodo was finally seated again the Elf handed the mug to him.  “Here--this is for you to drink now.”

          Grimacing, the Hobbit took it and drank its contents down, then accepted the tin mug filled with clean water.  “Now,” Legolas said, “it’s your turn to be taken to the privy, I think.”  He rose and held out his hand to Frodo, who reluctantly stood and accepted it and followed him out into the camp.

5:  Survivor's Tales 

       A part of the army marched away that day, back south to the Crossroads and across the river to Gondor.  Gimli watched after with approval.  “That’s one lot off the hands of those who must bring food here, so far from where Men dwell.  The orcs of the Mountains of Shadow left little enough in the way of game here--all I’ve seen have been a few rabbits and some squirrels, although last night some of the Rangers of Ithilien brought in a great buck.”

       Sam smiled at the memory of stewed rabbit.  “Leastwise there’s a fair variety of herbs here for cookin’ or just for heart’s ease.”  He stretched.  “I don’t think, Frodo, that we’re any too far from where I had my bit of a fire, when Gollum brought me those two conies and had such a fit when I stewed them.  Wouldn’t help me find the herbs for them, though--no, not for Gollum, gettin’ his hands smellin’ of herbs.”

       Frodo nodded, not speaking.  Sam hadn’t yet appeared to notice how uncomfortable any mention of the miserable creature made him feel, and Frodo found himself just as glad this was true.  Sam continued on, “I shouldn’t think we were any too far from that place Captain Faramir took us to, would you, Master?”

       Frodo commented, “I’m not certain we’re supposed to speak of the place, Sam.  After all, it’s a secret place for the Rangers to retreat to after an assault.”

       Sam looked chastened.  “That’s so, isn’t it, Mr. Frodo?  After all--they was all set to kill....”  But he saw the expression on Frodo’s face and stopped.  “I’m sorry, Master--sorry to bring back the pain.”

       “It’s all right,” Frodo said, but his words were hollow, and both he and Sam knew it.

       Gimli looked from one to the other, saw the tiredness in Frodo’s eyes.  “I think,” he said slowly, “that I’m for going back and resting some.  I’ve been helping to cut wood for the cooking fires and all, and will be glad to let the soldiers remaining take over for me.”

       Frodo’s expression was rather blank, but it was plain he was not fooled by the Dwarf’s words.  Yet he didn’t argue, and when they got back into the camp went into the roofless tent to slip back into his bed.  Sam followed.  Frodo was plainly reluctant to sleep, at the same time it was obvious he needed it again.  Sam looked back before he went through the door past the guard who made certain this enclosure remained inviolate.  “I’ll see to it he rests, Gimli.  Thanks.”  The Dwarf gave a single nod, and watched after with concern.

       They awoke an hour later as someone entered carrying a great tray, and they realized that Aragorn had brought it.  He looked a bit drained himself, although his expression was happy enough.  “Elrohir and I were just draining an abscess that has developed where one soldier was speared by an Easterling.  I think I managed to pull out a bit of bark that had been caught in it.  Which reminds me, Frodo, I wish to check the back of your neck when you’re through eating.  The wound there has drained pretty steadily since the Eagles brought you forth, although it had slowed down a good deal by yesterday morning.”

       “The back of my neck?  What happened there?”

       “I’m not certain, although Legolas says it looks like one of the great spiders of Mirkwood bit you there.”

       Sam shuddered.  “On the back of his neck, is it?  Yes, it was a giant spider--huge, it was, too.  That Gollum--it was his intention to let it have Mr. Frodo, and he was going to have the pleasure of killin’ me.  Told me all about it, he did; but he spoke too soon and I was able to break his hold afore he strangled me.  Chased him off into the gloom, I did.”

       Frodo paused in the act of lifting one of the covers off the dishes on the tray Aragorn had set on the table between the beds, his face paling.  “Cirith Ungol--Ungoliant!”

       “What about Ungoliant?”

       “She had a spider’s shape, didn’t she?”

       “Yes, and she poisoned the Two Trees while in that shape.”

       “That’s why the high pass we took is called that, then--Cirith Ungol--because it’s guarded by one of her brood.”

       “Yes,” the Man nodded, “that was indeed how it was named.”

       Frodo shuddered.  “That was why Captain Faramir didn’t like the idea of us going that way.”

       “He didn’t wish you to go that way?”

       “No.  He said that it was told that a great terror dwelt there, but he didn’t know what for certain.”

       “So, you remember that.”

       “Yes, I remember that part of the journey--it’s mostly after the crossroads I don’t remember properly.  I remember Henneth Annun.”

       “He took you there?”

       “You know of it, Strider?”

       Aragorn laughed.  “Of course I know of it.  I served in Gondor for many years, and here among the Rangers of Ithilien.  Why did he take you there?”

       “We’d stopped to rest for the day, and it was such a joy to rest where there was beauty and growth again after----”

       When he didn’t go on, Aragorn continued, “After the starkness of the Emyn Muil and the fear of the lands around the Dead Marshes and the horrors of the places before the Black Gates?”

       “Yes, save we didn’t go around the Dead Marshes--Sméogol led us through them.”

       The Man shuddered.  “The Valar defend you!” he murmured, his eyes briefly closed.  “You survived that!”  He looked at the two of them.  “I almost sank to my death there, near a pool where one of my own people seemed to lie.  I’d stopped to look in horror--and realized I was mired almost to my waist.  I even fell into one of them.”  He shook his head.  “No wonder you were relieved to reach Ithilien.”

       Sam nodded.  “Gollum warned us to be careful, if we didn’t wish to join the ones in the pools and light little candles of our own.  But we got near here, on the west side of the road we was travelin’.  We’d stopped and Gollum went off hunting for hisself--couldn’t bear the lembas nor nothin’ Elvish, he couldn’t--he’d shudder if he touched our cloaks, even by accident, he would.”  Frodo nodded confirmation.

       “Mr. Frodo was asleep, there near what looked like an old fountain.”  Aragorn indicated recognition.  “I didn’t want to use up all the lembas afore we got into Mordor, so I called Gollum and asked if he could get us somethin’ for the pot, and he brings back this brace of conies, and I skinned and cooked them, somethin’ warm for the stomach after so long of just lembas and jerked meats and dried fruit and all.

       “I got careless with my fire while I got Mr. Frodo to sup some--got distracted, I did, and some furze caught, and it smoked--just a bit.  I put it out, and we tried to hide, but then the Rangers found us.  Don’t know where old Gollum’d got off to, but he wasn’t in sight.  They was settin’ up an ambush for the Southrons, and they let us watch.  And I saw an oliphaunt, like in the old riddle poem, you know.”

       “I see.  They had several at the battle.”

       Sam was immediately excited.  “They did?  Did you catch one of ’em?”

       “I’m sorry Sam,” the Man said, smiling, “there was no time to do so.  They caused the horses to pull away in terror.  I fear we had to kill them all.  So, you watched the ambush, and then Faramir pulled you back to Henneth Annun.  It can be spectacular when the setting sun shines through the curtain.”

       “Yes, it was,” Frodo said, his smile unforced.  “We saw both the sun and the moon set through the water.  It was so beautiful!”

       Aragorn was so very glad as he saw the smile in memory of beauty unlooked for light Frodo’s features.  It was one of the first true smiles he’d seen on the Hobbit’s face since he’d awakened, and he quietly determined to see to it that more were brought there.  And he was grateful to the young Man who would be his Steward that he’d allowed the two of these to see that glory.

       Sam continued, “I hope as Mr. Faramir is all right.  A fair Man he was--good quality.”

       “He’s in the capitol, in Minas Tirith, Sam.  He’s recovering from grievous wounds and a horrible betrayal, but he was doing well when I left and has finally taken up his duties in the city.  I look forward to working with him, and expect he and I will become good friends as time goes on.”

       Frodo’s smile faded, replaced by grief and once again guilt.  Aragorn could anticipate what was coming next.  “He told us Boromir was dead.”  He looked up at the Man, his eyes haunted.  “If I’d left sooner----”

       He who’d been Strider shook his head.  “No, Frodo--had you left sooner it is probable he still would have died.  He died fighting to protect Pippin and Merry, who were being threatened by Uruk-hai, the great fighting orcs engineered by Saruman.”  He examined the Hobbit’s face, and added gently, “He told me what he’d done, Frodo.  He was heartily sorry.  And had you left sooner, I suspect it would have been the worse in the end, for he’d have followed after you, and had he found you I suspect he would have killed you outright for what the Ring would have caused him to see as your betrayal of him and his country’s need.”

       “I could hear him calling out after me, begging forgiveness,” Frodo whispered.  “I forgave him in my heart, Aragorn--I forgave him in my heart, for I knew what--what It was promising me, what It was doing--to me.”  He swallowed.  “If only I could have told him, so he didn’t die not knowing.”  He looked up into the Man’s eyes.  “You have to forgive him, Aragorn.”

       “I did.  I was able to come to him ere the end, and was able to hear that confession, and reassure him.  He was relieved, Frodo, and knew he’d redeemed himself the best he could.  He was truly sorry, Frodo.”  And then he added, “And how could I not forgive him, considering what It was doing to me?”

       “It was working on you, too?”  Frodo seemed shocked.

       “Of course It was,” Aragorn replied.

       “You never let it show.”

       “And add to your burdens?”

       The Hobbit examined his friend’s face, saw the love expressed there, the deep caring.  “I didn’t know.”

       “I didn’t wish you to feel more guilty, Frodo.  It was seeking to make me feel guilty, you see, guilty for allowing you to carry It when I could take It from you and relieve you--save I realized that doing so would not relieve you, only make you hate and fear me, and wish to destroy me to take It back.”

       Frodo looked to Sam.  “What did It promise you?”

       Sam reddened.  He looked to the Man’s eyes, and Aragorn realized that the gardener, too, had been told he could relieve Frodo from the burden, but he wouldn’t say it, not now.  “Well, first It made out as how I could become Samwise the Brave and Bold, the Hero of the Age.  I could just make Sauron back down, I could, raise my sword and armies would flock to me, and then I could make the whole of Mordor into a garden with but a word.”  He shook his head.  “Can you imagine me, Samwise Gamgee, raisin’ an army, much less leadin’ one?  I’d send all my folks to their deaths as I’ve not the least idea as how to order a battle--and they’d of gone and done what I told ’em--they’d of died simply ’cause I wore the Ring and gave the order.  No, I couldn’t do that to folks.”  He looked away.  “As for the garden--what’s the use of makin’ a garden by magic?  It’s not the same.  I only need my own garden, and I have that already at Bag End.”  He turned back to the tray.  “We’d best eat, Master.”  He didn’t see the new wave of guilt that passed over Frodo’s face.

       It was later after Sam had left to go to the privy that Aragorn asked Frodo, “Why did you look guilty about Sam’s statement he needs no more than the garden of Bag End, Frodo?”

       The Hobbit looked sideways at him.  “I don’t own Bag End any more.  I sold it before we left the Shire.”  He looked directly into Aragorn’s face.  “I can’t even give him that!  I owe him so much--and I can’t even give him Bag End’s garden.”  The grief in Frodo’s eyes was great.

       Again Aragorn knelt and sought to embrace Frodo for comfort, but Frodo would not accept it, pulled away, weeping.  Frodo barely ate anything that day.

6:  The King Comforts 

       Aragorn gave orders the roof cover was to be set over the enclosure for Frodo’s and Sam’s beds, for signs were that it would rain that night.  After he saw to the healing soldiers he stopped in the tent where Merry and Pippin were housed.  “Have you seen Frodo and Sam this evening?” Merry asked.

       “Not yet--I’ll be going there next, and will probably stay there for a good part of the night, unless one of those in the healers’ tents takes a turn for the worse.”

       “Frodo barely ate today.  He can’t get by if he’s not eating, Strider.”

       “I know.  I’ve given orders he be given small amounts to eat on the hour during the day, and I’ll be taking him something to eat while he’s preparing to sleep.”

       Merry nodded, and Aragorn examined first him, and then Pippin.  As he was having Pippin do the exercises intended to help strengthen the muscles surrounding his hip, Pippin asked, “Why did you have just an enclosure put around Frodo and Sam’s beds, and not a proper tent?”

       “First, their lungs were heavily affected.  They’d been breathing in the ash and the fumes of Mordor and the Mountain for far too long; and at the end the gases of the last eruption almost killed them.  They needed fresh air.  Secondly, I tried having them in a high tent, but if he felt closed in at all Frodo became fretful in his sleep.  What surprised me more was that Sam also became fretful.  Both seemed to need natural light to reach them--sunlight, the light of the moon, and especially the light of stars--especially at night.  I hate putting the top over the tent tonight, but I can’t let them get soaked and possibly chilled.”

       “Is that why you’re planning to sit by them tonight?” asked Pippin.

       “Yes.”

       “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he--Frodo, I mean?”

       “I hope so, Pippin.  I hope so.”

       He went now to the kitchen tents to get the bread, chicken broth, and juice he’d ordered for Frodo, and with it on a plate he went again to the enclosure where Frodo and Sam slept.  The clouds were lowering, and it would probably rain about an hour before midnight.  He checked the cover and saw that it was properly set into place and secured.  The guard at the door looked at him apologetically.  “Lord Frodo wishes for the guards on their quarters to be released from this duty, my Lord,” he said very quietly.  “I told him I needed your permission to leave the post assigned to me, and that to do so without it could mean my execution, and he went pale, and asked my forgiveness.  But I think he may ask you to see to this.”

       Aragorn sighed.  “Thank you for telling me.  I will try to explain that this is to help guard his privacy more than simply as an honor, but whether he will believe me I cannot yet say.”

       “It is an honor for me.”

       The new King nodded and gave an inclination of his head, then as the guard pulled open the flap he went inside.  Frodo sat in one of the low camp chairs which had been placed in the enclosure, wrapped in a blanket.  He looked at the plate Aragorn carried with concern, and the Man realized that Sam held the chamber pot which had been provided, had been preparing to carry it out of the tent when he arrived.

       “What is it, Frodo?”

       “I suddenly lost what little I’d eaten the last time I ate,” the Hobbit answered reluctantly, aware that if he didn’t answer his friend would ask Sam, who would be honor-bound to tell.

       The King set the plate down on the nearer bed, then held out his hand to Sam, lifted the cover and looked at its contents.  The food there was barely digested.  He put the cover back on, went to the basin and ewer and washed his hands carefully with the soap set there, finally returned and knelt before Frodo.  He placed his hands on Frodo’s belly and let his fingers feel deep, focused his attention there for a time; then finally came back present.

       “You came very, very close to starving to death, Frodo; and the effect of what was in some of the water you drank in the Black Land was not kind to your stomach and bowels.  Then, your stomach has shrunk, apparently even more than has Sam’s.  You were also under great stress for a prolonged period of time, which can affect the health of the entire body and spirit, and can cause great distress to digestion, even leading to bleeding, ulcerous sores in the stomach and upper bowels.

       “It is not at all uncommon for those who have not eaten for a time to be unable to eat much, and especially not much in the way of solid foods, at the first, and sometimes for prolonged periods after the privation is over.  This is true for you now.  How long it will last I cannot say.  When damage is deep and has occurred over a long period of time, it will often leave scars which cannot be easily healed away.”

       He sighed as he looked into the Hobbit’s eyes and saw the frustration there.  “There is another thing--the more guilty or otherwise distressed you feel, the harder it is to stomach the food you eat.  To fully heal you must be able to release the feelings of guilt the Ring has taught you to feel, and you must work to be calm and let your spirit be at ease.  This will be very difficult, and especially in light of what you have experienced.  I can help in many ways, but in the end the job of letting go of the guilt is one you must accomplish yourself.”

       “What must I do?” asked Frodo almost dully.

       “Smile and laugh as much as you can, Frodo.  Find work that allows you to feel accomplishment.  Take exercise that is gentle but fulfilling--walking is generally a good one to take, as is swimming.  Avoid foods that upset your stomach, especially strong spices such as peppers, or foods such as onions or tomatoes, or foods with much fat in them.  Drink juices, mild ales and watered wine, and don’t drink to intoxication.  Eat foods known to be easily digested such as rice.”  He saw the face Frodo made, and laughed.  “I see that is one food you do not care for.”

       “I detest rice.”

       Aragorn smiled wryly.  “I will help as I am able, Frodo.  Some herbs may also help--chamomile, some mints, ginger....”

       Frodo sighed.  “So, this time will be more difficult healing than the last time.”

       “Unfortunately, yes.  You should also eat several times a day, more often, even, than most Hobbits do, but smaller amounts at a time.  And you’d best avoid eating heavily, particularly when you are tired, ill, or under stress.”

       Sam looked at his Master and then at their former guide.  “I’ll take this along to the privy, then, and empty it out and see it rinsed.”

       As the Dúnedan nodded to the gardener and Sam left the tent, Frodo shook his head.  “I don’t understand why I can’t be just as I was.”

       Aragorn sighed as he set the plate on the table between the beds, lifted the cover off the bowl of broth and handed a spoon to Frodo.  “No one who has been through what you have endured will ever be just as he was, tithen nín.  However, none of us who went on the quest is as we were before.  It is not just you, my friend.  Pippin’s hip is likely to ache with changes in the weather for years, and both your left arm and Merry’s right will probably cause you distress from time to time, for you’ve both been under the Shadow.  As for Sam--he will, I think appear to recover, but he’s certainly not innocent now and will never be able to convince himself from now on he’s nought but a gardener.”  He gently pulled the low table in front of the Hobbit.

       Finally, Frodo gave a brief nod of acceptance of that truth, then tentatively sipped at his broth.  As he carefully spooned it to his mouth, for the first time Aragorn realized that Frodo was grimacing with pain and that the spoon was being held awkwardly in Frodo’s hand.  Berating himself for not foreseeing this obvious problem, he had Frodo stop and set down the spoon, then took the hand in his and again let his fingers feel deep through the bandage, crooning the Invocation under his breath.  The hand itself was cramping, and the place where the finger had been cut off was, he realized, throbbing.  Gently he massaged it, and saw the relief on Frodo’s face; but he could feel the healing draining from the hand to elsewhere in the Hobbit’s body.  Frodo had been so very close to death and his entire body so damaged that throughout he and his brothers had been unable to fully ease him, particularly as there were so many others needing their aid.  All he seemed to be doing for the hand itself was to ease the cramping and throbbing some.  At last Frodo said, “Thank you.  I think I can manage now.”

       He helped Frodo get a better grip on the spoon, and this time he was able to get the broth down.  He then sat back in the chair and ate the roll slowly, and finally drank the juice as Sam returned, placing the chamber pot back on the shelf of the table between the beds.  At last Frodo asked, “Why do we have guards by us?”

       “First, out of respect and honor, for all wish to show both to the two of you.  Secondly--due to your role in bringing down Mordor there are many who would come here at any and all hours, simply to gawk at both you and Sam, to spout foolish words at you, and so on.  It was deemed wise by those who see to the discipline of those who have been here to post a guard to make certain you are not disturbed.  There are some who would cut off curls of hair as relics, or take your small clothes....”

       “They’d take my underwear?” asked Sam, shocked.  At  the Man’s nod the two Hobbits shared a horrified look.

       “We’ve already chased off several who sought to burrow under the side of the tent to look at the two of you sleeping.  One who was most persistent was sent off today back to Minas Tirith so as to put an end to his foolishness.  I had to keep reminding myself that at eighteen he was still not much better than a boy and has time yet to come to some sense of propriety.”

       Frodo began to laugh, and sat back helplessly, clutching the blanket about him as he rolled his head from side to side.  “You’d expect sense from someone just in his teens?” he finally asked.

       Pleased to see Frodo could laugh, Aragorn smiled.  “He’s a Man, and not a Hobbit, Frodo.  I was fighting orcs beside my brothers when I was but fifteen, and came of age at twenty.  But some Men do mature more slowly than others.”

       Frodo was in far better humor as Aragorn helped him slip out of his shirt lean forward so he could  check the wounds on the back of his neck.  Sam leaned down to examine it, and grew pale.  The wounds were dark at their hearts, although now a thick scab covered over each of them.  Aragorn went to the door and gave orders to the guard, who saluted and hurried off, returning almost immediately to resume his duty.  Meanwhile he checked Frodo’s back and shoulder.  The weals from the whip in Cirith Ungol were visible on Frodo’s back and side; they’d closed but were still raised and drawn.  There was a red scar about the back of his neck and over his shoulders where it could clearly be seen where the chain of the Ring had lain.  The place where he’d known the wound of the Morgul knife was too bright a pink.  

       The Guard leaned in and announced quietly, “A healer has brought the water and herbs you requested, my Lord.” 

       Aragorn turned to the doorway and accepted the burden from the healer, thanked him.  “If you should see either of my brothers, will you ask him to come to my side, please?”

       “Gladly, my Lord Elessar,” they could hear the Man return, and they exchanged bows.  Sam, seeing the need, carefully set the empty plate on the ground so Aragorn could have a place to set the basin he carried.

       The gardener watched as Aragorn pulled out athelas and certain other herbs and breathed on then and rolled them between his hands as he murmured a song under his breath, then cast them into the water.  There was already a pile of clean cloths available on a shelf which had stood at the far side of the room, and with a gesture he indicated Sam should bring him some.  He carefully dipped one into the water, wrung it out, and began to cleanse Frodo’s skin, going over the scars, removing the bandage on the hand and examining it, then cleaning the stump there as well.  “I don’t believe we will rebandage it,” he commented quietly.  “It will help you handle your utensils better.”

       Frodo’s face went paler as he looked at the place where the finger was missing.  The remaining skin had been very carefully pulled over the knuckle and apparently stitched together, and it had healed without leaving the sight of bare bone and even without looking ugly.  But even knowing what had happened, it was still a shock to see it.  Sam held out his hand to take Frodo’s after the King released it, holding it between his own as he’d done on the side of Mount Doom.   “It looks so much the better,” he said, quietly.  “So much the better.”

       Aragorn carefully pulled the bruised athelas leaves out of the water, and laid them over the spider bite on the back of Frodo’s neck.  “It looks as if this might begin to drain again,” he said.  “I’ll wind a bandage to hold these in place overnight to aid in the healing.”

       He took a roll of bandaging material from the same shelf as the cleaning cloths, and wrapped it over the shoulder and around and under the opposite arm to hold it in place, then tied it off neatly.

       After helping Frodo into a nightshirt and out of his trousers, the Man helped him onto the bed, and having him lie face down checked the weals and scars on Frodo’s legs and backside.  Again he gently cleansed them and laid his hands over them again.  They were still livid, but definitely were healing.  Remembering Legolas’s report from the morning, the Man realized that the only three Frodo easily allowed to help him were Sam, Gandalf, and himself.  He noted this and promised himself he would remember it. 

       He ended by cleansing Frodo’s face where he’d had cuts and burns, saw that these would leave only minimal scars if any in time.  If only those on his knees and the tops of his feet would heal as well, much less those where he’d been apparently tied tightly.

       At last he was finished, and helped Frodo straighten the nightshirt and turn over.  “You are doing very well, Frodo--far better with most of the wounds than a Man would if injured similarly.  Your hand will probably continue to hurt at times--the damage was traumatic, and the nerves may still tell you that the finger is there and hurting for some time.  We aren’t certain why this happens, but it does occur with those who’ve had amputations.”

       Sam looked surprised.  “Does it really?”

       Aragorn nodded.  “I’ve known Men who lost their arms who insist they can feel their fingers curled up and the nails digging into their palms.  I don’t think that will happen with Frodo, as it was but a finger he lost; but he may still feel as if it were there and as if it is hurting.  And any hurt to a joint tends to throb off and on for some time.”

       Frodo nodded slowly.  “I’ve noted that yesterday and today, although it’s been worse today.”

       “What I’m most concerned about are the spider bite and the scar for the Morgul wound, as they are both responding most reluctantly to treatment.”

       Frodo sighed.  “I was already warned the shoulder might not truly heal.”

       Reluctantly Aragorn nodded.  “Adar told this to me, also, Frodo.”  He looked deeply into Frodo’s eyes.  “Yet, the fact remains you are still here, Frodo, and still able to know laughter and pleasure.  You deserve to know joy again before you go onwards.  We hope to help you know that again.”

       He finally lifted the herbal draught left earlier for Frodo and helped him drink it.  Then he saw him covered as he gave Sam the same consideration he’d given to Frodo.  At last both were abed, their healing wounds cleansed and soothed.  Sam asked sleepily, “The scent--I don’t place it.”

       “It’s the odor of the Sea, Sam.”

       “Oh.  Smells clean, you know.”  And in moments Sam had drifted off into sleep.  Slowly Frodo followed as Aragorn dimmed the lantern and sat between them, pulling out a letter sent him from Minas Tirith to read and consider as he sat watching the two sleeping Hobbits.

7:  Rainy Night in Ithilien 

       The rain was striking the canvas stretched over their enclosure when Frodo woke in the middle of the night.  He was shivering with cold and fear, for in his dream he’d heard the cries of those trying to rescue him as the orcs of the tower cut them down, and his back where he’d been whipped was burning with pain.  He was breathing rapidly and, he realized, whimpering in terror, and he had his wrists pressed together as if they were bound. 

       Aragorn was turning up the light of the lamp some, and then was leaning over him, laying his hand on Frodo’s forehead.  “It was but a dream, Frodo--only a dream.”

       He came fully awake and tried to sit up; but as he put pressure on his right hand pain spasmed up his entire arm.  He cried out in agony.  He fell back and cried out again as his burning back struck the sheets.  Sam sat up suddenly, his face tight with worry.  “Mr. Frodo!” he called.

       Aragorn had his hand behind Frodo’s right shoulder and was easing him up into a sitting position, doing his best not to touch anywhere that had been badly hurt.  The door flap was opened and an Elf entered--not Legolas, but one of the dark-haired sons of Elrond; he, too, approached the bed on its other side and was placing his hand behind Frodo’s left arm to help support him.

       They could hear the pounding of his heart, see the fear in his face, hear the pain in his moans.  “Nightmare,” Aragorn said in Sindarin.  He turned to Sam.  “Don’t worry, Sam,” he said in Westron.  “We’re taking care of him.”  Not completely reassured, the gardener lay back, continuing to watch with concern.

      “I am sorry I could not come sooner, Estel, but the one who was struck in the gut--the infection finally drained.  I think now he will live, but it has been such a near thing.”

       I am keeping them from those who truly need their help, he thought.  My body is almost healed, not like those others in the healers’ tents.

       The one who argued in his mind gave a deep sigh.  Don’t be foolish.  Are you a Baggins or a Took this evening?  You were as badly hurt as any, and worse than most, and you are definitely not almost healed.  It will be some time before you can claim that distinction.

       But my body is almost healed....

       It is?  You can rise and walk about, but your stomach is still roils at the presence of the food you need to heal properly, and your neck still drains, and the shoulder where the Morgul knife took you will likely never properly heal--how often have you been told that?  And the pain you feel is not just the pain of memories.  The coolness of the rain outside has made the whole of your body to ache, has it not?

       But I was no soldier fighting to protect his fellows....

       He could hear the astonishment in the voice that argued.  Not protecting his fellows?  What have you done but protect others for much of the past year?  Was that not why you left the Shire--to bring the danger of the Ring out of it, to draw the danger after yourself?  Is that not why you proclaimed, “I shall take It!” at the Council, to protect the others from Its danger?

       He gave a snort of derision.  Some protection I offered them.  Simply by remaining with them I drew danger to them again and again, and allowed Its blandishments to seek to corrupt them.

       The Elf was leaning out the doorflap and speaking with the guard, then came  back to assist Aragorn to ease him out of the nightshirt he wore, which was damp with sweat.  

       A brazier on a low stand was brought and set up, and filled with coals; Gandalf came and set them to glowing, and soon the room was filled with warmth about Frodo.  A healer brought a warmed blanket and towel and fresh nightshirt wrapped in canvas against the rain, and Aragorn took them and with Gandalf’s help got the shirt on Frodo.  The warmed towel was wrapped about his head, the blanket about his body.  The healer left again, returned with a covered mug, and Frodo was coaxed to drink the steaming draught it contained.

       Frodo’s eyes were caught by the green glow of the gem of the brooch Aragorn wore at the neck of his shirt, and his mind seized on it, drew from it, and the pain began to ease.  How absurdly easy it was, he realized, to touch that power, to accept it--so much easier than to bear with the power the Ring had contained.  He was smiling as he began to sag back, and Aragorn and Gandalf, surprised by the sudden loss of tension in the Hobbit’s body, aided him to lie down again, covered him over.  Seeing that Frodo was now eased, Sam allowed himself to drift back to sleep.

       Eventually they slipped the blanket from around his body and laid it over him instead, and he smiled his thanks, and at last slipped into a deep and restful sleep.  Gandalf ran his hand over Frodo’s exposed forehead, then looked with surprise at King and Elf.  “He’s responding to the power of the Elessar stone, Aragorn.  He himself is keeping the memories, dreams, and pain at bay--for the moment.  In his dream he was back in the tower of Cirith Ungol, waking from the spider’s poison, thinking the fighting he heard was the orcs cutting down a force led by you come to try to rescue him.”

       “I will need to talk with Sam tomorrow, learn what happened there specifically,” Aragorn sighed.  “I know only that his body was so deeply compromised that every time the healing gift I bear touches him it bleeds throughout his body, often away from the site I am most trying to ease.  And I cannot appear to touch the darkness in the heart of the spider bite wounds, although they seem to pain him the least.”

       The healer who’d remained in the tent asked, “Then that was indeed the bite of a spider?”

       The new King nodded.  “Yes, a spider indeed; a great spider similar to those who have lived and bred in Mirkwood for most of the last Age.”  He looked South and East toward the Morgul Vale and the Pass of Cirith Ungol.  “Apparently Sauron used one of the great spiders to guard the way they went, which is how the pass was given its name.”

       The healer shuddered.  “I will go, then, back to the others who are yet recovering.  I am but glad he rests now.”  He bowed and withdrew.

       Elrohir sighed.  “He rests now, Estel, and you should do the same.  For all the Elven and Númenorean heritage you might bear, you yet need to sleep yourself from time to time.  Now go, and one of us will remain by him.  He is at rest now, and will sleep properly for the remainder of the night.”

       At last Aragorn nodded, and tucking the letter he’d been reading back into his tunic he pulled his Lorien cloak about him, drew up the hood, and went off back to his own tent for the remainder of the night.

8:  Wakening Hope 

       When he could, Aragorn would come to them as they were preparing to sleep, and Frodo found he could use the power of the stone his friend wore to ease the pain and fears and keep them from overwhelming him.  With his sleep eased, he found it easier to stomach his food, and he finally began to put on a bit of flesh again--not much, but enough to make things much easier.

       He soon was beginning to move through the tents of the healers, first following Aragorn and then by himself, seeing Men who’d lost limbs, who were recovering from stomach wounds, whose broken bones were finally knitting, who’d been partially paralyzed by what they’d experienced.  Some were still in terrible pain, but all smiled as they saw him come, even those who’d been worst wounded.  He felt drawn to them, although he couldn’t say precisely why; and he would often sit with this one or that, speaking with them, discussing families, wives, children, their homes, their plans for the future.  His obvious interest in them would loosen their tongues, and many confided their fears that they wouldn’t be able to contribute to the family or the needs of their people any more once they were returned. 

       He would go from the healer’s tents to wherever Gimli was, and would speak with the Dwarf of what could be done for one who’d lost a leg or the use of his legs; after a few days the Dwarf began to accompany him to see for himself what the ones Frodo had seen were like, discussed what they’d done before, what they’d need to do now to continue in their old lives; what they’d need to start new lives now. 

       One who had been recovering from a head wound and who’d managed against all hope to recover completely due to the King’s healing gift had been a wheelwright.  He soon began to follow the odd pair of Pherian and Dwarf about the tents, and as the two would discuss how those unable to walk might be able to know some level of independence again he began to join their discussions.  Chairs with wheels of some kind could assist, he suggested; but they must be light and strong, and how the wheels might be attached was a question.  One of those who’d lost both legs but not the use of his hands had been a weaver of baskets and chairs; and he found himself suggesting the making of chairs of cane fitted with cushions, then instead of setting them on legs placing them over a small carriage base and attaching light axles and wheels. 

       Having an idea, the Dwarf went among the carters who brought supplies to the camp, and found one who was a cartwright; he found himself now involved in the discussions; and then a blacksmith was brought in.

       Before those in the camp were deemed ready to move a first attempt at a chair had been completed.  Legolas had also found himself involved in the project; he found stands of cane and willow trees which could be used to construct the basket chair.  He and a woodworker who’d been involved in repairing some of the wagons began working with the wheelwright, the cartwright, and the basket weaver; soon they had the framework for the chair completed, a small cart base to which to affix it, and two different sizes of wheels to attach.  Between them Gimli and the smith prepared a proper axle for one set of large wheels and a second pair of smaller wheels on casters for the second set.  The basket weaver used the framework of the chair as a basis and soon had the chair itself constructed, and was considering how this could be anchored to the light cart base.  Then at last the thin cart wheels, each bound in a long strip of iron, were being set into place on the axle at the back of the chair while those on casters were being fixed to the front end....

       Several of the craftsmen who attended on the army watched the first attempt to use this contrivance, and a saddler, seeing the discomfort of the basket weaver, suggested lining the basket with thin leather cushions to reinforce it and keep the cane from uncomfortably jabbing the one using it.  In two days’ time he had his addition to the project in place.

       Aragorn and Prince Imrahil had been in conferences for much of the last few days with representatives of the various fiefdoms about their willingness to accept a new King and how they would support the claims of the Lord Aragorn; and how they would assist in the needs of the capitol over the next two years as the fields of the Pelennor began to recover from the damage of the battle.  Having a moment of freedom as one of these prolonged discussions finished, the two of them decided to walk through the camp to stretch their legs, and found themselves facing an exultant soldier who’d been paralyzed from the waist down moving his chair through the camp, followed by a train of craftsmen, Gimli, Legolas, and Frodo, all obviously excited at how this contrivance might be improved upon to aid still more.

       Aragorn found his attention drawn to the Hobbit, whose face was still pale, yet whose eyes now sparkled with accomplishment and delight.  His eyes were drawn to Elladan, who was watching the experiment with great interest, and he beckoned him over.  “What brought this about?” the Man asked.

       “You know that Frodo had begun following you among the healing soldiers.”  At Aragorn’s nod, he continued, “He began to speak with some about what they needed to be able to resume their former employments, and then involved Gimli in the discussions.  The Dwarf brought in more, and one of those who was injured had been one who wove great baskets and furniture.  This is the product of the discussions and the cooperation of all those who took part in the project.  As you can see, this allows the one seated in the chair to again move himself about the place.  The basket weaver and the cart- and wheelwrights are now discussing beginning a business to create more of these chairs for those who’ve been injured and can no longer walk.”

       That night as Aragorn visited Frodo in his enclosure, once again open to the starlit sky, he said, “I am told that you are the one who inspired all those who worked together to come up with the wheeled chair.”

       Frodo looked surprised.  “Inspired, Aragorn?  Barely that.  I only asked Gimli to come with me to speak with some of those who’d been injured to help them figure out how they might be able to do things again for themselves.  It was all their own ideas, you know, with the input of the craftsmen who were involved.  I am amazed at how many craftsmen there are among the wounded.  Now that several have seen the success of the chair, they’ve begun to speak of how they might reach things above their heads now they can no longer climb up ladders or upon stepping stools, or how they might make more stable pegs to take the place of legs lost.  They are very inventive, Aragorn.”

       As he left Frodo sleeping and Sam reading a book lent him by one of the soldiers, Aragorn sought out Gandalf, who was relaxing after a long day dealing with the leaders of the enemy wounded who’d been housed in a camp a mile away from the camp of the Western soldiers.  Aragorn had been coming to their camp three times a week, working alongside the healers detailed to aid them.  At first several of the healers had been resentful to be assigned to work with Haradrim and Easterlings; but as time passed they’d come to look on them simply as folk who themselves had been wounded and needed aid, inspired by the example Aragorn himself showed to them.  Many of these were nearly ready to return to their own lands, and Gandalf had taken up the responsibility of discussing logistics of such a move with their officers.

       “I’m not certain what is to be done with several of these,” Gandalf sighed.  “The officers don’t want to take those who are paralyzed back to Rhun or Harad, for they cannot see that they would be able to do anything productive in their own lands.  One officer is simply speaking of dealing mercy deaths to several of his folk.”

       Remembering the sight he’d had this day of one happy to be able to move a chair throughout the camp, Aragorn shook his head.  “And our folk are receiving hope again,” he said.  He described the project of the wheeled chair and how Frodo had enlisted the help of Gimli in trying to solve the needs of the one whose legs were paralyzed and how that had led to the day’s happenings. 

       Gandalf’s head lifted with interest and his eyes sparkled with delight.  “Frodo sparked all this, did he?  Bless the Hobbit!  His compassion may be his salvation, you know.”  Aragorn nodded his agreement.  “Quite a contrast to the Haradri, I must say.  What is to be done with those seen as useless in their own lands?”

       Aragorn exhaled a long breath as he looked off in consideration.  “Another meeting of council with the Lords who remain with us,” he said.  “I would accept them all, but it will be seen as a betrayal by so many of those from Gondor particularly.  I must convince them.”  He thought for several moments, then smiled slyly, looking back to catch the Wizard’s gaze.  “Well, it appears that Frodo will have to attend this meeting, then.  Let those of Gondor begin to realize I will include in my Council all those of sense, North and South.”  He added, smiling more broadly, “And it will give Frodo more pause for thought, realizing I take his intelligence seriously.”

*******

       Why in Middle Earth has Aragorn brought me here? Frodo asked himself as he looked at the Men already assembled in the square outside the Lord Elessar’s tent.  What does he think a mere Hobbit has to tell those who rule this land?

       The one who argued laughed.  And do you think, Iorhael, that you were named vainly?

       Then there was no time to indulge in further internal debate as he who would be King introduced him to the rest and described the affair of the wheeled chair and how Frodo had been the first to recognize that perhaps something could be done to aid those deprived of all use of their legs.  Frodo found himself forced to explain how he’d questioned those whose injuries would be lasting on what they felt they needed to resume old professions or begin new ones and to develop a feeling of independence and competence once more, and how then he’d asked Gimli to join them, and the final inclusion of several different craftsmen in the project, and how it had led to the wheeled chair which the preceding day had been wheeled through the camp by one paralyzed from his waist down.  He spoke of the plans others had begun to formulate to aid them reach over their heads or to improve wooden limbs, of changes in professions as one who’d been hopeful of becoming a carter now thought to follow his father’s profession as a potter instead, and another who’d been an archer and hunter now thought to become a teacher of children now that he could no longer handle a bow, and how one who’d been a pilot upon the river now thought to exercise his singing talents and work at becoming a bard instead, as he was now blind but his voice was yet intact.

       That the Ringbearer had become so involved with their folk and their rehabilitation impressed all, and he won even more respect that day, although he didn’t recognize it.  That some of those whose cases he’d just related had been sinking themselves into deep depression, feeling themselves useless, until his interest in them caused them to consider alternatives and how they might resume a place in society once again Frodo failed to consider; but his influence was not lost on others who’d feared they’d lose this one or that.  More talk of how some with one condition or another might yet find a place in life went on for some time, and Lord Elphir, who served as secretary to the meeting, had a tablet full of alternatives before Aragorn indicated that this was enough in the way of ideas for now, but that he had more considerations to set before them this day.

       Gandalf testified to the assertion made to him the preceding day by the officers from Harad and Rhun that they’d not take some of their own wounded back to their lands with them, and the plan by one to simply kill some of his Men, and all were aghast.  Frodo went paler than ever, and Aragorn quietly laid his hand on the Hobbit’s shoulder while Sam, who stood beside Frodo’s chair, held Frodo’s left hand.

       “I knew they were but barbarians,” growled one of the lords from Lamedon.

       “If we can find ways for our own wounded to resume proper lives, why can’t they?” asked a member of Imrahil’s court.

       Sam surprised all, including himself, by responding, “Beggin’ your pardons, but has Sauron ever allowed such folk to think for themselves?  Seems to me he was all for makin’ all decisions on his own, like, and he didn’t care much for what might happen to those as fought for him, did he?  Not as long as they fought and died at his command.  What would the likes of him care for what they might have to deal with later?  Probably if they couldn’t fight longer that was the orders he’d give his folks--kill ’em so’s they’d not be takin’ up time and thought.

       “Well, now as there’s peace, they’re goin’ to have to realize you can’t just kill folks just ’cause they’re in the way, like, same as you lot have done.”

       Aragorn had to fight to keep the grin from spreading across his face.  Oh, he was so glad that Sam refused to be separated from Frodo--he’d given all of them something to think about, and once again the lords of Gondor were realizing real thought was as likely to come from those who appeared commoners as from those raised to think of themselves as rulers and leaders.  He looked sideways at Sam, who’d flushed, but Frodo’s face was openly proud of him.  He looked the other way and shared a brief glance with Gandalf, who also was keeping his face carefully schooled.

       The decision to allow those from Harad and Rhun who’d been injured to come to the city of Minas Tirith for further healing and assistance in preparing for a life afterwards was agreed upon more swiftly than any had looked for. 

*******

       Aragorn was checking the wounds on the back of Frodo’s neck.  The heart of them was still dark, but the skin was finally forming over them and appeared healthy enough.  Elladan and Elrohir were also concerned about the spider bite, but agreed that as long as it didn’t cause undue distress perhaps this was a wound that should remain unprobed.  He then checked the wounds on Frodo’s back.  Merry, Pippin, and Sam had also had their legs whipped, but only Frodo had been stripped before being struck, and the scars were raised and still ugly looking.  Again he laid his hands over them and sang the Invocation, and finally felt the skin and muscles below the scars relax some, heard Frodo’s sigh of relief as a bit more of the tension in his body gave way.

       He’d been using some of the power of the Elessar stone he bore as he’d worked over the scars, and now he moved to release that power--only to realize that again Frodo himself was gently touching on the power of it.  He paused, examined the Hobbit before him with interest.  Was this conscious?  He rather thought it was at least partly voluntary.  He couldn’t fully appreciate what Frodo was doing with it, but realized at least in part he was shielding himself against the fears, griefs, and despair to which he’d become subject.  Aragorn smiled to himself.

       “You feel better, mellon nín?” he asked the Hobbit.

       “Yes, the tightness where they beat me seems gone.”

       “Do the muscles ache there any more?”

       “No--they are tingling instead.”

       “Have you had any more nightmares?”

       Did he detect the slightest signs of guilt? he wondered.  Frodo paused, then answered, “They still begin, but I can recognize them as nightmares usually now, and let them go.”  He seemed eager to change the subject.  “Why did you have me address your Council?”

       “You were the one who recognized the need for assistance in allowing folk to find solutions to problems, Frodo, and it was for you to describe how the process began.  It’s the first time many of these here have given active thought to the needs of those whose wounds won’t heal completely, and not only did you help those who were wounded begin to consider their options but now you’ve helped their lords to the same process.  And I wish to thank you for it.”

       “But it was the Men themselves and Gimli who did it all!”

       “Would they have begun doing so if you hadn’t led the way in considering what might be done?  I doubt it, Frodo.  Your interest in the wounded has allowed many of them to begin to realize their lives are not without hope, that they can begin to regain their own self-respect as well as the respect of others.”  As Frodo sat up Aragorn smiled into his face.  “You were properly named, you know.”

       Frodo flushed.

9:  The Minstrel of Gondor 

       “Greetings, Ringbearer,” the Man said solemnly.

       Frodo turned about with surprise and some embarrassment. Somehow he’d passed the individual without even noticing him, although how he’d managed it he couldn’t say.  Certainly he ought to have noted the red tunic and golden cloak the Man wore.  “Good morning, sir,” he said politely as he bowed, a move he immediately regretted as it set his shoulder aching.  “I fear you have the advantage of me.  Frodo Baggins at your service.”

       The Man bowed in return.  “Faralion son of Farathor of Lossarnach, bard and minstrel of the realm, at yours, Lord Frodo.”

       Frodo first paled, then reddened.  “I prefer not to be referred to as Lord Frodo, sir.”

       Seeing how uncomfortable the Pherian was, the minstrel made haste to apologize.  “I am sorry to cause you distress, Master Baggins.  You are not a--a notable among your own people?”

       Frodo’s laugh was without humor.  “I’ll not say I’m without note, exactly, but Hobbits of the Shire do not recognize nobility and titles such as Lord among themselves.”

       “Then how are you governed, my----?”

       The Hobbit examined the Man carefully.  He appeared to be a fairly young Man, perhaps five to ten years into adulthood, his face sensitive and rather serious, his eyes kind.  Then he placed the voice.  “You are the one who sang the lay when Sam and I first awoke.”

       “Yes, my--Master Baggins.”  His own face reddened.  “I beg your pardon, sir, for I’m not accustomed to leaving off titles when addressing those whose ennoblement has been so publicly acknowledged.”

       “Well,” Frodo responded, rather shortly, he realized, “I suppose I’ll be your first such individual.  I am but a Hobbit, and I find such titles to be pretentious when given to me.  I admit to being the family head to the Baggins family, which is quite enough responsibility, thank you very much.”

       “But I’d been told you were not married.”

       Frodo again reddened.  How much of his business had been told to this one? he wondered.  “I’m not.  However, my Uncle Bilbo, who is in truth my first and second cousin once removed each way and who adopted me as his heir, inherited the position from his father, and I inherited it from him.  Being family head merely gives me the responsibility for keeping track of the members of our family who are of the name or who make claims on family ties and resources, makes me the keeper of the family Book, and gives me the responsibility to see to business within the family and between the family and the rest of the Shire.”

       “Then, family ties are indeed quite important within the Shire?  Certainly Sir Meriadoc indicated such was true.”

       It was so odd to hear his Merry being referred to as Sir Meriadoc--it made him wish to look to see who it was wearing his cousin’s clothing.  “Yes, family ties are the basis for Shire society, Master Faralion.  The larger the family bearing the name, the more important it tends to be among us and the more authority the family head tends to wield.  However, the Baggins family has been diminishing through the past three generations or so, and so I must admit I’m not seen as particularly important among our people.  I’m basically recognized because what is left of the family is related to so many other families, including the Tooks and the Brandybucks as well as the Proudfoots, Bracegirdles, Grubbs, Chubbs, Boffins, Bolgers, and so on.  Most of these families are quite extensive, and certainly being a second cousin to the Thain and first cousin to the Master of Buckland tends to enhance my visibility.  Although I suspect my major claim to fame among my own people is that I was chosen as heir by old Mad Baggins and am considered to be as eccentric in my own way as Bilbo himself.”

       Master Faralion saw the self-deprecation in the Hobbit’s wry smile, heard the half tolerant, half resentful feelings toward his folk in his voice, and saw the weariness in his eyes that at the moment he failed to completely mask.  “Then your own folk think little of what you’ve accomplished?”

       Again the humorless laugh.  “And what have I accomplished, Master Faralion?  Almost gotten myself and my kin and best friends all killed?  As for those at home in the Shire--they know nothing of the Ring and care less for the doings of those outside our lands.  Most likely when I get home I’ll be badgered by my older cousins to find out what in Middle Earth possessed me to sell the family home and leave the Shire and allow Merry and Pippin to accompany me; and Sam’s father will probably give me an extensive lecture on the impropriety of saying I was taking him to serve as gardener and caretaker for the house at Crickhollow when in reality I was simply going off on an adventure.”

       Faralion was shocked by the bitterness he sensed.  “Do you truly think bearing the Enemy’s Ring was nought but an adventure?”

       Frodo’s face was almost totally colorless.  “Of course I don’t consider it a mere adventure; but most of the folk of the Shire know nothing of Mordor and fail to believe in Sauron.  They won’t give credence to our stories when we get back.  What do they know of Black Riders or who is rightful King of Gondor?  Most are going to be totally shocked to learn that Arnor is again considered a realm and that Aragorn is the King.  In fact, most don’t believe there ever will be a King again.  And had you told me two years ago I’d come to this, I’d have laughed at the idea, also.”

       Faralion considered the Pherian’s words.  He could see that the Lord Frodo was certain what he’d just said was true, and certainly Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin had indicated similar misgivings as to how they would be welcomed on their return to their own lands and people, although at the time the minstrel had discounted their opinions.  “It’s hard for me to understand, Master Baggins,” he said quietly.

       Frodo shrugged.  “Our land is rather isolated, and our people insular in nature.  They are good folk--do not misunderstand me about that; but--but what has happened here in the outer world is beyond their experience, and they aren’t going to understand it at all for years, if then.”  He shivered.

       The minstrel was immediately concerned.  “Are you cold, sir?” he asked, surprised, for the morning was most fair and already warm.

       The Pherian reluctantly nodded.  “Yes, a bit.  I seem to grow cold more easily now.  I was going to the kitchen tents to get some broth if they have it to spare.”

       “Shall I accompany you, then, Master Baggins?”

       His companion shrugged.  “If you wish,” he said quietly. 

       As they walked, Faralion could see that he was rubbing at his shoulder.  “Your shoulder pains you, Master?”

       Again Frodo shrugged, but after some moments of silence he answered reluctantly, “Yes.  It and my hand both are throbbing particularly today.  I wonder if the weather is going to change again?”

       The minstrel looked up at the sky.  “It is but April, and so it is possible.”  He smiled into the Hobbit’s eyes.  “That is one thing regarding the weather of April--if you find you don’t care for it at one moment you need but to wait for a time, and it will change.”

       At last he saw an answering smile on the Hobbit’s face.  They reached the kitchen tent and went in.  One of the cooks looked up, a smile lighting his features.  “Master Frodo--we have some broth and hot water and the leaves for your tea ready for you on the Lord Elessar’s instruction.  Sit you down there at the small table and I’ll bring both to you.”  He indicated a table with a few chairs about it in the corner near the doorway. 

       The Pherian gave his thanks and moved to one the chairs that was equipped with several cushions, hitched himself onto it and leaned back, his eyes closing as he clutched again at his left shoulder.  He remained silent until the cook brought a mug full of herbs and a small pannikin of steaming water and poured the water into the mug, then took it away, returning with a pot of honey and a small spoon.  At last Frodo opened his eyes and thanked him, pouring a liberal amount of honey into the mug and stirring it thoroughly as the smiling cook grunted a reply and returned to his work.  Faralion sat down to the Hobbit’s right and contemplated the right hand.

       He’d not truly seen it before, of course, for when he’d been allowed to view the Ringbearers as they slept the hand had been heavily bandaged as well as hidden at that time by blankets.

       It was a shapely hand, the fingers long and tapering, a callous still visible on the third finger--a writer’s callous.  The gap wasn’t unsightly--the healers had done a good job covering it with a flap of skin, and the scar was even, in its way, attractive.  The finger had been lost at the joint itself, and so there was no hint of useless bone--merely a gap.  A writer’s hand.  A poet’s hand, save for the bitten nails.

       Frodo finally sipped at his mug, then drank deeply from it.  Then he sat with his hands on either side of the mug, holding it closely to him.  Finally he spoke again, his voice low and gentle.  “I beg your pardon, Master Faralion.  Today I find myself as querulous as any grumpy old gaffer who wishes for nothing more than the chance to warm his aching old bones and joints in the sunshine who finds that instead he’s expected to watch the bairns and deal with their endless questions.  Please forgive me my shortness of temper.”

       He sipped again and sat back.  “I suppose I’m feeling a bit abandoned today.  Aragorn had to send my evening draught via Lord Elrohir as he had other calls on his time; and Gimli was there this morning with the one for my rising.”  He looked up, his small smile twisted.  “That’s what my days seem to run to now--from one draught to another throughout the day, and too oft without the comfort of Aragorn’s caring.  Now he’s busy dealing with those lords who don’t want the enemy wounded traveling with our wounded, Merry and Pippin are attending on their respective lords, Sam is off with the cooks’ foragers seeking herbs for the next few meals, Gimli’s been called away to work with the cartwrights and smiths about replacing two wheels and an axle, Legolas is out with the scouts checking out reports of orc activity near Minas Morgul--” Faralion could see the unconscious shudder Frodo gave, “--the wounded are busy packing their gear and helping one another, and I’m of little use there at the moment, and so here I sit in the kitchen tents feeling quite superfluous and unnecessarily ill used.”  He sighed.  “Of what use is a scholar and copyist who can’t even write again in the midst of an army?”

       “Copyist?  That was your profession?”

       The Hobbit gave another sigh and small shrug.  “If you can call it a profession.  My uncle and parents left me with a steady income, so I’ve had little enough to do with my life save what interested me.  I was trained to be a copyist and bookbinder, not that there’s a great call for such in the Shire, where book learning is all too often looked on as a waste of time.  Nor is there a great call for those who can and do make translations from Sindarin and Quenya.  About the one good thing I could do for my extended family was to take my younger cousins off their hands from time to time and give them something to do.”

       “What cousins were those?”

       Frodo laughed, a proper laugh this time, sweet and musical.  “Merry, Pippin, Fredegar, Folco, Berilac.  I was always the cousin in the middle, you know--too young to be a friend to Esme and Saradoc, Paladin and Eglantine--I’ve always called them and Bilbo my aunts and uncles, for all we’re but cousins of various degrees.  Then I was too young to be considered an uncle to the younger ones....  I suppose I’m but the surrogate big brother for all.”  He again sipped at his drink thoughtfully.

       Faralion was shocked.  He looked more closely at the finely featured face, saw what appeared to be a young individual, not far beyond adolescence; then looked into the eyes which had seen more than any ought to see, and felt that there was a painful old age to be seen overlying the Hobbit’s youthful features.  “How old are you?” he asked.

       “I’m fifty.  I came of age seventeen and a half years ago.”

       The Man considered.  “Pheriannath come of age at thirty-three?”

       “Yes.  Aragorn and Boromir told me that Men come of age between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one, usually.  You mature more swiftly than we do, I  understand.”

       “Then Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin and Lord Samwise are also in their fifties?”

       Frodo looked at him aghast.  “Certainly not!  Sam is thirty-eight--no, he just turned thirty-nine--must have been the day we awoke.  Merry will be thirty-seven soon, and Pippin’s still only twenty-eight.  It will be five years before he comes of age.”

       Faralion still considered him closely.  “Yet you appear--on the surface, at least--to be no older than any of them, save the eyes.”

       The Pherian looked away.  “I received the Ring the day I came of age.  Gandalf  has told me that the reason Bilbo still looked to be in but his fifties when he was a hundred eleven was because he carried It for so long--sixty-one years.  He was the same age as I am now when he found It in Gollum’s cave; and Gollum himself carried It almost five hundred years.”  His eyes were once again haunted when he looked into the musician’s.  “The Ring held off aging, although given long enough It would transform--transform Its bearer into something else.  Gollum started off as a Hobbit, you see; but when we finally saw him, he wasn’t any more.”  He looked away, and his voice when he finally spoke again was very low.  “He--he was in many ways like a frog when we saw him, pale, his fingers and toes now webbed, his eyes grown bigger than they must have been when he was--was still proper to--our kind.  And he couldn’t die--not as long as the Ring remained.  He apparently told Sam that when the Ring was destroyed he’d die with It, die into the dust.”  Again he shuddered, and his hands tightened convulsively around the mug.

       He remained quiet for some time, and sipped sporadically at the contents of his mug.  Finally he pushed it from him and straightened.  Again he looked into the Man’s eyes.  “I may not look my age, but believe me, Master Faralion--I feel it.  The Ring kept me looking much the age I was when I received It, but I suspect I shall begin aging swiftly enough now It is gone.  Gandalf says that is part of the nature of the Rings of Power.”

       He sighed as the cook returned and set a mug of broth before him, and again he looked up and expressed his thanks, and the cook beamed down at him.  Slowly he drained it, then ate the buttered roll set quietly beside him by one of the baker’s assistants.  Someone quietly set a tray of dried apple slices by them, and Frodo with a look invited the minstrel to help himself.

       The Pherian looked better, Faralion thought, his color improved, much of the discomfort eased away.  He accepted a mug of light ale that was given him, and drank it as he watched the Hobbit eat one more apple slice.

*******

       He spent much time at Frodo’s side the next few days, and at times brought his lap harp and played for him.  Pippin, during his hours not on duty, listened with interest, then sang some of the Shire songs that he’d known since his youth.  Faralion picked up the cadences of the songs of the Shire and some of the tunes, and began considering how he might work them into his own compositions.

       They often discussed Frodo’s youth, the deaths of his parents, the years he’d felt lost, being fostered by his cousins he still spoke of as aunts and uncles, of his joy when Merry was born.  That there was genuine love between Frodo and the others was so obvious, and again and again his two cousins would conspire to make him laugh.  When he did it was as if a grey day had suddenly burned away to show a joyfully blue sky and shining sun, and often when he smiled quietly it reminded Faralion of the moon and stars illuminating a dark landscape.

       That Frodo loved his Uncle Bilbo who’d adopted him as heir was so obvious, and the anxiety he might come again to him too late was palpable.

       Faralion found himself speaking of his own growing up, his apprenticeship, his journeyman years which had only recently been completed, of his pride at being asked to compose the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the concern he was not worthy of the honor.  He described the research he’d done, how he’d spoken with this and then that member of the Fellowship, of what the Lord Mithrandir had been able to tell him of what appeared to have happened during the time Frodo and Sam were separated from the rest. 

       Frodo himself could tell little enough of what had happened--one evening when the four Hobbits and Gandalf were together Sam told much of what he remembered of the capture of Gollum and the vow wrung from him, of the careful journey from tussock to tussock across the Dead Marshes, of the horrors of looking on the Morannon for the first time, of the retreat to Ithilien and the relief there.  Frodo himself told of the meeting with Captain Faramir and the need to hide the nature of the errand from him and his Men, and of the retreat to a Ranger keep neither he nor Sam would describe.  At that point another joined the group lounging near the small river which ran by the camp, and Frodo looked up and smiled openly, but didn’t halt his tale.  He told of the moment when at last Sam had let slip the nature of the Burden, and Sam was flushing. 

       “I oughtn’t to of said nothin’ of it, Master,” the gardener sighed.

       “It worked out well enough, Sam,” Frodo said, shaking his head.  “Even Faramir felt that it was the right thing to do, as now he had a full realization of what danger we sought to protect him and his folk from.  I doubt he’d have done as much for us as he did had you not.”

       Sam answered with a lift of his eyebrows and the shrug of a single shoulder.  He was carefully sewing a rent in a sleeve of a shirt.  At last he held it up.  “Well, I think as you’ll be able to wear this now if you choose to go back to our proper Shire garb--certainly Pippin’ll never be able to wear it again.”  He looked again at where Pippin leaned against a tree eating an apple brought from last fall’s stores.  “That Ent drink must be somethin’, being able to make ones their ages grow as they have.”

       Pippin finished the apple and smiled smugly as he tossed the core into the moving stream.  “Well, at least we’ll have something for the folk back home to gossip on, won’t we?  No longer will the Bagginses be able to hog all the attention, you know.”  Merry just laughed from where he was sharpening the dagger Éowyn had given him as Sam bit off the thread and secured the needle in the shoulder of the sleeve of his surcoat.

       Frodo finished telling of their leaving Faramir’s retreat.  “They found Gollum in a forbidden place, fishing.  I think Faramir would have ordered him killed had I not spoken for him, and so they just took him prisoner and tried to put the fear of the Powers into him, although I suspect all they did was increase his resentment.  I felt much better as they took the blindfolds off of us and let us go near the road--they brought us back, I think, a different way, and we were pretty far south of here.  We went on till we reached the Crossroads and made good time, and it wasn’t till we were beyond that that the Ring started--started making Itself heard again.”

       Sam told of the hiding beneath the mat of brambles, the trip down the Eastern road; then reluctantly described how the combination of the sight of the haunted city and bridge and the Ring together almost overwhelmed Frodo, how he and Gollum together had to drag him onto the hidden path to the pass to Cirith Ungol, just in time to avoid being seen by the marching of the Nazgul’s army.  Frodo’s face had gone pale, but he listened as closely as the others.

       “I remember only the interminable climbing, until it hurt to move any more,” he finally said.

       Sam nodded.  “It was that bad, Mr. Frodo--no question.”

       “How long did you spend going up the stairs?” asked Merry.

       Frodo shook his head.  “I’ve no idea.  I remember that at the time it seemed as if it were forever.  I think--I think the Ring was making each step echo in my mind, as if each one were five or six.”

       Sam shrugged.  “It might do that.  I think we spent more than a day goin’ up it, myself.  I member the one time as I think it was night as we stopped on the ledge, when that Gollum disappeared.”  He went on to tell of waking up to seeing Gollum leaning over Frodo, that odd look on his face.  He looked at Frodo, his face solemn.  “You can’t know, Master, how very beautiful you looked there, the Light shinin’ from you.  It was one of the rare times as you was truly resting, truly eased.  Most of the time the Ring was workin’ on you; but that time It couldn’t touch you, and I was so glad.  And when Gollum come back, I--I now think he was as taken by the shinin’ of you as ever I was.  Then I was only feelin’ guilty ’cause I’d fallen asleep alongside you, and I called him a sneak.  Maybe if I’d not of done so he’d not of betrayed us to old Shelob.”

       Sam told briefly of the trek through the reeking tunnel and finding the web of shadow spun by Shelob.

       “That doesn’t sound exactly like the webs done by the spiders of Mirkwood,” Legolas commented.  The rest were surprised, for none had realized the Elven prince had joined them. 

       Faralion was very much surprised, and looked up and to his left to see who else it was who’d joined them, and found that the Lord Elessar himself was sitting on the rock slightly behind himself while Gimli leaned on his axe nearby.  He started to scramble to his feet, but the new King shook his head.  “No, do not worry for protocol here, Master Faralion.  Right now I am with my friends, not merely my subjects.”  He turned his attention first to Legolas and then back to Sam.  “I agree--the web sounds to be of a different quality than those spun in Mirkwood, at least from my own experiences there, which I’ll admit are not as extensive as those of Legolas.  It appears that this Shelob is of far closer lineage to Ungoliant than are those in the great wood.”

       Again Frodo shuddered.  Sam shrugged.  “I have no idea, of course.”  He looked at Gandalf.  “I used to think as Mr. Bilbo was exaggerating his stories--but after what we’ve been through, I suspect he wasn’t tellin’ the whole thing.”

       After a moment the Wizard gave a single nod.  “You have the right of it, Sam.”

       Pippin asked, “How did you get away?”

       Frodo looked down.  “I remember using the Lady’s gift, calling on Eärendil, seeing the spider coming up on us.  I think I used Sting on her.”

       “You cut off her claw, and then you used Sting on the web of shadows as well.  My sword finally cut a single thread of one cord, but that took forever.”  Frodo looked at him, nodding.  Sam went on to describe the rest of the story through to finding Frodo waking in the tower, but he did so in few words and not looking at anyone, as if there were too much he didn’t want to remember of that time.

       Merry’s face was white when Sam was done.  “Here we’ve been telling so much of our part of the story to you, and it was little enough compared to what the two of you went through.”  He looked at Frodo.  “So, it was one of the great spiders that bit you.”

       Frodo’s answering nod was barely perceptible.

       “How did you feel when you woke up?”

       The answer was soft.  “I was sick and confused--had no idea where I was, what was happening to me, what had happened to me.  The first time I stood up after Sam freed me my skin was burning, and where they beat me was like lines of flame.  But it was the terror of thinking It had been found and was on Its way back to him that drove me mad, worse, even, than waking and seeing them standing over me with their knives and whip and all.”  He was trembling, and Sam, who sat beside him, set his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

       Pippin said, “Then, you don’t really recommend being bitten by giant spiders as a leisure-time activity?”

       The apparent insensitivity of the remark made Faralion livid, until he looked at the tall young Hobbit’s face and saw how terribly white and drawn it was.  Combined with the fact no one else acted as if the statement was out of line, the minstrel realized this was apparently a fairly normal tactic among the Pheriannath.  Frodo looked at his younger cousin and smiled, although his face was quite grey.  “No, Pippin, I can’t say I do, nor being--being captured by orcs.  I think Bilbo and I are agreed on that.” 

       The trembling almost stilled, then began again, and then Lord Elessar was rising, crossing hurriedly to Frodo and kneeling by him, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on the opposite temple, murmuring softly in Sindarin and then Quenya.  Frodo wouldn’t look into his face at first, but finally did, and at last the trembling stilled completely.  He answered gently, shook his head in response to a question.  The hand at his temple dropped to his shoulder, and Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, his face dropping toward his lap.  At last he stretched and straightened, then opened more determined eyes and looked into his friend’s grey ones, and said quietly, “I’m well enough, Aragorn.”

       The new King sighed, and finally reluctantly rocked back on his heels, pulling his hands away from the Pherian’s shoulders.  “If you say so, small brother.”  He rose gracefully and resumed his seat on the rock.  “We will leave here the day after tomorrow at dawn.  Frodo, I’d prefer you rest, for even though you will do little enough on the sail back to the Harlond I fear the voyage on the river, as short as it will be, will still be stressful.  The camp should be ready for us on our arrival, and you and Sam shall sleep in my own tent.”

       Sam asked, “None of the lords is questioning your right to be king, are they?”

       The tall Man shook his head.  “No, they are not.  This time the entire realm of Gondor is ready for the King to return, while Arnor has been ready for centuries, although it is only now we will begin to have sufficient folk to consider ourselves again a nation.”  He smiled.  “We will have new garb for all of you--save you, Pippin.  You’ll have to make do with the livery you’ve worn since the feast.”

       “I wish you’d been able to save the first set.  To know that it had been Lord Faramir’s when he was a child meant a great deal to me.”

       The King nodded his understanding.  “I am sorry, but we did have to cut it off of you after Gimli found you.  Nor could we have ever removed all of the troll’s blood from it.  However, I don’t believe my new Steward will regret its loss, as glad as he’ll be to see you again.”  

       He turned then to Faralion.  “And now, Master, if you would play and sing us a tune.  How about one of the dances from Lamedon?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “No, Aragorn, let him play something that you can sing.  We’ve heard little enough of you singing since Weathertop, save the little you sang in the Hall of Fire.”

       It was the first indication Faralion had that the King did sing, and when they had decided together at the King’s suggestion on a tavern song which had been popular in Minas Tirith many years previously, he realized that the Lord Elessar had a most gifted voice, and that he knew this song very well indeed.

       When they were done he commented, “That was excellent.  It is said that that was written by the famed Lord Captain Thorongil.”

       The Lord Elessar looked at him with raised brows.  “Was it?” he asked, and smiled oddly.

       For a  moment the minstrel could have sworn that the Elf was smirking, but then he was certain that he must have been mistaken, as the face of Legolas was indeed as serene as it ever was.

10:  Guilt Assumed 

       Faralion found Frodo the next day in the enclosure that had served the two Ringbearers instead of a proper tent.  He was lying back atop the bed which had been brought there for him, his left hand holding his right.  There was a book beside him, lying face-down on the pillow--a small book for a Man’s hands; a good sized one in the hands of a Pherian.  Frodo looked over and smiled wanly as he entered.

       The minstrel bowed.  “Before he went off with the cooks’ foragers again, Lord Samwise told me I’d find you here and that your guard would not deter me.”

       “Yes.  My shoulder was aching abominably this morning, and Aragorn eased it a good deal; but he again advised me to rest as much as possible today in preparation for tomorrow.  He’s concerned that it will tax me overmuch.”

       “So he said last night.”  The Man looked at the Hobbit, whose face wasn’t as troubled as it had been the previous evening.  “You will pardon me again--knowing what and who he will be to us as of the day after tomorrow, it is hard for me to think of the Lord Elessar as simply Aragorn.”

       Frodo arched a brow.  “He was introduced to us in Bree as Strider; and although I learned that day his real name was Aragorn son of Arathorn it was three weeks later before it struck me fully what that name meant, for all he carried the Sword that was Broken with him.”  He looked up at the branches overhead and shook his head.  “Sam was so suspicious of him, and taken aback completely that this one was out wandering the wilds with a broken sword.  He and Aragorn apparently came to an understanding in Rivendell, and he still refers to him predominantly as ‘Strider,’ ‘Mr. Strider,’ and the last few days as ‘Lord Strider,’ all of which Aragorn simply responds to as he has always done.”

       “I was amazed how well he sings.”

       Frodo sat up and examined his face with curiosity.  “Why are you surprised?  He’s the descendant of Elros Half-Elven, and was raised in Rivendell.  He grew up hearing the singing of the Elves.  Bilbo told me he’s a wonderful poet also, and has helped him on many of the songs and poems he’s written.”  He gave a wry smile.  “Bilbo thinks the world of him.”

       Faralion was considering the Ringbearer’s earlier words.  “You say that when you met him he carried with him the shards of Narsil?”

       Frodo nodded.  “It was just before we left Rivendell that the Elven smiths there reforged it, with Aragorn aiding them.”

       “Why would he carry it?”

       “I think to convince me that he had an interest in what became of the Ring.  Bilbo had already told him I’d studied the histories of the descendants of Númenor, and I certainly ought to have fully appreciated the significance of the Sword when he first showed it to me.  But I couldn’t quite believe such tales had meaning today, three thousand years later.”  He shook his head.  “I was being so stubbornly skeptical.  I didn’t truly understand and fully believe until Elrond told the full Council gathered his name and lineage.  Then at last it sank in that this was indeed Isildur’s Heir, so I tried to give the Ring to him.”

       The musician was shocked.  “You’d have given the One Ring to the one who was born to be King?”

       “If he would have accepted It.  But it appears no one I offered It to really trusted themselves with it--not Aragorn, Gandalf, or the Lady Galadriel.  And Lord Elrond could barely stand to look at it--he wouldn’t touch it himself.  I don’t know who took it from my pocket and hung it on a chain around my neck while I was so ill before they got the shard of the Morgul blade out of me--they probably had Sam do it, as the Elves were afraid they’d be overwhelmed by it.”  He looked away.  “And with reason,” he added in low tones.

       After a moment Faralion asked, “You and Lord Samwise are already packed?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “And what is there to pack?  I’ve hardly anything of my own save what little Aragorn has given me here.  I lost everything else along the way, including my clothing, dignity, health, innocence, and honor, while Sam came out of it with little more.  Although at least his honor is intact.”

       “And how has your honor been compromised, sweet Master?” asked Faralion.  “Because your will was overcome by that of the Ring?  All I have spoken with have said that It would have overcome them ere they got into Mordor.  At least you were able to make it as far as the Sammath Naur itself ere It took you.  Remember, It overcame Isildur and paralyzed Lord Elrond before, and I am told both were individuals of greatest personal will.  And you yourself have stated that this time Lord Elrond, having felt Its power before there in that place, would not even look at It if he could avoid it, knowing how swiftly It overcame him the last time.”

       Frodo sighed, looking down at his hands lying folded in his lap.  Finally he said quietly, “I may know this in my mind; yet my heart blames me.”

       Faralion continued, “And as for innocence--few make it long in life with that intact.  But I see that your own understanding of what you could have fallen to has increased your compassion for others.  Do you not realize that such is the better quality to have in the end?  I suspect our yet uncrowned King can tell you much of lost innocence, if you can convince him to speak of it.”

       “I suppose so.”  Then he gave a small laugh.  “I know so, for he’s told me a tale or two already.”  He looked up under his brows and caught the expression of curiosity on the face of the Man.  “No, I won’t tell on, for they’re his tales to tell and not my own.”  He straightened.  “It’s more than enough trying to keep my own life in some kind of order.”  Again he sighed.  “I wish now only to come to Bilbo before he must leave me again, and to go home to the Shire and see if ought can be made out of the life remaining to me.”

       “As for me, now that I have wrought your tale into a lay, I wonder if there is anything left for me to do that is greater than that,” the minstrel said.

       “You have Aragorn’s tales to tell,” the Pherian answered him.  “He will be a great King, you know.  Wise, experienced already, compassionate.  Healer, ruler, diplomat, scholar, singer, loremaster, a great warrior....”

       “There you tell it aright,” Faralion replied.  “All who fought alongside him speak of his skill and ability to weave strategy and to order his forces, his endurance and ability to foresee what the enemy will do next.  He came at the one moment when the armies of Minas Tirith and Rohan needed him in the Battle of the Pelennor.  That one so comparatively young----”

       “Young?  You think eighty-eight is young?”

       Faralion looked with surprise into the eyes of the Hobbit.  “Eighty-eight?”

       Frodo gave a slightly twisted yet amused smile.  “Yes, eighty-eight.  You mean you didn’t know?  Bilbo told me while I was with him in Rivendell.  Aragorn was yet a child when Bilbo first came there when he was on his own adventure.  Aragorn has done much in his life already, has traveled throughout the known world and beyond it.  I’m not certain how many languages he speaks fluently, but I know it reaches beyond my paltry Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, and smattering of Adunaic.  Bilbo hinted Aragorn has already been into Rhun and Harad.  He spent time in Gondor when he was young....”

       “Gondor?”

       “He is the Dúnedan.”

       Faralion considered this, his face a study in perplexity.  He searched the Hobbit’s face, and realized that this was no mere tale to confound, but the truth as Frodo knew it.  He suddenly laughed.  “I wonder if he knew the Lord Captain Thorongil, then?”

       Frodo shrugged, smiling wryly.  “I didn’t ask what he did here--I only know Aragorn told me himself he’d served here; and Bilbo explained many among the Northern Dúnedain have come South at times to serve in Gondor’s forces.  If there’s anyone anywhere with the will and skill to worm out anyone’s stories, it is Bilbo Baggins.”

       “I wish I could meet him.”

       Frodo nodded.  He sighed.  “And tomorrow we go to Aragorn’s crowning.  He has awaited this all his adult years.  Bilbo was most intent I make good notes to bring him, for it is something he has hoped for since they first became friends when he removed to Imladris.”

       “I will make a copy of the words of the Lay for you to take him as well.”

       Frodo’s face became solemn and he looked away.  “If you will.”  Then, afraid he’d insulted his guest, he added, “I thank you, for Sam’s sake.  It was his last wish, when we thought we were dying, that we might be put into songs and tales.”

       “But not yours?”  Faralion’s expression as he searched the Pherian’s face was shrewd.

       Frodo looked away again, giving a rather elaborate shrug. 

       The Man suddenly gave a bark of a laugh.  “You remind me of my own master’s tale of composing an ode when he was yet a young Man to the Lord Captain Thorongil.  One of the younger Ladies of Lamedon was most enamored of the mysterious Captain and wished to earn his favor--she thought--by commissioning an ode in his honor--only the good Lord Captain appeared most embarrassed by the whole proceeding and indicated he’d do far better by writing such a thing in honor of Lord Denethor instead.”

       Frodo laughed.  “This Lord Captain Thorongil sounds quite interesting.  Eagle of the Star,” he mused, then smiled.  “I wonder....  Did anyone ever know where he came from?”

       “No, never for certain, save that he came to Gondor from Rohan.  But he was no member of the Rohirrim, my master told me, for he was quite clearly one of the Dúnedain, with his grey eyes and and high cheekbones and  his dark hair.”

       “I see,” Frodo commented.  An odd smile played around his mouth for a moment.  Then he looked up into the Man’s eyes as he returned to the original subject.  “At any rate, I find being put into songs and tales uncomfortable, and find myself wishing I’d never been called upon to leave my own lands.”

       After several moments the minstrel sighed.  “I can see why.  You have paid dearly for the fame you know.”

       The Hobbit’s face had gone quite serious.  “What is worse is that too many others have had to pay.  If I had to come away, I’d far rather have come alone.  I’d prefer not to have had them suffer.  They all almost died, and they should have stayed safe at home.”

       “Are you certain they would have been safe in your own land?”

       Frodo looked away, his eyes haunted again.  “Evil hasn’t touched the Shire as yet--not the kind of evil we’ve faced outside it, or at least not by the time we left it.”

       Faralion considered.  “Yet, by your own admission Sauron had become aware of your land, enough to send his Nazgul there in search of you.  You have no idea what might have passed there in your absence.”

       The Pherian’s face had gone white.  “If evil has come there due to me....”

       Faralion wished he’d not spoken that last thought aloud.  “My dear Lord Frodo--and don’t go denying the title, for you have earned it dearly as I said--if evil has come there in your absence, you cannot blame yourself.  Nor does it do any good speculating on what might have happened while you were gone while you are yet away.  There is sufficient pain in the day about you now to deal with without looking for ills elsewhere to take responsibility for.  You have paid your dues; let you enjoy the rewards that have come of them that you be better refreshed in body and spirit for whatever ills you must face next.  After all, facing ills is simply a part of life for all who breathe the air given our lungs by the Creator.”

       The minstrel stood up from the chair which sat between the two beds.  “Know this, Master Frodo Baggins, you are not responsible for the choices of others, only for your own.  You chose to fight the great Enemy of our time as you could, and you continued to do so until at last you were overcome by his weapon.  Yet you held off that moment until at least you had brought It into the one place where It could be destroyed, and so it was done.

       “Any evils done by those who are enemies are still the works of those who committed them.  You’ve done nothing to provoke others save to protect as you can.  Blaming yourself for what another does, and especially for what another might have done, is a lie unworthy of you.”

       Frodo looked down and gave a small shrug.  Faralion sighed.

       He left and found Pippin just coming off duty with the King, who was in meetings now attended by his kinsmen from the North.  The Northern Dúnedain were extraordinarily serious, quiet folk from what he could tell, and all were apparently as competent as warriors as was the Lord Elessar.  They spoke a form of Sindarin and, apparently, Adunaic, often speaking the latter among themselves for purposes of privacy, although most also spoke fluent Westron.  They had ridden South behind the Lord Elessar’s cousin Halbarad and his brothers.  Lord Halbarad had fallen on the Pelennor, he knew, although the other two remained, both rather sober individuals hardened by years of fighting against the orcs and trolls who bred in the Northern wastes and the Misty Mountains as well as facing the enmity of the remnants of the folk of Angmar to the North and the folk of the Rhuadar to the South.  It was only natural, the Minstrel thought, that the King should draw for his personal guard on these whose skills he’d known for most of their years.

       Pippin was speaking with the one the Lord Elessar had made head of his personal guard, one known as Hardorn.  “Then you wish me to go before Aragorn as we approach the city gates?”

       “Yes.”

       “I’m not certain how good a guard I’ll be, for I’ve not been able to practice with my sword since I was wounded before the Black Gate.”

       The Dúnedain warrior smiled.  “I saw you fighting before the Black Gate for a short time before I was too engaged to watch the fighting of those on the other hill.  You are competent enough.  And you can believe that once my Lord Cousin as healer has released you to full duty again you will take part in training sessions with all the rest of the Guards of the Citadel.

       “As for our approach to the city gates, you will not be the only one on duty, of course.  We have determined that those attending on him shall be drawn from all the peoples who are sworn to his service, and now you are the only representative from the Shire.”

       Pippin took a deep breath, then nodded.  “Yes, my Lord Captain,” he said, saluting.  The tall, dour Northerner saluted in return and turned and reentered his cousin’s tent as Pippin watched after, then turned and smiled to see the minstrel.  “Well,” he said, “I’m to serve as one of the guards for Aragorn at his crowning.  It’s quite an honor.  Have you seen Frodo?”

       “Yes,” Faralion sighed.  “And I become more and more frustrated with his concern that he is not worthy of any honor and his constant feelings of guilt.  Was he ever thus?”

       Pippin’s face became clouded as he looked about, then indicated they should leave the crowded area around the Lord Elessar’s tent.  Together they walked southeasterly until they were in the clearing where they’d spoken the previous evening.  Pippin indicated the Man should sit on the fallen log while he hitched himself up on the rock where the King had sat.

       The Pherian sat looking down at his lap, playing with the seat of his sword in its sheath.  The Minstrel sat watching him expectantly.  Finally Pippin looked up at him.  “You asked if Frodo was always the way he’s acting now.  No, he wasn’t.  He’s always been quieter than most Hobbits and more private, for as long as I can remember.  But as I remember him as I was growing up, he was also always very warm, loving, caring, and delighted in everything.  He could laugh and have fun, sang Bilbo’s comic songs, would plan the most elaborate jokes on us, and had to be the most graceful dancer you can imagine.  He’s always been the most responsible and thoughtful individual you’ve ever seen, and he’s certainly tried to teach us to be that way, too.

       “Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara, Merry’s mum and da, however, have spoken in front of me of the time when Frodo lived as their ward in Brandy Hall, before Uncle Rorimac died and Uncle Saradoc became Master of Buckland.  Before his parents’ deaths they say he was always a happy child, bright and curious and full of delight in everything.  The first year after the boating accident that killed them he was quite shaken by his loss, and was prone to being quiet and remote.  For some reason they treated him as if he were sickly, although neither they nor my parents have ever explained why.  He’d be happy enough in the summertime, but would become quiet and withdrawn in the winters, getting worse and worse each year, except for the two or three years he was always in trouble, it seemed. 

       “At last Uncle Bilbo had enough, and as family head to the Bagginses he announced he was going to take him as his own ward.  He felt that the way they cosseted him just made it worse for him, apparently.  I know that my parents and Merry’s all swear that in the first few months he was in Hobbiton living with Bilbo in Bag End, Frodo changed completely, putting on weight and getting color back into his cheeks, smiling freely and laughing again.  He was so obviously happy that they all would say it was too bad they hadn’t let him go to Bilbo much earlier.”

       “What gave Master Bilbo the right to take Frodo as ward?”

       Pippin shrugged.  “Frodo’s da was Drogo Baggins, and was one of Bilbo’s second cousins on that side, while his mother Primula was a Brandybuck on her father’s side, being Uncle Rory’s youngest sister, and granddaughter to the Old Took on her mother’s side.  That made her Bilbo’s first cousin, for his mum was Belladonna Took and was older sister to Cousin Primula’s mother Mirabella.  So Frodo was both first and second cousin, once removed each way, to Bilbo.  And he was a Baggins.

       “The family head is the one who is to see to the needs of all of the family name, and the families of those daughters who make claims on family ties.  Our cousin Folco Boffin, for instance, was also a great grandson of the Old Took on his father’s mother’s side as well as through his mum, and his mum tried for a time to make claims on Thain Ferumbras before giving it up as a bad job.  The Tooks have always had more wealth to share than any of the other families in the Shire, after all; but Cousin Ferumbras wasn’t one to squander our resources on those he considered poor relations whose own families of their name could have easily helped them.”

       Faralion was becoming rather confused with the tale of relationships, and Pippin, seeing the expression on his face reddened.  “Sorry.  I’m a Hobbit and a Took and so have the tendency to get too wrapped up in family trees for you poor outsiders.  I’ll try to be briefer.

       “Frodo and Bilbo were cousins on both sides, and both Bagginses, and Bilbo was family head for the Bagginses and thus had the obligation to see to Frodo’s final situation.  Is that clear enough?”

       Faralion nodded.  “If it was Bilbo’s final responsibility as head of Frodo’s family of name to see to his situation, how did he end up as ward to Sir Meriadoc’s parents?”

       “Well, he was Uncle Sara’s cousin, you see; and Drogo and Primula had lived mostly in Buckland since Frodo was three, and then the Eastfarthing about midway between Hobbiton and Brandy Hall; and they died during a visit to the Hall.  Uncle Rory and Aunt Menegilda just took possession of Frodo because that was where he was when he was orphaned.  Also, they were concerned Bilbo’s reputation as old Mad Baggins who’d run off when he was fifty to have an adventure outside the Shire would end up hurting Frodo.”

       He sighed and looked off following the small river as it chattered its way to the Anduin.  “I suspect Bilbo also worried that his reputation would work against Frodo.  He wasn’t in the least bit mad, of course, but he enjoyed playing up his eccentricities and sometimes twitting his relatives around--especially Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, who were his closest kin of the name. 

       “Otho was an odd duck himself for a Baggins, very miserly and grasping; and then he had to marry a Bracegirdle, of all things.  The Bracegirdles have to be the most unpleasant family in the Shire, and nowhere as respectable as the Bagginses--or at least as the Bagginses were before Bilbo went off with thirteen Dwarves and a wizard to the Lonely Mountain.  I think that at one time Lobelia had the idea of becoming the child bride to Bilbo himself, then she set her bonnet for Drogo, and finally settled for Otho.  They always wanted to live in Bag End and be recognized as the Bagginses, you know. 

       “They were always jealous of Bilbo’s close relationship with Drogo and Primula when they lived in Hobbiton until a few years after Frodo was born.  I think they were afraid Bilbo would make Drogo his heir and family head when he was gone, myself.  Lobelia started telling horrible tales about Primula, although my parents would never tell me what they were, and at last Primula insisted they move away from Hobbiton.  Can’t say I blame her, as Lobelia was always the bane of Bilbo’s existence and later of Frodo’s as well.  Certainly Ponto and Iris have no use for her.”

       “So, Master Bilbo was close to Lord Frodo’s parents?”

       The tall Hobbit nodded solemnly.  “And in the end he adopted Frodo as his heir.  He was always close to Frodo, you know.  Was there when he was born in Number Five, and visited him several times a year after they moved away and then after Frodo was taken into Brandy Hall.” 

       He sighed.  “I was but a lad when Bilbo left, and even then I was afraid Frodo would forget how to laugh.  We spent most winters in the Great Smial, and I hated it then, when Ferumbras was Thain.  He knew my da was his logical heir and he insisted we spend the winters there so he could see to Da’s training as Thain and the Took; but they didn’t get along that well.  All that winter I kept running off.  I’d slip into the stables and take a pony and ride off to Brandy Hall or Hobbiton, and I got to know all the back ways.  I wasn’t supposed to ride alone, of course, but didn’t care much.  Frodo took to leaving the front door unlocked for me and my guest room always made up for me to crawl into in case it was after dark when I got there, for no one could convince me to stay in the Great Smial.  It’s a good thing that winter was fairly mild and we didn’t have much rain or any snow that stuck, or I’d probably have frozen to death.”

       Pippin shook himself.  “But he didn’t forget how to laugh--not then.  He became quieter, but he didn’t forget how to laugh.”

       Merry appeared from the camp.  “Oh, so here you are, then.  Master Faralion, it is a pleasure.”  He gave a bow which ought to have been comical, considering his short stature, but which instead proved most graceful.  He looked from one to the other.  “You out here discussing Frodo?”

       Pippin answered him, “Yes.  He says Frodo’s guilt is driving him to distraction.”

       Merry sighed.  “Yes, it does do that.”  His expression was most solemn and sad.  “He’s always been very responsible; but now he can’t seem to appreciate that no one is responsible for everything!”

       Faralion  commented, “He said he wished the rest of you hadn’t come with him.”

       Pippin nodded.  “He tried to slip away from us, but Merry was on the watch for it.  Merry, Sam, Fatty, and I set up the Great Conspiracy to watch out for him trying to sneak out of the Shire.  Then, when we realized he really was going to try to do just that we fixed it so we three would go with him.  The poor old Hobbit was spied upon almost every hour of the day and night.”

       “After Bilbo left when Frodo came of age,” Merry continued. “I could tell that Frodo would follow him one day--go looking for him.  I couldn’t let him go alone--not Frodo.  Bilbo--Bilbo would be all right--we knew that.  And, after all, he left the Shire both times accompanied by Dwarves, so he didn’t exactly go alone.  Bilbo appreciated his own limitations.

       “But Frodo--when he went, it would be more out of longing than for desire for adventure, and he’d go alone.  Wouldn’t let anyone know or take anyone with him,--he most likely wouldn’t even ask the Dwarves if he could accompany them.

       “Oh, he’d have it all planned out--he’d be taking old Bilbo’s maps; he’d have the Ring to make him invisible if he heard trolls or anything like that, plus he’s a Hobbit and can hide easily anyway; he’d have gold and silver with him, and well hidden; and no one knows how to find edible mushrooms and berries and wild onions and cress in the wild better than he does--no one save Sam.  But he’d not get much in the way of fresh meat after his stores of jerked meat he took with him or bought in Bree ran out, for he hadn’t the heart to snare conies and kill them.  He could catch fish and would have no qualms about killing or eating them, and no one can cook better in the wild than he can--except Sam, of course; but he wouldn’t take Sam with him.

       “He would have gone alone, and he’d have never believed it would be the death of him.”

       “You are certain he’d have gone alone?” the minstrel asked.

       “Positive.”  Merry’s expression was in no doubt.  “He’d not have taken Sam or me or Pippin because of our families, who’d have been up in arms if we went with him; and Pippin was too young, anyway--he’s still not of age, you see, and there will be the piper to pay when we get home again with Uncle Paladin and Aunt Eglantine.  Aunt Lanti will most likely seek to skin Frodo alive, taking her bairn out into the world as he did--and never you mind that Frodo had no intentions of doing any such thing.”

       “They’ll probably confine me to the Great Smial till I come of age,” Pippin said gloomily.

       “He’d not have taken Folco because of his mother--his mother is partially invalided; when he helped us move Frodo’s things he had to arrange for someone to care for her while he was gone; and I’m certain he fretted for her comfort the whole time.  He’d think of taking Fatty only because old Fredegar was frightened to go--the couple times he went on walking trips with us before he about drove the rest of us mad with his worries about what that noise was or when we’d get to an inn so he could get a good meal and some ale.  I mean, they don’t call Fredegar Bolger ‘Fatty’ for nothing, you know.  Frodo would have been perverse enough to take him only because he knew Fatty is afraid and Frodo thinks the only way to fight fear is to face it.  And there is no way I can think that Isumbard would go with the one who’d been his rival for Pippin’s sister Pearl; and Ferdi is too newly married to Pervinca.”

       “Lord Frodo loved your sister, Sir Peregrin?”

       Pippin shrugged.  “He did when they were younger.  Pearl threw him over years ago, though, and he never seemed to get over it.  Some rot about him not being well, if I remember what she told Vinca.  That if he got too stressed he’d have a seizure of the heart or something.  Rot.”

       “Well, he was starting to get over it at Bilbo’s party,” Merry said.  “He danced with about every lass there, you know, and Narcissa Boffin was absolutely thrilled.”

       “She’s always fancied him, Merry.”

       Merry smiled sadly.  Then he looked at Faralion.  “After Bilbo went away he didn’t look at lasses any more, and I now think the Ring is the reason.  I think it didn’t like its bearers to love anyone--not that way.”

       Faralion considered that for a time, then asked, “Is there anything he truly loves?  Besides you and his family and your land, I mean.”

       “Stars, birds, the wind, music, dancing.”  Merry’s face showed grief.  “Always was one for walking trips, and standing on hilltops with the wind in his hair, watching the stars or birds.  Would suddenly break out into an Elvish song, often one of the hymns to Elbereth Bilbo taught him.  And when he danced....”  His face softened with the memory.

       “Why did you want to go with him?” the Man asked.

       Merry glanced downward, then looked back into the minstrel’s eyes.  “Frodo used to talk of when he’d go off on an adventure, back when I was a little one and he was a teen, and he’d see how upset I was and talk about how I’d go with him, of course.  But when it came to it, he didn’t want to take us with him, and especially after he knew what the Ring was and all.  Once he knew he was in danger and that danger would follow him because of It, he decided no one was going with him--no one.  Then Gandalf insisted Sam was to go with him, but Pippin and I weren’t going to let that happen.  He needed us to--to keep himself together.  He wouldn’t tell us--he’d just slip away when no one was looking, like he’d always try to do when he left after a visit to Brandy Hall.  He hated saying goodbye.”

       Pippin looked at his cousin.  “Yes, he hated saying goodbye.  We’d catch him trying to slip out quietly and be there saying goodbye to him, and he’d just look embarrassed and do all he could to say anything but that.”

       The young Hobbit looked up at the scudding clouds.  “I still can’t fathom, though, why on earth he sold Bag End to Lobelia and her son Lotho.  Otho died a few years ago, still bitter that Bilbo had adopted Frodo and left him Bag End and as family head.  Frodo made out he’d run out of money, and I know that’s not true.  He sold them Bag End and moved to Crickhollow in Buckland, and then we left the Shire through the Old Forest.  We wouldn’t let him go alone.  And I was afraid again he’d forget how to laugh.

       “He’s not forgotten that, exactly; but he’s not really laughed properly since Moria.  The quest has about scoured the heart out of him.  And Strider truly hates the Ring for what It did to him.”

       Faralion sighed.  “I’m sorry.  He’s apparently lost his sense of perspective.”

       Merry nodded his agreement.  “The Ring just kept working on him until now he thinks he’s to blame for everything.”

       When Faralion returned to his own tent to pack up his own goods, he realized he, too, hated what the Ring of Power had done to Frodo Baggins.  But he had a plan for that evening.

With thanks to Gentle Hobbit for permission to borrow a plot device from her story, "The Minstrel's Quest."

11:  Before the Wind 

       Frodo stood near the bow of the ship, his cloak from Lothlorien blowing about him, watching as they traveled southward toward the bridges of Osgiliath.  Late yesterday afternoon soldiers had again strung the roof over the enclosure where he and Sam still slept, and shortly before dinner it had begun to rain again, although that rain had blown away quickly enough.  As sunset neared Master Faralion had brought him to the ships, and onto one where he’d set his harp specially for Frodo to hear the winds of sunset vibrating the strings and the wind in the rigging.  Then as it grew dark he’d simply begun plucking strings and doing rills and chords randomly as the wind inspired him, smiling as he realized how much Frodo enjoyed this, his eyes closing as he listened to this wind song the Man was creating, now and then looking up to see the stars as glimpses of them were given as the wind blew the clouds across the sky.

       At the end of the evening Faralion had given him a gift of tuned rods hanging from a circle of iron on fine line with a fishing weight in the middle with a light wooden chip below it to cause it to strike the rods as it was blown by the winds.  The song and the chimes meant far more to him, Frodo realized, than had the lay the minstrel had written.  The tuned rods were in Sam’s pack, and he planned to hang them near the window of the room in which he slept where he could hear them.

       He’d had a nightmare about midnight, and awoke to find Gandalf was sitting in the tent with him, was leaning over the bed where he’d started up, hearing the fighting of the orcs again and thinking that Aragorn, Boromir, and Merry were being slaughtered as they came to rescue him. 

       “It’s all right, Frodo--it was but that insistent dream again,” Gandalf had murmured. 

       Sam had also awakened, was peering at him over the Wizard’s shoulder.  “You all right, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.

       Just then Aragorn had entered carrying a tray with four mugs upon it.  It had been but tea, but tea made with spices that had distracted and soothed him.  He touched briefly on the power of the Elessar stone, lay back more relaxed, smiled up into his friend’s eyes.  The night rain striking the canvas roof overhead was now calming rather than reminding him of clashing weapons.  He was aware of the Light Gandalf kept veiled, and saw the Light of Stars surrounding his friend.  He remained unaware that the others were aware their own Lights were beginning to shine in response to Frodo’s own, and that they saw that Sam’s own Light glowed visibly as he watched from where he still sat on his own bed, clutching his own mug.

       “Rest now, Frodo.  Rest and be at peace.”  Aragorn’s hand had brushed his eyelids and brow, and he’d slipped into another dream, one of distant white shores and the wind’s song played through ship’s rigging and on the strings of a great harp vibrating in the glow of Elbereth’s stars.

       That had been last night.  Aragorn stood behind him now, blocking the north wind that sped their ships downstream, his dark hair whipping about his face, his own eyes smiling, one hand on the fore mast and the other on Frodo’s right shoulder.  Gandalf hadn’t come on the ship with them--he rode along the South Road on Shadowfax and would return over the patched central bridge of Osgiliath with the rest of the horses which had been unneeded by those who came by ship.  The Rohirrim and Imrahil’s Swan Knights and many of the Northern Dúnedain had left the previous afternoon along with many of the supply wagons that were no longer necessary.  The remainder of the wagons were coming after. 

       Merry had ridden along with the Rohirrim, and he and Pippin had been shouting wagers as to which party would arrive first at the camp on the Pelennor, although Frodo had seen both faces had gone pale at this new separation.

       He looked up into Aragorn’s face, and remembered how grim he’d looked when they’d first seen him.  He realized that he still saw concern there frequently, but seldom grimness any more.  Instead his eyes were calm and full of a hope that Frodo had seen earlier in their journeys together so infrequently--once when he stood by the Lady Arwen in the Hall of Fire, that first night he was awake in Rivendell; a few other brief moments while they tarried in Elrond’s house; as he received the gift given him by the Lady Galadriel of the green Elessar stone that shone at the neck of his shirt under his cloak from Lorien; as he’d looked on Cerin Amroth as he’d looked on a memory of some meeting he’d known long before when Frodo had thought he saw two Aragorns there, the young Lord and the almost exhausted wanderer who’d guided them from Moria; in his eyes as they sailed on the current between the statues of the Argonath.  The hope and pride were there now in his gaze, and this time, Frodo realized, they would stay and be confirmed.

       He was singing quietly, a song sung in Adunaic, Frodo realized.  He didn’t understand its meaning, but it seemed to be a song of sailing and ships.  He’s won through, Frodo thought.  He’s won through and will be King, and all will be renewed because he has come again at last.

       The foreign thought carried in it a smile.  Yes, the return of the King is at last coming to be; and you and Sam both have played your parts.

       Frodo looked back, seeing Sam sitting on a bench amidships alongside Gimli, both looking very uncomfortable, but Sam at least was distracted by the Dwarf’s grumbling.  “Unnatural things, boats,” Gimli said somewhat more loudly as Legolas came forward from the stern.  “Unsettling how they refuse to stay steady.  And yet you’d think of going off on one of them, would you, leaving the beauty of Middle Earth behind just when it’s beginning to flower anew?”

       The Elf gave him one of his most serene and annoying smiles.  “And if I should choose to remain for a time, would that displease you, Gimli?  I may know the sea longing, but it doesn’t compel me to begin hewing trees and fashioning lath immediately, you know.”

       Some level of concern slipped from the Dwarf’s features, and Frodo realized the Dwarf had been afraid that Legolas would be indeed choose to leave earlier rather than later.  Pippin, who stood right at the bow by his friend Beregond, who was among the healing soldiers who shared this ship with them, turned and looked back at the Dwarf and then Frodo, his green eyes smiling, although when he looked up into the eyes of the Man beside him a level of concern could be seen.  When Aragorn was finished with his own song, Pippin after some moments began another, one of Bilbo’s bath songs, and Frodo surprised himself by joining in, then heard Sam’s slightly deeper tones from behind them, then Aragorn himself adding his own voice. 

       They were going between bridge supports in Osgiliath when they finished, and Frodo looked up and asked, a long missing twinkle in his eye, “And when was the last time you were here as the Lord Captain Thorongil?”

       Aragorn looked down, prepared to not answer until he saw that a hint of Frodo’s spirit of mischief was there.  “You won’t tell Faralion, will you?”

       Feeling triumphant for the moment, Frodo answered, “Not if you don’t wish me to.  Is it such a great secret?”

       “I intend to enjoy watching some of the older inhabitants of Gondor realize it as time goes on.  I’m not certain when Imrahil will recognize me, but he’s not done so as yet.”  He stretched, and his own eyes kindled with matching slyness.  “I wonder if Varadorn will recognize me?  He certainly didn’t when he came in spouting useless rhymes of lore about athelas when I was here after the battle of the Pelennor.  I was so tired, and heartsick to realize Halbarad and Théoden had died, and exhausted and driven after the days of riding in the dark with the army of the dead following after and the fight at the Pelargir and the taking of their ships and the desperate row up the river and the long battle.  The heat of battle had begun to settle at last, and then Gandalf was there to drag me up into the city wrapped in my Elven cloak to aid Faramir, Éowyn, and Merry.” 

       His face had gone sad.  “I wasn’t given time to truly grieve, you know--certainly not that night.  And then there was Varadorn, as vacuous as ever he was when I was here before.  Then he was a very young herbalist’s apprentice, and he thought himself quite knowledgeable.  I would come to him for the healer’s kit which every troop of Rangers was to carry with them, and half the time he would have substituted other herbs for the ones I wanted.  I finally had to speak to Master Herbalist Danyavar, and after that at least the kits for my troops would be properly outfitted.  He simply refused to believe that captains of troops might be knowledgeable about healing and herbs.  I will be very pleased to allow myself to be elected into the Guild of Herbalists and Gardeners just to see the dismay on his face, I think.”

       “I wonder how long it will take Master Faralion to work out you were here as Thorongil?  I told him how old you were, and you’d think he’d have fallen over from the surprise.”

       “And how do you know how old I am?”

       “Bilbo told me.  You did turn eighty-eight recently, did you not?”

       The Man just looked down at him and smiled.  “Yes, he would have told you.  A great one for worming stories out of folks, your beloved cousin.”

       Frodo looked forward toward the rubble on the Eastern shore, his face suddenly solemn.  “Sauron’s folk did all of this?”

       Aragorn nodded, and after a moment added, “Yes, over many long centuries.  This was once the capitol of Gondor and Arnor united.”

       Frodo turned deliberately West.  “At least you can have an idea of what the shape of some of the buildings were on this side.  Were you ever stationed here?”

       “Yes, for much of two years.  About the time Denethor decided he didn’t trust me.  He wanted to keep an eye on my activities.”

       After some moments Frodo asked, “He was the Steward of Gondor?  Boromir’s father?”

       “Yes.  His father was Steward when I served here.  A decent Man, Ecthelion.  A worthy Man Denethor ought to have been, had he not given himself over to pride and suspicion.  Very intelligent, well read, skilled at languages, a born diplomat for all his rather stern nature.  Very knowledgeable about both realms, but unwilling to be seen as second-best in anything.”

       “No one is best at everything, though.”

       The tall Man sighed.  “You know it and I know it, Frodo; but Denethor certainly didn’t wish that to be true of himself.”  His face grew more solemn again.  “It started in a practice bout with daggers.  You must realize, I was trained with weapons literally from early childhood by my brothers, Adar, and Lord Glorfindel; and during my two visits to Lothlorien when I was younger the Lord Celeborn would spar with me.  When I finally joined my own people I was beyond all of the other recruits in skill with sword and daggers, and was soon working with many older troopers to assist them to improve their abilities.  Each year I was sent back to Imladris for three weeks to work again with the Elves, for my commanders insisted if I continued to practice against those of lesser skill I would lose my edge.  It’s one reason when I practice I work so often with Legolas, for he challenges me to keep up my skills.

       “When I was here in Gondor I primarily practiced with my aide, who was my cousin Hardorn.  When we were younger I sent him to Rivendell to train much as I had.  His name in Bree is Bowman, for he’s almost as skilled with a bow as most Elves.  I’m an excellent archer for a Man; Hardorn is much better, although not up to the skills of Legolas--not quite, at least,” he said as the Elf came forward to bring steaming mugs to them.  Legolas just looked deeply into the Man’s eyes, and turned away just a shade too smoothly.  Aragorn and Frodo found themselves grinning again into one another’s gaze.

       “One day I was asked to check out the skills of Lord Denethor.  For the most part he was a superb duelist with daggers, but he kept repeating one move which became so predictable I realized it could be used against him.  I stopped the bout twice to speak to him about correcting it, and he just shrugged it off.”

       He watched as Frodo carefully sipped at the mug of thick broth he’d been given.  He realized Frodo was tiring, and he gently indicated with pressure on Frodo’s shoulder he might sit on another bench nearby, before the fore mast.  Frodo was reluctant at first, but was relieved when he did sit at last.

       “When we continued he began to repeat the move again, and I allowed myself to take advantage of it.  Suddenly he found himself disarmed, and he was furious.  He insisted on continuing on with the sparring, but now he was angry, which is a dangerous thing to be when you are sparring.  I had him disarmed again very swiftly, and had I not done so I suspect I’d have needed a cut stitched shortly.

       “When a few days later he asked me to spar with swords I tried to beg off.  We lasted longer, but in the end I managed to disarm him again.  After that he began to shadow me, even, I’m told, tried spying on me.  Where before when I made a decision or suggestion that differed from what he’d have done he and I could discuss it and compromise; now he would make sarcastic comments on what I’d suggested; or he would pointedly suggest highly practical and pragmatic reasons for accepting them that avoided moral issues.  I felt that the widows of those who died in service to the realm should receive pensions that they not lose their homes; he sold the idea to the Council by insisting that if they were not given such pensions women would refuse to allow their sons, brothers, and husbands to join the army or the city guard or the Guard of the Citadel for fear of being left impoverished.  He made the women of Gondor and particularly Minas Tirith sound as if they were more concerned with their comfort than with the security of the nation.”

       He shook his head.  “I honored him so much and felt him the first I’d met in Gondor I could speak with as an equal and brother, and it all fell to nought as his envy and suspicions grew.  He grew more rigid and suspicious as time went on, until I finally stopped trying to take his feelings into consideration, as it angered him as much as ignoring them did.”

       “And now he’s dead.”

       “Yes.  Now he’s dead.  Pippin and Gandalf saw his end, and Beregond there awaits justice because he went against his orders to save Faramir from his madness.”

       “And you must judge him?”

       Slowly Aragorn nodded, keeping his eyes on the Man standing by Pippin still in the bow of the Ship.  “Yes.  It is death or exile to leave your assigned post without leave of captain or Steward.  He realized from what Pippin told him that if no one intervened, Denethor would burn himself and his son alive, and went to aid Faramir, whom he loved dearly as a captain and future lord, now that Boromir would not follow his father as Steward of the realm.”

       Frodo had gone stiff, the mug of broth in his hands forgotten.  “Fire and falling stone,” he said.

       Aragorn looked at him with concern.  “The Ring showed you this?”

       Slowly Frodo nodded.  “It ever showed me scenes of death and destruction at the end.”  His face had lost its color and humor.  “What drove him to such an end?”

       “Frodo.”  Reluctantly the Hobbit turned his face up to that of his friend, and saw it was the face now of the King, stern and considering.  “Frodo, you are not to blame for Denethor’s madness.  Long had he been looking into the Palantir of Minas Anor, and as long had Sauron been feeding him partial visions so presented that although the stones cannot lie yet he misinterpreted what he saw, and instead of gaining knowledge he came to accept despair.  Slowly had Sauron picked away at the foundations of his thought, using his very pride against him, even as his Ring used your compassion for others against you and tried to use my own desires and concern for your welfare against me.  I know that Gandalf explained to you that the Ring and Sauron were in the end one.  It was his will all others should fall to pride or fear or some other weakness, and he would feast on our bones.  This was his will as an individual, and it was the will he put into the Ring as well.”  He looked at the mug in Frodo’s hands.  “Now drink that, but drink it slowly.”

       Automatically Frodo complied.  Aragorn watched with concern, feeling the turmoil returning to Frodo’s heart.

       You had no part in his death, Iorhael.

       I should have come sooner.  I might have saved him, and saved Faramir much grief and anguish.

       He had already chosen to accept despair, and you could not come any sooner than you did to the Mountain.  Your duty was but to bring the Ring to the Fire, and that you did.  He came to despair from pride.  He would not accept the love of his son halved as he felt it to be, although that thought was false; would not wait till death took him doing his duty by city and people; would not stand second to the King returned; would not see himself diminished in his own eyes.  It was his choice to destroy himself and to slay his son in the doing to deny him the choice before him, Iorhael.  Denethor made his choice out of despair. 

       Faramir survived?

       Faramir survives and accepts what changes must come, and will find they are merely changes for the better.

       Aragorn saw the subtle change in Frodo’s posture, the slight softening of his stiffness, the resumed, if still somewhat dutiful, sipping of the broth.  He again placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and felt the tension slip slightly, and was relieved.

12:  Camp on the Pelennor 

       Frodo remained quiet for the remainder of the voyage to the Harlond.  How much was concern over Denethor and the memory of the images the Ring had shown him and how much was the weariness of the sail Aragorn could not say.  He remained seated for some time, accepted a mug of watered wine brought him, then, just before they reached the wharves he suddenly went white and had to hurry to the rail where he was quite sick.  Aragorn held him, and afterwards wiped away the sweat that had broken on his brow.  At a sign from the Man Legolas brought a cup of water for Frodo to rinse his mouth with, and then he was coaxed to sip at it slowly.

       “Do you know what brought this on, Frodo?”

       The Hobbit shrugged.  “I think the motion of the ship, and perhaps the richness of the broth.”  He looked up, frustration filling his face.  “I never lost my meals when we came down the river in the Elven boats.”

       “That was before you spent so long without proper food and drink entering and going through Mordor, or breathing in the ash and poisons of the place.  It’s likely you swallowed a good deal of the ash, Frodo, breathing it into your mouth and then swallowing.  What that alone could have done to your stomach and bowels----”

       At that moment the little water Frodo had swallowed came back up as well.

       Aragorn looked aft to see Sam was working his way to Frodo’s side.  Knowing how uncomfortable the gardener was on boats he appreciated just how worried he must be for Frodo.  “What’s wrong?” Sam demanded.  “He’s not sick again, is he?”

       “I think he is seasick, Sam.”

       “Seasick?”

       “Some folk become nauseous in boats from the movement of the vessel.”

       “But he didn’t do that afore!”

       “We know, Sam; but he’s only just beginning to feel better physically.”

       “Maybe we ought to of walked.”

       “Neither you nor he could have walked that far right now, Sam, not after being so deeply in healing sleep for two weeks and all that happened to you.  Nor could you have stood to ride ponies that far.  Even a wagon ride would have been difficult for both of you, and particularly for Frodo.”  The Man looked down on the Hobbit who still leaned on the rail.  “I thought the boat would be the easiest means of travel for you right now.”

       “It’s not your fault,” Frodo said miserably.  “At least we’re nearly there.”  He sighed.  “So, I’d have been as likely to be ill no matter how we came?”

       “So I’m certain.  At least here on the boat you could change your position and move about, which you couldn’t have done in a cart or on the back of a pony.”

       Frodo gave a slight nod of understanding.  “It was a matter of choosing the least of the various ills, then.”

       They were coming to the quays, and fenders were being hung over the side along with long, heavily woven mats of grasses while the sailors made ready the ropes and cables with which the ship was to be tied.

       It was with relief Frodo stepped onto the solid shore, although for the first few minutes he found himself struggling for his balance.  Sam, his familiar pack on his back, placed his arm about him to brace him, and again, briefly he felt resentment before solidly thrusting that resentment away, knowing that thought was unworthy of both of them.  “Thank you, Sam,” he said finally.  Then he straightened and moved forward, following Aragorn as those who’d come before led them forward to the tent prepared for them.

       There was but a cot this time instead of a full bed, with a low table with a cup of water beside it; but Frodo found it comfortable enough.  He sipped from the cup as he sat, then found the blankets warm as he lay down, accepting the draught Aragorn prepared for him and drinking it down, then more water that followed after.  He dozed until Merry appeared at his side with a bowl of curds and whey and a cup of apple juice; he ate the one and drank the other, then turned on his side and fell into a deep sleep.  Two hours later he awoke to find Gandalf by him with a mug of broth--a lighter broth this time, and Frodo drank it and still more water down gratefully, was helped to the carefully prepared latrine, then came back to Aragorn’s tent.  It was past sunset, yet they were still busy setting up tents here and there on the edges of the camp, and the cooks were busy with the thick stew they were serving to most of those here for the night.  One of those in grey who stood on duty here quietly gave a cup of water into his hands, then returned to his place, smiling gravely at his thanks.

       A folding chair had been set for him, and he sank into it gratefully while the Wizard perched himself on a high stood beside him and pulled out his pipe, handled it thoughtfully, then put it back into whatever pocket from inside his cloak he kept it in with a sigh.

       “Why don’t you light it up?” asked the Hobbit.

       Gandalf smiled down on him.  “No, it’s your healer’s orders that none is to smoke about you, Sam, or Pippin for the next three weeks.”  As he watched the approach of Aragorn and two of the other lords with him, he smiled somewhat evilly.  “And that restriction includes the redoubtable Ranger Strider as well as Merry, Gimli, and myself and any others from the Northern lands likely to seek that comfort.”

       Aragorn looked profoundly different, for somehow he appeared to have bathed and cleansed his hair, his beard and hair had been carefully trimmed, and he now wore a long surcoat of crimson over an undertunic of golden linen, a mithril circlet set with a single great gem upon his brow.  He still wore a sword belt, but it was a new one of royal green leather from which the black sheath of his sword hung; and he wore over his shoulders a fine mantle of white wool, clasped with the Elessar brooch.  He looked now much as he had when they’d been led out to the feast, but even more kingly than then, if that was possible.  Frodo looked down and realized that not only were the dark trousers the Man wore also new, but so were the boots on his feet.

       “I almost didn’t recognize you before, when Gandalf brought us out to stand before the host of the army of the West, Aragorn, but there can be no question now who and what you are.”  His voice was warm, and he realized with surprise he was on the verge of tears of pride. 

       He started to rise, but Aragorn restrained him.  “No, Frodo--you need to remain seated now.  There will be far too much ceremony in the next few days--I’ll not have you rushing it.”  The Man went to one knee, and examined his eyes and face, set one hand against his temple and the other his neck.  At last he smiled.  “Good enough, then.  You appear to have recovered from the sail up the River, I must say.  Any more nausea?”  At Frodo’s shaken head he nodded with satisfaction.

       “Now,” he said, rising and automatically dusting the knees of his trousers, “we will discuss what will happen tomorrow.  There have been several exchanges of messages between us and the Lord Steward Faramir within the city.  He’d be out here himself if he weren’t already under the restrictions of protocol in preparation for what must happen in the coronation.  Frodo, I trust you remember Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Éomer King of Rohan?  The lady with King Éomer is his sister Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan and a shieldmaiden of her people.”

       Embarrassed to remain seated while these stood--even Gandalf had risen as they’d approached the tent--Frodo bowed his head as graciously as he could.  “I am honored,” he said.

       The young King of Rohan smiled.  “I must say you look far better than you did when we spoke after the waking feast, Master Holbytla.  At that time I think you were so totally overwhelmed you had no idea who I was.”

       Frodo could feel his face flush, and he sipped at his cup to cover his confusion.

       Merry, Pippin, and a young soldier appeared carrying more folding chairs, quickly setting them in place for the four nobles.  Aragorn thanked them all solemnly, and asked them to fetch several more.  They smiled, gave proper bows, and hurried away to continue their work.  As the nobles seated themselves Gandalf resumed his seat on his stool, smiling with satisfaction.

       The Lady Éowyn was examining him with great interest.  “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, my Lord Frodo.  Merry has told me a great deal about you, of course.  I am so glad you have returned to his comfort, for if you hadn’t I fear he’d have faded away in grief.”

       She was the first women from among Men he’d ever given much attention to, and she was so lovely that it seemed it stole his breath away.  She wore a bandaged splint about her left forearm, although her hand was free.  She was dressed in a gown of white and green, with a mantle of deep blue set with white and silver stars upon it, clasped with a brooch of a silver star in which was mounted a diamond; and her golden hair was encircled by a coronet of gold flowers, each blossom centered with a faceted garnet.

       “Your arm is hurt, my Lady?” Frodo asked, then flushed at the obvious answer to his question.

       She smiled.  “It was broken in the battle, although they tell me that if the Lord Aragorn agrees I may have the splint removed this night.”

       Her brother was looking at the mantle she wore.  “That is new.  Did you purchase that here in the city?”

       “It was a gift, Éomer, and we shall discuss it tomorrow.  There is too much which must be done tonight.”  There was an almost stubborn set to her mouth and eyes that indicated she would not be forthcoming in her explanations until such time as she felt best to impart its meaning, and Frodo felt a laugh building in him.  How often he’d seen such an expression on Pippin’s or Merry’s face over the years.

       Then there was a moment of--apartness--and he felt as if he stood two paces behind himself and a half pace to the left; and he looked at the woman and saw her standing beside Captain Faramir--the Lord Steward Faramir--with his arm about her shoulder, and he knew the source of the mantle.  And seeing the look on Prince Imrahil’s face, Frodo knew that this Man recognized the garment and understood its meaning.  Then he was back in his seat, looking out again through his own eyes, and felt a bit disconcerted.

       The Northern Dúnedain warrior who attended on Aragorn and who resembled him so strongly was approaching, just as Merry, Pippin, and the young Man returned with more chairs.  Pippin set down one of the two he’d brought, and at a nod from Aragorn set the second out for the warrior to take, once he was done with his bow to the company.  Aragorn turned to the Lady Éowyn.  “My Lady, you may remember my kinsman, Lord Hardorn of Eriador, one of the Grey Company who followed me on the dark path.  He is now appointed as the head of my personal bodyguard.”

       After the exchange of polite murmurs Hardorn sat, and the Prince’s son Lord Elphir arrived, bowed, and accepted a chair from his father’s esquire.  Gimli and Legolas approached, Legolas now dressed in keeping with his role as Prince of Mirkwood, a woven circlet of silver reminiscent of branches and beech leaves on his own brow, his expression somehow softer but as regal as ever.  Gimli’s harness had been carefully cleaned and his boots, axes, and mail polished; he wore now a new belt; the neck of a new shirt visible under his mail; his helmet removed and his hair and beard freshly braided.

       Sam arrived with the healer who’d attended on Frodo along with Aragorn before, a relatively young Man, obviously of Dunedain ancestry himself, both carrying trays.  Aragorn rose with respect.  “Eldamir, welcome.”

       Prince Imrahil’s escort set a low folding table in the midst of them, and another young Man with golden hair and dressed as a Rider of Rohan arrived with a brazier and set it nearby, somewhat behind Frodo and to the right at the Lord Aragorn’s direction.  Two armed guards flanked the circled group now as the three serving as esquires took their places near their lords.

       The trays the healer and Sam brought were set on the table, and mugs of the stew were given to all save Frodo, who first was handed a draught and then a mug of thicker broth and a roll.  The draught was pleasant and strongly smelled of ginger, and it appeared to further ease his stomach, and the broth and roll helped ease the desire for something more filling than he’d had so far.

       Frodo looked about him ruefully.  “It appears I’m about the only one who hasn’t yet bathed.”

       “They’ll be makin’ that right soon enough, Master,” Sam said.  “They’ve fixed up a wonderful bathin’ tent, they have.  You’ll find it far nicer than many of the streams as we bathed in along the way.”

       “It will feel nice.  I know we had the baths in Ithilien, but they were rather shallow, to say the least.”

       “Well, these are quite deep.  Made for Men, they were.  But no one was willin’ to interrupt your rest earlier.”

       Aragorn and the healer were both watching Frodo as he handed his now empty mug for the broth back to Sam to set on the table, at which Sam handed him a small plate with apple slices.  “If you find your stomach upset at all, please tell me,” Aragorn suggested.

       Frodo gave a small nod.

       Prince Imrahil looked at the three chairs which remained empty.  “Whom do we await other than Master Galador, my Lord Elessar?” he asked.

        “The sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris.  They were taking advantage of the bathing tent themselves.  Will you tell me some of Master Galador before he arrives?  I did not see him when I went up into the city, and he was at none of the lords’ councils we held before we left for the assault on the Black Gate.”

       “He was sent to the refuges with those who did not fight, for he is no warrior, my Lord.  Indeed, one hand has been clubbed from birth.  Yet he is nevertheless a skillful writer and began his career as one of the secretaries who attended on Lord Denethor.  When Master Berengil, who served as Master of Protocol before, became incapacitated due to an evil growth, Galador took his place.  He suited my sister’s husband well, but I suspect that you will quite frustrate him and he may well stretch your patience, my Lord, for he is rather inflexible.  However, when it comes to knowing who ought to be seated together at a feast and who need to be seated completely apart there is none better.  I do not think there exists any individual in the land with a better understanding of the order of precedence for the various lords of the realm of Gondor than he.”

       “And why do you think I will frustrate him, my Lord Prince?”

       Imrahil smiled.  “I’ve seen you sitting there taking down your own notes on the intelligence gathered, dismissing the need to bow and scrape when it is unnecessary, and so on.  That will certainly offend against his sense of propriety.  And that you would think to personally offer a plate of cakes or sweetmeats to another would horrify him.”

        “I see,” his new Lord sighed.  “We will seek, then, to let it be known by him that we do things differently.”

       “You may find it easier to coax the statue of Isildur in the Hall of Kings to whistle, my Lord.”

       “Actually, according to our Adar, Isildur was quite talented at whistling, as was his eldest son Elendur, my Lord Prince,” commented one of the sons of Elrond, who’d arrived together during this last interchange.

       Several rose at their arrival, but Aragorn merely indicated two of the remaining three chairs and with graceful inclinations of their heads the two Peredhil joined the council.  “If the opportunity offers itself, I will have to indulge my curiosity on the foibles of my ancestors,” he commented, “but I suppose this is neither the time nor the place for it.”  But he and his foster brothers exchanged smiles.

       At that moment a group was approaching from the direction of the city.  The new King sighed.  “It appears that he has arrived at the last.”  He himself rose to his feet, and the rest of the company rose with him.

       Master Galador was of middle height, his face somewhat round, one of those whose expression always appears to be somewhat startled by the happenings around him.  His left hand was clubbed and the entire arm somewhat foreshortened, and partially hidden by a rich cloak; and it appeared that his left foot was also twisted inwards.  Yet he appeared intelligent and competent enough.  He looked about the company, apparently recognizing Aragorn by his height and the circlet he wore. 

       “My Lord Elessar,” he said, giving a low bow.  “Galador son of Garenthor of Lossarnach am I, Master of Protocol for the Citadel of Gondor.”

       “Welcome, Master Galador.”  Aragorn gave a nod, and the rest of the company sat.  “If you will take the last chair, sir.”

        Apparently somewhat discomposed by the brevity of the exchange of courtesies, the Man rather diffidently took his seat with the rest.  The new King examined him carefully.  “So, how long have you served in your post, Master Galador?”

       “Fourteen years, six months, and seven days, my Lord.”  His expression became somewhat delicate.  “There is the need, my Lord Elessar, for us to examine the strength of your claim to the throne....”

       Aragorn gave a brief nod, and looked to his two foster brothers.  “May we have the Roll, please?” he asked.

       One brought out a golden tube some three inches in diameter and the length of his forearm from his belt and proffered it to Aragorn, who in his turn accepted it with a level of reverence, touching certain signs on it gently before removing a cap from one end, then holding out the opened tube to the Master of Protocol.  Galador’s expression of surprise now appeared wholly genuine as he accepted it and examined it closely.  He looked up with new respect.  “This is twin to the carrier for the Roll of the Kings, my Lord.”

        “I am aware of that, Master Galador.  Three such were made by the goldsmiths of Lindon on the direction of Gil-galad and given to Elendil; he gave the second to Isildur and the third to Anárion.  Elendil’s roll and its carrier were lost in the fall of the Dome of the Stars along with the Palantir of Osgiliath; Isildur’s was carried North to Imladris by his wife when he left her with their youngest son Valandil in the care of the Lord Elrond’s people while he went to the war on Mordor.  This is that carrier, and it carries the Roll of the line of the Kings of the North.  When the Witch King of Angmar looked certain to take Annúminas the Roll was taken back to Imladris, where it has remained ever since in the library of Lord Elrond.  Now, if you will remove the Roll and examine it?”

       Frodo watched the examination of the scroll taken from the carrier with interest.  With it were two other scrolls.  He looked up at Gandalf.  “Is that similar to a family Book for the Shire?” he asked quietly.

       “Yes, the same function,” the Wizard murmured.  “The two smaller scrolls are the Rolls for the lost kingdoms--only the line of Arthedain continued, and at the failing of the other two lines Arthedain’s Roll was spliced back onto the original.”

       Carefully Galador examined and finally broke the seal on the ribbon which held the scroll together, handing the pieces to Prince Imrahil; carefully he unrolled part of it and began to read.  His face became solemn, and he looked up.  “The handwriting at the beginning is the same as that of the Roll of Kings here!” he said.

       One of Elrond’s sons looked at him with an indecipherable expression.  “The first inscriptions on all three Rolls were done by Elendil himself, Master Galador.  I would expect the handwriting to be the same, wouldn’t you?”

       The Master of Protocol reddened, and returned hastily back to his examination of the Roll.  He rolled down through the scroll for quite some time, and Frodo could see where from time to time more material had been added to it, with sheets carefully spliced together.  In spite of the malformation of his hand the Man still manipulated the rods carefully and quickly enough.  Finally he looked up in question.  “Here there is listed the pedigree of Meneldil’s heirs.”

       “Yes,” Aragorn said, nodding.  “That would indicate when Arvedui married Fíriel daughter of Ondohir, indicating that I am descended from both the sons of Elendil.  It is with reason I wear both the Elendilmir and the Sword Reforged.”

       For a few moments Galador searched the grey eyes of he who would on the morrow be king.  “I see, my Lord.”  He went on, looking at the names of sons and daughters.  He stopped once and looked up briefly at the Northern Lord with interest, commenting, “Then there was another who bore the name of Aragorn before you?” then continued on.  Finally he was getting near the end of the Roll, and he read the last entries with interest.  Then he looked up, obviously calculating in his head.  “You are eighty-eight years, my Lord?”

       “Yes.”

       “You are married?”

       “Not yet.  It was bound on me that I could not take a wife until I came to the end of my labors against Mordor.”

       “Then----”  Again he reddened, apparently seeking a way to ask a delicate question.  He tried again, “Then, my Lord, there is the question of the succession after yourself.”

       “And what question shall there be as to that?”

       Galador looked more embarrassed.  “There was no mention of any brothers or sisters or their children.”

       “I was the only child born to my parents, Master Galador.  However, if you are concerned as to whether or not I will be able to beget an heir, I assure you I do retain that ability.”

       “Then there will be the need to arrange a marriage as soon as possible, my Lord.”

       “You need not concern yourself on that account, Master Galador.”

       Now the Man went pale.  “The lineage of Elendil----”

       “I assure you that the Line of Kings will continue.”  There was a hint of steel in Aragorn’s voice.

       “But, my----”  The expression in the new King’s eyes stilled the Master of Protocol.

       Aragorn asked, his voice cool, “Are you finished with your examination of the Roll of the North Kingdoms, sir?  And do you find my lineage verified?”

       “Yes, my Lord.”  Galador started to return the material of the scroll to the first rod, but Aragorn stayed him.

       “Do not bother.  Both Rolls will need to be amended as of tomorrow to indicate the new state of affairs.  Please have a long table made available in the Hall of Kings tomorrow afternoon where they can be laid out side by side and where I can make the new additions as necessary.”

       “As you say, my Lord.  I will have one of the scribes of the Citadel at hand to make the new notations.”

       Aragorn straightened.  “I am the King.  I will make the new notations myself, even as did Elendil, Isildur, Anárion, Valandil, Meneldil, and the rest to the current day.  The only times another hand other than that of the King or Chieftain himself made notations on the Roll of the North were those few times when children were born posthumously, and then the notations of births and deaths were made by Lord Elrond.”

       Galador cleared his throat nervously.  “I--I see, my Lord.  So it shall be, then.”  He carefully tightened the scroll and slipped the rods back into the golden carrier, then slid in the two smaller rolls above and below it, then returned it to Aragorn, who in turn capped it and gave it into the hands of Prince Imrahil. 

       “I ask that you keep this tonight, my Lord Prince, as it will hold more authority with the Lords of the Southern realm when they see you honor it.”  He turned to Pippin.  “Sir Peregrin, please fetch one more chair.  I believe Lord Halladan will be joining us shortly.”

       Pippin gave a brief bow and a quick “Yes, my Lord Aragorn,” and hurried off.

       “Lord Halladan, my Lord King?”

       “You saw his name in the scroll, Master Galador.  He is five generations removed from the line of Kings, and at this time is second in line after myself, coming after Lord Gilfileg, who is three generations removed.  Lord Halladan is second son to my mother’s brother and inherits the seat of the Steward of Arnor from his older brother Halbarad, who fell here on the Pelennor, very near where we sit now.”

       “I see, my Lord.  Then, you will include some of your Northern kindred in your retinue?”

       “I would be a fool not to include in my retinue those whose abilities and honor I have known all my life, sir.”

       Galador examined the company, noting the variety of those who now sat before the entrance to the King’s pavilion.  “Will--will all these be taking part in the coronation ceremonies, my Lord?”

       Aragorn gave a terse nod.  “You need not concern yourself about the company of those who will take part in my procession to the gates, Master Galador.  All of these took part in the fight against Sauron’s tyranny, including the Perian whom I just sent after another chair.  There are few greater names in all of Middle Earth than those who sit here now--Mithrandir of the Istari, now head of the White Council; Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth; Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of the great Woodland Realm of Eryn Lasgolen as it will now again be known; Lord Gimli son of Gloin of Erebor and the Iron Hills, kinsman to King Dain of Erebor; Lords Elladan and Elrohir Elrondilion of Imladris; Lord Hardorn son of Halbaleg, younger brother to Lord Halladan of Arnor and now Captain of my personal guard; Éomer King of Rohan; the Lady Éowyn his sister, whom I believe you already know; Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, Esquire to the King of Rohan and heir to the Master of Buckland; Sir Peregrin Took of the Shire, a knight of Gondor and who was admitted to the Guard of the Citadel by Lord Denethor as well as being the heir to the Thain of the Shire; Lord Samwise Gamgee of the Shire and Lord Frodo Baggins of the Shire, the Ringbearers.”

       Galador’s face was a study in amazement.  He rose quickly and bowed deeply to Frodo.  “My Lord Frodo--I didn’t know....”

       Frodo flushed.  “There was no way you could have known--please do not bow to me!”

       The Master of Protocol looked with confusion at the new King, who shook his head.  “You will find, Master Galador, that things are done otherwise in other lands than they are here.  The world has changed.  There is a King again in Gondor and Arnor; the two realms are now reunited after three thousand years of being sundered, and all shall be renewed.”  He stretched.  “You are hereby advised that there will be changes to much of the way of dealing with those who enter the Citadel.  There will be much coming and going between the Northern kingdom and Gondor; and Elves, Dwarves, Periannath, and other races will be welcomed freely.  We will do our best to make former enemies into allies.  With your advice as to how to deal with the lords of Gondor, I think we can successfully cobble together a workable new protocol.

       “Now, as to how our procession will be met as we approach the gate....”

       Frodo found himself smiling as he saw Galador furiously trying to incorporate all this into a new frame of reference.  As he finished the contents of his cup of water he rather thought that Master Galador was going to find the new King of Gondor a great challenge to his expectations.

13:  Party of Princes, and a King Made 

       “Mr. Frodo--it’s time to get up.”

       Frodo opened his eyes to find Sam, carefully dressed in a rich tunic of warm brown embroidered with a representation of what appeared to be a mallorn tree over his gilded mail, standing over him. 

       He had left the confrontation with Master Galador not long after the arrival of Lord Halladan to go to the bathing tent, attended by Sam, and he’d luxuriated in a very warm and full bath such as he’d not known since they left Lothlorien.  He’d not bothered to dress afterwards, pulling on a clean nightshirt and a robe, then following Sam back to the King’s tent.  Healer Eldamir was there with his evening draught and water and another small, light meal, and then he’d returned to his cot.  For a time the nightmares had threatened to descend on him; but Aragorn had come in, leaned over him to see as to his welfare, and Frodo had awakened enough to smile up at him, then drifted back into a deeper, more restful sleep.

       Now Sam was helping him don dark blue trousers, the clean quilted undergarment and the mithril shirt, then a surcoat of a deep royal blue embroidered with a single star worked with blue and silver threads.  Sam then handed him a brush with which Frodo finally managed to tame his curls.  “No time to trim that last night,” Sam muttered.  “Although I must say as it looks fine on you longer, your hair does.”

       So saying, Sam brought over a second brush to use on his master’s feet, then ran it quickly over his own.  Finally he said, “That’ll have to do, I suppose.  Now the sword belts and all.”

       Gandalf came in with a flat box with two velvet bags inside, from which he removed their mithril circlets.

       Frodo paused as he sipped at his morning cup of water and looked at these with dismay.  “No, Gandalf, he wouldn’t do that to us, would he?”

       The Wizard laughed and carefully set each in place, then said, “You’ll have to eat standing and try not to spill, I suppose.”

       Eldamir came with mugs of draughts for the two of them and a tray of breakfast.  Frodo ate sparingly, made as quick a trip to the latrine as possible, and returned in time to find Hardorn slipping silvered mail over Aragorn’s head, then fastening leather-covered plate armor over his chest.  Frodo took up a small cup of water from the table and watched with interest.  “I see,” he finally said, “that for you there are even more layers than for us.”

       Aragorn looked at him, his eyes strangely blank before he finally nodded his head.

       The realization startled Frodo.  “You are afraid, aren’t you?”

       The answer was again delayed.  The Man looked down at the top of his cousin’s head as he knelt to fasten grieves over Aragorn’s lower legs.  Finally he said, “No, not exactly afraid.  I find it isn’t real yet.  I feel as though I were suspended in a crystal, seeing all going on around me as if it couldn’t quite touch me.”  He looked back to examine Frodo’s own face, then gave a small smile.  “I think you know all too well what that is like.”

       Frodo’s own face became grave.  “Yes, but for me the crystal broke, and it did touch me after all.  For you--it’s what you’ve worked for, all your life.”

       Aragorn gave a shake of his head.  “It wasn’t for this--this is still part of the price I must pay.”

       “For what?”

       The Man looked away.  Finally, his head still turned away, he said quietly, “Adar named me Estel, and all my life I have been the embodiment of the hopes of those who fought for freedom from the fear of Mordor.  Now that hope is fulfilled, but I must continue on, for the hope is now changed.  You see, my own hope cannot be fulfilled until theirs is.”  He looked back.  “I will have days when I won’t wish to wear the Winged Crown, when I will wish to return to my worn leathers and stained cloak.  I already want that.  I only pray that the day of my own hope comes soon, for if it is not fulfilled I will be forced to do my duty with no recompense.  I do not wish to resent those who look to me to rule over them.”

       Hardorn looked up from the fastening of the second grieve.  “He who wears a crown must be prepared to stand alone.”

       Frodo heard, echoing in his mind, To bear a ring of power is to be alone.  Aragorn was looking into his face, and for a moment each knew the other understood far too well what that sentiment meant.

       He who soon would be officially recognized King sighed.  Frodo sipped from his cup and finally asked, “Where is Sam?”

       “With the woodworker who has been fashioning the seats for the feast hall for the use of you four to check their fit.  I will not have those who attend the feast mistake you for children by having to sit in chairs too low for your comfort.”

       “When did you start this project?”

       Aragorn suddenly smiled.  “I met with him first before we marched for the Black Gate.  He has sent me reports on his progress while we were in Ithilien.  He simply needed to check my estimates to make certain all is in readiness.”

       Frodo looked at him.  “That showed great hope indeed.”

       His friend’s smile was slightly twisted.  “I suppose part of my hope has already been fulfilled, to have you by me this day, small brother.  But I will admit that when we saw the Mountain in the far distance rent by its final eruptions, I feared two of those seats would remain empty.”

       Hardorn rose, and looked long into his cousin’s eyes.  “Today is merely the formalization of what has been true for all the days I have known you, Aragorn--that you are the King.  And Halbarad must look on you now with full pleasure and pride.”

       Aragorn returned the deep look.  “It is another part of my joy that I have you and Halladan by my side this day and afterwards, my cousin; and if Halbarad watches me with pride, how much more does he have for his brothers?”  After continuing the mutual gaze for some moments, suddenly Hardorn reached forward and drew him into an embrace.

       Frodo could hear as Hardorn murmured into his royal cousin’s ear, “May this day be pleasing before Iluvatar, Aragorn, and may your many sacrifices of yourself continue to be blessed.”

       It was such an odd thing to have said that Frodo was taken completely aback as he set aside his cup.  However, there was no time to consider this further, for the doorflap opened, and Pippin, shining mail beneath his tabard, entered, followed by Merry and Lord Éomer, who carried a fine dagger in a sheath.  “A gift for you, my brother,” Éomer said as Aragorn and his cousin pulled apart, offering the knife.  “I know you probably have knives and to spare, but for such a warrior as you certainly one more cannot come amiss?”

       Aragorn looked at his fellow new King and laughed.  “I’ll admit to having quite the collection.  I could probably fill a large room in the Citadel with the many given me over the years, but you are correct that considering my calling I have found too much use for each of them.”  He took a deep breath.  “And the same will, I think, already be coming true for yourself as well.”

       The young King of Rohan nodded.  At that moment Sam returned, hanging his sword again from his belt.  He paused inside the door, and looked up at Aragorn and carefully examined him from head to toe, a solemn smile of pride filling his features.  “You are lookin’ mighty fine, Strider, mighty fine indeed.  Very much the King.”  He looked about the tent.  “It’s getting a mite crowded in here, though.”  He looked back up at Aragorn.  “The chairs will do fine, but it’s odd to be sittin’ so high, I must say.”

       “I would have all of you sit at the table and not appear at a disadvantage, Sam.”

       “We’ll do well enough, Strider.  That you care enough to think for what we need, that means a great deal.  For it’s in the way you treat those smaller’n you that you show your quality.  That’s one thing as the Gaffer’s always said as fits at the moment.”

       “Well, may your Gaffer continue to grace the Shire with his wisdom for many years yet.”

       Sam moved to his own cot, already neatly made up, and gently lifted up one of the two Lorien cloaks there, and brought it to drape about Frodo’s shoulders, fastening it with its brooch, checking its fall.  He stepped back, and examined his master critically, then smiled, and Frodo could tell that his friend was doing his best not to allow the tears of pride to fall.  Frodo went past him and picked up Sam’s own cloak and gently returned the gesture.  He pulled one side back to allow the gilded mail to be seen.  “Samwise Gamgee, you look wonderful.  A fit companion this day for the King.”  The two of them embraced, and Frodo found himself clinging to his friend, breathing in the familiar scent of growing things that always hung about him.

       Now Hardorn was wrapping the white mantle about Aragorn’s shoulders, fastening it with the Elessar brooch, and the King accepted a silver mantle from Éomer that had been hanging from a second stand and draped his cousin in return.

       “It is time,” Aragorn said, taking a deep breath.  “Let us go out now.”

       Outside the tent he paused and looked at the four Hobbits.  “If any of you finds anything in this day overwhelming, let me know immediately, do you understand?”  Once all had agreed, they started on their way to the edge of the camp where Gandalf, Gimli, and Legolas waited with the sons of Elrond.

       Gimli gave a low whistle of admiration.  “I think, Legolas, that we’re outshone today.  It’s four Hobbit princelings we have before us.  Merry, my friend, you look magnificent!”

       Legolas’s eyes were soft, though not distant as they so often were.  He examined those coming and smiled.  “It was for this, Aragorn, that we followed you through the Paths of the Dead and to the Pelargir.  May this be but the prelude for the joy yet to come.”  He looked down at the four Hobbits.  “And it was to see you thus that we followed the Uruk-hai of Saruman across Rohan.  It was well worth the sacrifice.”

       Gandalf came forward with his staff, and leaning on it, smiled at them all.  “Well, my friends, a party of princes you are indeed.  And a day long desired has come.  Remember this--this day is not an end of itself, for it is but a beginning of the new labors.  That we must labor does not change; and it is the function of princes that they serve those those who believe themselves ruled.  For today rejoice in the rewards for the sacrifices already given; but be prepared for those yet be offered.  And remember, friends, that all given freely for the good is fulfilled.”  His eyes lingered on Éomer, Aragorn, Sam, and finally Frodo.  Then he looked back to Sam and Aragorn and added, “And it is undoubtedly fitting that at least two here are already gardeners and understand how gardens must be tended and nurtured.”  So saying, he turned to lead the procession toward the walls of the city.

       Aragorn walked, Pippin going before him with his sword drawn, his black mantle as a guard of the Citadel hanging about him, the mail beneath his tabard shining as brightly as his sword’s blade.  Frodo walked on Aragorn’s right, Sam his left; Éomer with Merry beside him walked behind Frodo, Prince Imrahil with the golden carrier for the Roll of Arnor in his hand behind Sam, his own squire to his left.  Hardorn and Halladan walked between them, their own weapons at the ready.  The captain of the Guard of the Citadel walked to Sam’s left; another of the Northern Dúnedain walked at Frodo’s right; and behind came on the right those who remained of the Grey Company, while Éomer’s household knights walked alongside them.  Before went Lord Elphir with the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth followed proudly by the White Wizard, Legolas, and Gimli flanked by Elladan and Elrohir leading the King’s party.

       It appeared all the city had come out before the Gates to greet them, and the nearer portion of the Pelennor was filled with the soldiers of the camp and the wounded, both from the army of the West and from among those who had fought for Mordor.  Frodo looked from one side to the other, and knew he ought to feel overwhelmed, but instead at the moment he felt safe--safe under the guardianship of Aragorn and all these others. 

       Then he looked up to take his first true look at the city of Minas Tirith, and was overwhelmed.  Never had he imagined such a city of Men, never in all of his life.  The whiteness of the stone shone through the signs of soot and smoke; the towers appeared to reach right up to the sky itself; and behind stood the shining peak of Mindoluin, and he paused in awe.  All paused with him, and he felt Aragorn’s hand on his head.  He heard Aragorn murmur, “It is rather pretty, isn’t it?”

       The sheer understatement of that comment caused him to start to laugh, and he looked up to see Aragorn smiling down at him, laughter in his own eyes.  Sam looked across before Aragorn and smiled in satisfaction at his master’s pleasure.  Behind him Frodo could hear Merry saying softly, “I don’t think I’ve had a chance before just to appreciate how enormous a place it is.  Last time I think I was just seeing the smoke roiling up and being worried for Pippin, somewhere in all of that.”

       Frodo gave a nod of understanding.

       Slowly they approached the blasted gateway, where waited a party from the city itself.

       How small Faramir appeared, standing before the empty gateway, before the Guardsmen who carried between them a black casket bound in mithril, other officials of the city behind them, including Master Galador.  As they came closer, Frodo realized that Faramir foresaw the end of his house’s role as providers of the Stewards of the land of Gondor, but was willing to see that in order to have the return of the King to the realm.  The closer they came, the straighter Faramir stood, lifting his chin proudly, his eyes lighting with gladness as his King approached.  The knights of Dol Amroth and Elrond’s sons pulled aside on each side, and then at last Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli turned to the left to stand near the wall.  Now the only one between Steward and King was Pippin with his drawn blade.  He looked up into the eyes of the Lord Steward Faramir, and bowed, sliding his sword back into its sheath, then he saluted the Captain of the Guard, and he, too, pulled to the side, standing near to those who carried the casket.

       Faramir automatically smiled at the small Guardsman, then turned his attention back to the tall Man who now stood before him.  Frodo saw the deep breath he took as he prepared to surrender the rod of his office, and saw the relief and pleasure, followed by the moment of deep humility as the rod was returned to him and Aragorn bade him to exercise his office.  Prince Imrahil stepped forward to place the carrier for the Roll of the North into the hands of his nephew, who in turn handed it to the Master of Protocol, and then he was opening the casket of lebethron and mithril and removing the Winged Crown, holding it up for all to see.

       Frodo looked up at his friend’s face as he looked on the Crown and saw the mixed emotions there.  He wished to take it and have the symbol of what he had worked for; he wished to avoid the restrictions bearing it would impose on him; he was honored to be found worthy of it; he wanted that which only accepting the Crown could bring him to, and again Frodo wondered what that was; he looked for the guidance to wield the power now being granted to him properly.  And then Aragorn, the Lord Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, held it high, chanting the Vow of Elendil:

       “Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien...”

       When he handed it back to Faramir, all were surprised.  “It was by the labor of many that this day has come, and in token of this, I would have the Ringbearer bear the Crown to me, and Mithrandir place it on my head.”  Frodo looked up into his face and saw the silent plea in Aragorn’s eyes.  And the King stepped back that Frodo could stand before Faramir, holding up his hands to accept the ancient crown, feeling the honest weight of it--such a difference from the cheating weight of what he’d borne for too long; and he turned to carry it the few steps to present it to Gandalf, kneeling and lifting it to offer it into the Istari’s hands....

       Aragorn went down on one knee, and ancient hands set the ancient crown upon his dark hair--and the King was made.

       Again Frodo felt himself standing apart from his body, one or two steps behind himself and a half step to the left, seeing Aragorn in his full glory, the power wrought into the gem clasping his mantle shining in green glory, Aragorn’s own Light mithril-pure as it shown about him, going a soothing blue about his hands, his face full of majesty and wisdom.  For a second Frodo saw further, saw the same Man, still as tall, but his hair and beard stark white, his face lined with wisdom and long experience, saw the peace and humor and gladness that had overwritten the grimness that had marked so much of the first century of his life, saw the knowledge there that the time had come to give over his life and the peace and contentment that this should be so, saw a young Man as royal as himself settling the white mantle about Aragorn’s shoulders....

       Frodo closed his eyes and drew a deep breath as he found himself back inside his body, but still felt somewhat disconnected.  But he was reassured, knowing that Gondor and Arnor--and the Shire--would be led and protected by Aragorn’s wisdom for at least the span of a Hobbit’s expected lifetime or two.  And as the singing of the first of the hymns was begun he smiled his gladness that this should be so.

14:  The King's Procession 

       The barrier was set aside, and the King himself led the way within, Frodo at his side.  The King led the way slowly across the first square toward the stable there--how it had remained untouched by the fireballs sent over the walls by the armies of Mordor no one could say, although its roof had been breached by some of the shot sped into the first circle by the Enemy’s catapults.  Its inhabitants had been sent out of the city with the women and children and infirm, and had returned with them; one thing for which the King had sent a request was for two riding ponies to be ready on their arrival.  A groom now stood outside the stable door holding the two animals, already saddled and bridled and with waterskins hanging from their pommels.  As the King’s party approached, the groom straightened, almost amazed to see the King had actually finally entered the city.  Those who had not gone out to see the coronation now lined the streets to watch as the King’s party headed up to the Citadel, and now all eyes were on the tall crowned figure, the white-garbed Wizard, the three Elves, the Dwarf, and the four small figures of the Pheriannath.

       The King stopped before the stable and looked expectantly at the groom, who came forward with a bow, leading the ponies.  “Welcome, Sire,” the groom said. 

       “I thank you and your fellows for having these ready,” Aragorn said.  He turned to right and left.  “Frodo, Sam, I had these prepared for you.  It is a long way to the top of the city; and although I believe Pippin can make it well enough, I would prefer the two of you ride.  I can ask two of the guards to lead them if you would like.”

       Frodo went somewhat paler while Sam colored.  “We both know how to ride,” Frodo said definitely.  With an exchange of looks the two of them walked forward, examined the ponies carefully, checked bridles and girths.  Frodo looked up at the groom.  “Thank you.  I do not know if I can fully swing myself up.  Do you have a mounting block?”

       In moments they were mounted, and it could be seen that both were indeed experienced riders.  So far Aragorn had seen Frodo riding from the Barrowdowns to Bree, and as he’d been shadowing the party in the woods on the South side of the road he’d not had a good chance to assess the skill of any; then on Bill when he was obviously very ill, at which time the pony had been led or allowed to follow after to find his path as he could; or mounted on Asfaloth, who had been told by his master to carry Frodo and who therefore would not allow him to fall if it could be avoided.  To see that both Hobbits knew how to ride competently was a pleasant surprise.  And he found himself unsurprised to realize Frodo was not only a skilled rider but a graceful one; and even Sam sat his mount with marked dignity.  The King was smiling as, preceded by the two mounted Hobbits, the procession continued its way up through the city.

       As they wound their way up the steep streets of the city they were greeted by lines of citizens on each side, flowers and bunting, songs and calls of greeting, bows and curious stares.  Frodo remained somewhat solemn and perhaps a bit distant as they went through the city, nodding his acknowledgment of the calls aimed his way, occasionally sipping from the provided waterskin, now and then looking over his shoulder at Aragorn as if to see to it he was still well, checking to see that Pippin was holding up properly.  Watching him, Aragorn was certain that if Pippin were to show any signs of flagging Frodo would be off the back of his pony and his young cousin on it before anyone could say a word, and no mere Captain of the Guards would tell him differently.

       Éomer came up alongside him, and Aragorn looked to his side briefly.  The young King of Rohan was watching Frodo and Sam with interest.  “They both ride well,” he commented.  “I am surprised, for although I knew that Merry could ride I had no idea that this was a skill widely known among the Holbytla.”

       Merry, walking to Éomer’s right and slightly behind him, had yet apparently heard the comment.  “Of course Frodo rides, my Lord--we all do.  In fact we rode from the Shire to Bree--when we could.  Bilbo had Frodo take lessons after he came to Bag End.  It is a fairly common skill among gentlehobbits, after all, although I admit most of the better families appear to prefer the use of coaches.  Bilbo would ride on occasion, but preferred to either walk or hire a trap from either the Green Dragon or the Ivy Leaf.”

       “Does he keep a pony at home in the Shire?” asked Aragorn.

       “Keep a pony?  No, he never has.  He likes them, but there’s no real stable on the Hill.  I understand Bungo and Belladonna kept a small carriage and a pair at the Green Dragon, but Bilbo let it go after their deaths.  He didn’t have a lot of patience for caring for ponies, and Frodo used to say the same when Mum and Dad offered to give him one from our stable.  Said that he had too much to do to want to waste time caring for an animal when it meant going into Hobbiton or Bywater to care for it, and that it would take an exceptional pony to get that kind of commitment out of him.”

       “And where did Sam learn to ride?”

       “From the Cottons, who have a farm in Bywater.  They have plow ponies and a trap and farm wagons of various kinds, and keep about eight ponies altogether, two of them well trained for riding.  Plus they and the Thain have been known to do cross matings.  Old Tom Cotton is a good judge of ponies, as is Pippin’s da; both have invested in much the same bloodlines.  They’re relatives of sorts, the Gamgees and the Cottons; and the Gamgees have always helped out during harvesting.  Even Frodo’s been known to help on the farm from time to time, and their older lads and Rosie will help in the harvesting of Bag End’s orchard.  Sam’s much taken with Rosie Cotton, you know.”

       Aragorn was intrigued.  “Sam has a lady love?  I had no idea.”

       “Well, he’s not going to speak of it much, is he?  After all, there was a good chance he’d not come back again, and Sam’s the type that prefers not to dwell on that which he may not come to.  However, now that it looks as if we will indeed be able to return to the Shire, I’m certain she’ll be much on his mind.”  He looked after his cousin and the gardener.  “Sam has it in mind to buy back Bag End when we get back to the Shire, to buy it back for Frodo.  It’s the only place Frodo has been happy since his parents’ deaths.  Although convincing Lotho and Lobelia to give it up will take some doing.  He’s already spoken to me and Pippin, quiet like, you know.  Doesn’t wish to let Frodo know until it looks probable and perhaps get his hopes up unnecessarily.”

       “Why would he approach you and Pippin before Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

       “So we can get our parents to apply pressure on them.  I didn’t say anything to Frodo before we left, but Lotho had been doing some very questionable business deals and acquisitions of property just before we left the Shire.  One of the Brandybucks who’d taken a loan on his property from Lotho to purchase a new pair of oxen found the loan agreement so written that he lost the deed if he didn’t perform some wildly unlikely improvement within the first two months of the loan; he came to complain to my dad as the Master the day before we left the Shire.  Only reason I didn’t tell Frodo about it was because I knew Frodo had used our cousin Brendilac to write the bill of sale and see to the conveyance of the deed, and there’s no one more honest then Brendi.  As long as no Bracegirdle was involved in the writing of the papers, I don’t think Frodo could be taken advantage of in that way. 

       “But if Lotho Sackville-Baggins had such a contract made with Brandybucks, he’ll be open to a good deal of leverage, for he’ll have cheated others as well and Thain Paladin and Will Whitfoot won’t stand for it any more than my dad.  He’ll either agree to vacate Bag End and sell back all interests, or Pippin and I’ll have Dad and Uncle Paladin and the Mayor all on his back double quick.”

       It was a good deal to think on.

       Lord Faramir and Lord Húrin were now coming up through the procession with their attendants in tow.  Faramir now carried the gold carrier for the Roll of the North Kingdom.  He looked up at his new Lord with appreciation.  “I am pleased to see this, my Lord Elessar,” he said.  “Its presence has been made known to many of the lesser lords who did not follow you to the Black Gate, and it has allayed much of the concern about the legitimacy of your claim.”

       Aragorn nodded.  “Lord Elrond sent it, foreseeing that its contents would be recognized as the type of authority most likely to convince many of those apt to question my lineage.”

       “Will you keep it here in Minas Tirith in the archives, my Lord King?”

       “No.  The Roll of the South Kingdom will be amended by me this afternoon to indicate my acceptance of the Winged Crown, as will the Roll of the North Kingdom.  But it will return North with Halladan and my brothers when all is properly ordered.  The Roll of the South Kingdom will remain the authority here within the bounds of Gondor, as this one will for Arnor as has always been done.  So Elendil and his sons intended, and so we will see it continued.”

       Faramir looked forward toward the two mounted Hobbits.  “It is good to see the both of them.  I feared when we parted that I would never see either again.”

       “I know.  When did you give the Lady Éowyn your mother’s betrothal gift?”

       Faramir reddened, and looked across the King to his beloved’s brother, whose face had become quite intent.  “I hadn’t wished to speak of this as yet, my Lord.  And how do you know that it was my mother’s betrothal gift?”

       “Well, if you must know, I saw her wearing it after she accepted it.”

       Faramir looked back to where Prince Imrahil and Elphir had fallen behind to speak with one of their own folk who’d approached out of the crowd, then turned back to the King.  “Does my Uncle know you were Thorongil?”

       Aragorn raised his brows.  “I don’t believe so.  Do you?  And your father told you his suspicions, did he?”

       “The discussions with Mithrandir became somewhat--heated, my Lord.  No, I suspect my uncle does not recognize you as the one he knew as Thorongil when he was younger--not to my knowledge; although he did comment during his last visit to me before you marched Eastward that you reminded him strongly of someone he once knew, but he could not think what one.”

       The King laughed.  “Oh, I shall have a great deal of pleasure out of watching folk slowly come to recognize me from time to time, my friend.  But that still does not answer my question.  You are superb at redirection--you and I will need to utilize that skill in keeping the Council in check.”

       Faramir colored, looking again at Éomer’s intent gaze.  He finally said, rather carefully, “The Lady and I will discuss this with you and her brother later today, my Lord.  This is neither the time nor the place.”

       Aragorn smiled and gave a deep bow.  “I beg your forgiveness, then, Lord Faramir.  My brother Éomer and I will look forward to that discussion with anticipation, as we must grant the permission required for it.  However, I assure you that you will meet no objections for my part.”  He examined the face of his new Steward with approval.  “You are fully worthy of her, and she of you, my friend, if you will indeed accept one another.”

       Faramir examined the King’s face in turn, and finally his expression softened and he smiled freely.  “Thank you, my beloved Lord.  To have such as you as King of this realm again--I rejoice indeed, and know that the whole of Gondor will follow suit quickly enough.”

       Aragorn placed his hand on the younger Man’s shoulder, and automatically Faramir’s hand came up to rest on his wrist.  Aragorn realized that they were duplicating the gestures of fraternity known between Faramir and Boromir, and that his new Steward had accepted him as he had his lost brother.  The King felt humbled by this.

       They dropped their hands, but the gesture had been seen and was being commented upon by those they walked by.  That the new King and their beloved Lord Faramir should already be building such a relationship meant a good deal to the folk of the capitol.

       A soldier with half his head shaved indicating he’d had a wound there stepped out of the crowd with what appeared to be his wife and daughter; together they approached Frodo’s pony, the woman and girl holding out flowers to him.  Frodo paused his pony, automatically reaching forward to pat its neck in reassurance, then accepted the flowers with a gentle, dignified smile of thanks and quiet words to the soldier.  The three stepped back, obviously thrilled.  A Man stepped forward to hand Sam a spray of greenery, and Sam colored slightly but accepted graciously.  Now and then the titles “Ringbearer,” “Cormacolindor,” “King’s Friend,” “Esquire,” “Holdwine,” and “Ernil i Pheriannath” could clearly be heard from the watching crowd, and now and then flowers and petals would be showered on them from upper windows of buildings and houses overlooking the way or handed from onlookers.  Aragorn himself began to collect his own sprays of tribute as they entered the Third Circle.  No one approached Merry or Pippin as they were obviously on duty and the folk of Minas Tirith understood the need for such to remain unencumbered; but Frodo and Sam received their share, as did Faramir and Prince Imrahil as well as the King and Éomer and his sister, who’d joined the procession within the city.

       By the time they reached the Sixth Circle the sons of Elrond had begun to take much of the overflow of the offerings made to Frodo and Sam, for they obviously could not carry so much.  It was with relief they found this portion of the city sparsely populated and the way relatively quiet and open.  When at last they reached the stable at the bottom of the ramp to the level of the Citadel Frodo was looking calm, although he was plainly tiring somewhat. 

       Sam dismounted hurriedly and was there to aid Frodo as he slipped rather stiffly from the saddle.  “It’s obviously been too long since I rode last, Sam,” Frodo commented.  “I’ll need to work on it before we head home again.”

       “Right, Master,” the stouter Hobbit agreed.  “It’s been a fair way, hasn’t it?  Do we have far to go?”

       Faramir approached, smiling.  “Just up the ramp there,” he said, indicating the path with a gesture of his head.  “I am so relieved to see you again, Frodo, Master Samwise.”

       “At least you didn’t start addressin’ me as ‘Lord’,” said the gardener with a sigh.  “That’s one title as I don’t quite cotton to.”

       “You will find you will grow accustomed to it,” Faramir promised, laughing at the Hobbit’s obvious discomfiture.

       Sam and Frodo gladly gave the last of their flowers and greenery to the Elves flanking them, and together they walked determinedly up the ramp.  Aragorn thanked Faramir as the Steward accepted his load of tribute and walked behind them, ready to offer a hand if either faltered, which they didn’t.  Then they finally reached the top, and they paused in relief, then looked up. 

       Frodo’s “Oh!” of surprise, awe, and delight could be heard by all.  This was not the architecture of the Shire nor that he’d seen in the Elven lands, either; but it still touched a chord in all of the Hobbits.  Seen through the bare branches of the White Tree, the Citadel and the Tower of Ecthelion were more than any of them had expected, even Pippin, who before had seen it primarily beneath the haze of Mordor, or Merry, who’d seen it awash with the fires of the First Circle.  Here was a beauty and majesty that all thrilled to.

       Slowly Frodo led the way forward until he reached a particular spot where he looked at the Citadel itself again through the branches of the White Tree, and there he stopped for some moments, examining it again, his face alight with the beauty of it.  Standing behind him, Aragorn examined it as well.  “And you shall now live there,” Frodo said quietly, “embraced in its beauty.”

       The King’s voice answered softly, “Yes.”

       “And when the White Tree blooms anew....”  Frodo stopped, his eyes examining the view once more.  Again he stood apart from himself, and from the viewpoint just behind his own shoulder, where Aragorn himself stood, he realized, he looked again at the tree, and smiled.  He saw suddenly the image of a woman as if caught in the branches of the dead tree, and realized that somehow the blooming of the White Tree was bound up with the woman, that this was the embodiment of a different hope.  Then he recognized the woman--the Lady Arwen, daughter of the Lord Elrond, sister to the two Elven Lords who stood on either side.  He stood entranced for several moments, moved again by the sheer beauty of the vision, and all waited with patience for him to go on again.  Finally, once more back inside himself, he slowly paced onward.

       Aragorn now walked between the two Hobbits, holding a hand out to each, and the three of them walked slowly forward, around the Tree and the Fountain, heads turning to look up through the bare yet still beautiful branches.  Quietly the Man explained, “This tree was planted almost two thousand years ago in place of the one which had grown before and which failed during the years of the Kinslaying.  This died a thousand years past when Eärnur was slain approaching the Morgul Vale, gone there to challenge the Witch King of Angmar, who had retreated there after the loss of Arvedui in the far North and the Nazgul’s subsequent defeat at the hands of Eärnur’s troops.  The fortunes of the lineage of Elendil’s descendants have ever been reflected in the health of the White Tree.  It is my great hope that we shall see the flowering of the White Tree anew during my reign.  It will be for me the symbol of my own hope, to see a child of Nimloth the Fair growing here once more.”

       Frodo nodded slowly.  “The White Tree grows in Elvenhome.”

       “Yes, on the Isle of Tol Eressëa.”

       “An Elven tree blossoming here in the mortal lands--like the mallorns of Lothlorien.”

       “Yes--a memorial of the immortal lands here.  A reminder of the grace of the Valar.”

       Frodo again nodded his understanding, then reached out his hand to the Tree and gently touched its white bole, his face sad.  “Its life is fled, but it awaits the coming of its child,” he said, his voice strange in his own ears, uncertain where the thought came from, but recognizing the truth therein nonetheless.

       Gandalf looked down on King and Hobbit, seeing that the Lights of both were flaring at the moment.  He watched as the King dropped Frodo’s other hand and followed the example of his friend, saw the gentle expression in the Man’s eyes, the abstracted expression in the eyes of the Halfling.  And he saw a vision of Frodo’s Light beneath the White Tree, but not below this one, and wondered what that vision meant.  But here, beneath the remains of this White Tree he saw that Frodo’s own Light was yet wounded, while in the vision of his Light beneath the other it was not.

       For Frodo to be fully healed again, was yet another sacrifice asked?

15:  First Audience 

       The doors to the Citadel were opened to them, and now Aragorn let go the hands of his friends, for here he as King must lead the way.  He paced up the stairs quietly and led them in through the great doors, through the vestibule, and finally through the Hall of Kings to the Throne beneath its great canopy which had been carved as a representation of the crown he wore.  Here again he paused, then determinedly he ascended those stairs until he reached the platform at the top.  Carefully he lifted his sword’s hangers from his belt, turned and stood, Anduril in hand, watching as those who had walked in his train filled the room.  When at last the room was filled and each found a place, he looked down, surveying them with a marked detachment.

       All were quiet, and as the moments passed, the quiet became more intense, waiting and watchful, awaiting his indication of what he would make of his new role.

       Finally he spoke.  “I was born Aragorn, the Valorous King, son of Arathorn and Gilraen.  I was raised Estel, Hope, hidden from the dangers which stalked me throughout the world, most sent to seek after me by Sauron, the great Enemy of us all.  I have borne many names and titles in my lifetime, and I now take to myself the name foretold for me should I come to this day, Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, Elfstone Renewer Farstrider.  So is the new Age of this world begun, with a new dynasty upon what is now the combined throne for Gondor and Arnor once more.”  So saying, the King took his seat upon the throne of Gondor for the first time in a thousand years, laying his great sword across his knees.

       “Know this--Annúminas will be renewed, and there, too, will be the Citadel of the King.  It will take many more years before it is completed and I can sit there as here; but it will be done, and after that my presence shall be shared between the two realms.

       “Let my Stewards come before me.”

       Faramir and Halladan came forward to stand on the first deep step before the dais, looking up at him.

       “I hereby confirm you formally as the Stewards of the Realm, Halladan son of Halbaleg and brother of Halbarad and Hardorn over the lands entrusted me in the North, Faramir son of Denethor of the House of Húrin and brother to Boromir over the lands this day placed under my protection here in the South.”

       Both went down upon one knee, setting their swords before them, placing their hands upon the hilts, and together they recited the vows binding them to their office.  When they stood anew, the King looked down on both.  “A new chair will sit on the opposite side of that step, one of grey to match the one of ebon, so that when both my Stewards are with me, each shall sit equally before the people.”  He looked down at those who stood before him.  “Let the Seneschal come forward.”

       A tall Man stepped forward out of the crowd.  “Your name?”

       “Balstador son of Beremir, my Lord King Elessar.”

       “How long have you served in this role within the Citadel?”

       “For nineteen years, my Lord King.”

       The King turned to Faramir.  “This Man has served faithfully?”

       The Steward of Gondor smiled.  “Faithfully and well, my Lord.”

       The King looked at the Seneschal.  “Balstador son of Beremir, do you wish to remain in the service of the Citadel of Gondor under my rule?  I will warn you--I will have many things done differently while this is my home.”

       Emboldened, the Seneschal answered, “I believe I could bear with such changes, my Lord King, if you can bear with my temper.”

       The King smiled.  “Then, with each of us forewarned, I would gladly accept you as Seneschal of my house.  Will you introduce the Housekeeper for the Citadel?”

       Balstador turned to a page waiting by him, and sent him off.  Within a few moments a woman entered from the entranceway, a tall, somewhat plump woman with a worried face, and was allowed through to the Seneschal’s side.  Balstador spoke quietly to her and then led her forward.  “My Lord King Elessar, Mistress Gilmoreth daughter of Pergennion, Housekeeper of the Citadel.”

       She gave a deep curtsey.  “My Lord Stew--King.”  She turned a deep red.

       The King’s face was grave enough, but his eyes shone with stifled amusement.  “Mistress Gilmoreth, I am the Lord King Elessar, confirmed in the rights and duties of my ancestors this day and newly come to the Citadel.  It is my intention to know those who serve in this household and who serve under the rule of Housekeeper and Seneschal.  Do you wish to remain in the service as Housekeeper here within the Citadel?”

       The woman’s face lost its flush.  “My Lord King, you offer me the choice?”

       “Indeed I do, Mistress.  I will have none serving in my household unwilling.”

       “If you please, my Lord, my family has served the household of the Steward through sixteen generations.  It has ever been to the Steward I have answered, and--and I love the Lord Steward Faramir deeply, as if he were my own son.  If it please you, I would prefer to follow him and to continue to serve him, whether he is Steward or but a Lord in your court.”

       The King smiled as again he looked at Faramir.  “My Lord Steward, you have heard the desire of this woman, faithful as she is to your house?”

       “I have, my Lord Elessar, and I would gladly grant her request for when I have my own household.”

       “So be it.”  The King returned his awareness to the woman.  “Mistress Gilmoreth, will you agree to continue to serve as Housekeeper of the Citadel until the day Lord Faramir chooses to set up housekeeping in a home of his own choosing, and until we can find one to take your place, and will you help see to her training in the keeping of this house?”

       “Gladly, my Lord King.”

       The King turned to Faramir.  “My Lord Steward, we will discuss such a future home in the next few days; but until all is in readiness for you to remove to such a place, will you agree to remain here within the Citadel in the Steward’s Quarters, as has been done for so many generations?  And know this--these quarters are confirmed yours and those of the heirs of your body when you are within the city and particularly when you serve as active Steward when I must be absent from the city from this day forward as has been true to this day.”

       Faramir bowed deeply.  “It will be with gladness I accept this, my Lord King.”

       The King smiled at Seneschal and Housekeeper.  “I will ask that tomorrow at the third hour all who serve under you be gathered in this hall that I might meet them and address them.  And I ask that a full description of each servitor be given into the hands of Lord Hardorn here, who is now Captain of my personal Guard.  He is a Lord of Arnor and is my own kinsman, and for the moment shall stand second to me in matters of the ordering of the house, until such time comes, and the Valar speed the day, when I take a Queen.  I will tell you this--you will not find me a distant lord, but one who intends to know all who serve within this place, from the greatest of you to the boy who turns the spits and the least servant within the laundries.  Is this understood and seen as acceptable to you both?”

       The Housekeeper asked, somewhat diffidently, “Then you are not married, my Lord King?”

       “Not as yet, Mistress Gilmoreth.”

       “Forgive me the curiosity, my Lord.”

       “It is forgiven, particularly as this pertains directly to your service to me until such time as you leave to follow the Lord Faramir.”

       “That you have openly indicated you will know those who serve you is noted, my Lord, and is acceptable in my eyes.”

       Balstador bowed.  “I concur, my Lord King.”

       “If the two of you will remain for a moment, I have a question to ask of my friends.”  Aragorn looked down at where Sam and Frodo stood near the foot of the dais.  “Frodo, I would ask if you, Sam, Merry and Pippin would wish to stay here within the Citadel, or if you would wish to stay in one of the guest houses of the city down in the Sixth Circle?”

       Frodo and Sam looked to one another, then toward Gandalf.  Frodo then looked up at his King and asked, “If we might have a moment, Aragorn?”

       “Gladly.  Sir Peregrin, you are released for the moment from your duty to discuss this with your kinsman.  My Lord King Éomer--may Sir Meriadoc have the same courtesy?”

       “Gladly, my brother.  Merry----”  The young King of Rohan smiled as he made a gesture to his Holdwine, who bowed deeply before moving to his cousin’s side.

       Seneschal and Housekeeper looked completely bemused as they saw the Pherian they knew as Peregrin leave the side of the Captain of the Guards of the Citadel to approach the two small figures who stood near the foot of the dais, then the one who accompanied the King of Rohan followed suit.  The Wizard joined them, then at a gesture the tall, blond Elven lord and the russet-headed Dwarf joined them, and together they discussed the matter for some time while the rest of the court possessed itself with patience and curiosity.  At last the group straightened, and the Pherian with the long, dark curls looked up at the tall figure seated so far above them. 

       “If you do not mind, my Lord King,” he said quietly, “we would prefer to stay in one of the guesthouses, and the one in which Gandalf and Pippin stayed before would be acceptable, if they don’t mind that we Hobbits would prefer to sleep on the lower floor.  To remain here would be uncomfortable, I fear, for this is not a house proper to our kind, and the necessary ceremony attendant on your position and us as guests here would drive us to distraction.”

       Legolas added, “And the rest of the Fellowship, for the time, would prefer the same, my Lord Elessar.  All of us would prefer a level of privacy not available to us here, I fear.”

       “So it shall be, then.”

       Faramir turned.  “You had inquired whether that house might be opened fully for the use of these if such should be desired, and it is with pleasure that I assure you it is so readied.  Although the bedrooms are on the upper floor.”

       The King asked, “What rooms are there on the lower floor?”

       “There is a large dayroom, and a private parlor on each side, through one of which is a study, as well as large kitchen and dining room.  Below are a cellar with pantries and cool room and wine storage.  And there is a bathing room on each floor with privy off of it.”

       “Then, we shall have beds placed in the study and the two parlors for the use of Lords Frodo and Samwise, and for Sirs Meriadoc and Peregrin.  Legolas, Gimli, Gandalf--you would have no problem sleeping on the upper floor, would you?”

       Legolas bowed.  “None, Aragorn.”

       The King smiled.  “That is good.  Then, Master Balstador, if you will find a page for me to assign to the service of these, and if you will find one to serve as housekeeper for them, Mistress Gilmoreth?  Have them report to me in the lesser audience chamber in two hours’ time.”

       “Gladly, my Lord King,” said the Seneschal, and he and the Housekeeper gave their reverences and withdrew while a page entered with a large, comfortable chair and set it on the dais opposite that of the Steward, and Halladan at a gesture from his Lord King took his seat before the company as Faramir did the same.

       The King next asked the captains of the Guard of the Citadel, of the Guard for the White Tree, and of the City Guard to come before him, asked their names, had them verified as dependable and honorable by Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth, and swore them and Hardorn formally to his service as King, asking them to assemble their folk on the coming day at different times so that he could review them and receive their renewed oaths to the nation.  Then the Lords of the realm who were present were called forward in order by Master Galador, who was obviously unhappy with how his new Lord had flaunted protocol so far, and each was introduced, his titles and affiliations presented and verified by the Steward, and each made his obeisance and swore his fealty.  It took some time to get through this, and at last the King rose again and came down the steps to the throne to stand on the first step between his two Stewards.

       “I now name before you those of my friends and companions.  The Lord Mithrandir, also known as Gandalf the White, now Head of the White Council, whom I have known much of my life and who is my dearest of counselors.  Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Eryn Lasgolen, son of King Thranduil.  Gimli son of Gloin, kinsman to Dain Ironfoot and Thorin Stronghelm, Kings of Erebor in Rhovanion.  Sir Peregrin Took, heir to the Thain of the Shire and a member of the Guard to the Citadel and my personal Guard.  Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, who aided the Lady Éowyn of Rohan to destroy the lord of the Nazgul, heir to the Master of Buckland in the Shire and Esquire to Éomer King of Rohan and a Holdwine of the Mark.  Lord Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, and Lord Frodo Baggins of the Shire, the Ringbearers.  The Lords Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Lord Elrond of Imladris, who have been as brothers to me all of my life.  The Lady Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, Shieldmaiden of her people.  The Lord Éomer, King of Rohan, who is now as a brother to me.  And Lord Hardorn son of Halbaleg and brother to Halabarad and the Northern Steward Halladan, chief to my personal Guard and second to me in the keeping of this house.  These are my close friends and companions to whom not only I but all the free peoples of Middle Earth owe all, and along with my Stewards and Prince Imrahil and his family shall receive all honor from the people of the realm and shall have full access to me at any time of the day or night--is this understood?”

       At the acclamation of those who filled the room, the King gave an inclination of his head.  “So be it then.  My Lord Faramir, if you will release the audience?”

       “Gladly, my Lord King.”  Faramir turned to the room.  “So ends the first official audience of our Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar.  Long live the King.”

       “Long live the King!” responded those in the room, and as the guards at the doors opened them most filed out.

16:  Preparing Accommodations 

       “No, Aragorn, I will not have the house in which we live guarded.”  Frodo’s expression was adamant as he clutched his goblet of water, his face notably paler than it had been since he and Sam had awakened.  “It was bad enough in Ithilien--but here it would be too much.  If living with Pippin, Merry, Legolas, Gimli, and Gandalf in the house is not guard enough, then that is too bad.  But I will not live with the symbol of mistrust on my very doorstep.”

       Aragorn sighed.  It had been difficult to get Frodo to allow the guard on the enclosure in the camp in Cormallen; here it was plain Frodo would have nothing to do with the idea.  At least the doors could be secured day or night, and there were guards to watch all who came up to the sixth level and who did not go further; they were relatively close in case any problems should occur.

       “Nor do we need a page or a housekeeper....” the Hobbit continued.

       “These are not to do all for you.  But think, mellon nín; Merry and Pippin will be frequently gone, having to attend on Éomer and myself; during the first few weeks of my reign Gandalf will be asked to speak frequently with the Council and before the court and to aid in handling audiences with our former enemies; Legolas and Gimli have agreed to help assess the damage done within the city and to speak with the city’s architects, engineers, masons, gardeners, and so on as to help plan the rebuilding and refurbishing of the capitol; and you still tire far too easily; while you know as well as I that Sam will take on all responsibility for the upkeep of everything even when it is not of his doing and makes him uncomfortable and presses him to his limits.  And I will have someone there to summon me if there is need.”

       Sam looked from one to the other, and wondered which would cave first.  Frodo was one of the most stubborn of a stubborn line with a bit too much Brandybuck and Took thrown into the mix for his satisfaction; but the fact remained that Strider could also be most stubborn when the mood took him.  After all, he’d managed to finally become King after almost nine decades, and certainly that had taken much perseverance.  The gardener also felt that the long day so far was working in the Man’s favor, for Frodo had eaten but twice and was fatigued, and was not in physical condition for a prolonged bout of wills.

       The King continued, “I will agree to no guard at the door, but I will not countenance you yourself having to climb the ramp if your hand starts throbbing unmercifully during the day when you are alone.  Nor will I have Sam leaving you should one of the worse nightmares take you during the night and Gandalf is busy elsewhere and there is no one else to send.”

       “Who is to say there will be nightmares, Aragorn?”

       Aragorn set his hand on Frodo’s left temple, felt the soft pulse there.  His eyes were shadowed.  “Small brother, there will be nightmares.  I’ve been through the Dead Marshes, and stood by the Bridge of Khazad-dum and have fought orcs and wargs and trolls and have looked into the Palantir while he held another.  There will be nightmares.”

       This seemed to give Frodo pause.  “You have them, too?”

       The King’s laugh was humorless.  “Have them, too?  Of course I have them, too.  No sane individual could begin to live through what this Fellowship has lived through, separately or together, and not have nightmares.  That the reasons for mine are spread over nine decades while most of yours are from the last eight months only makes yours that much the worse.  And I, at least, never had to carry that or feel It rip at my sanity and my soul constantly as you did.

       “Realize this, Frodo Baggins--if anyone anywhere at any time ever had reason to have particularly vicious nightmares it is you.  So far you have been able to utilize the power of the Elessar stone----”

       Sam realized that Frodo had gone paler again.

       Aragorn paused, watching Frodo’s face, his own suffused with compassion.  “Did you think I could not tell, mellon nín?  Or do you think that I care or mind that you do?”

       Frodo looked away as he set down the goblet, his mouth working.  Aragorn turned his face back.  “Look at me, Frodo, please.  I would give you the Elessar stone itself if it were allowed, but I may not.  But, while you are here with me you are free to draw fom it it as much as you need, and with my blessing.  How it is that you can do this I do not know; but that you can is plain to those who are accustomed to drawing power from other sources than their own reserves.  It has taken me months to learn to utilize its abilities to focus my own; you began soon after your awakening.  I cannot scour away all of the scarring that is there--it is too deep, too pervasive, and each time I touch you with the healing gift of my ancestry so much of it diffuses away from the wound or pain I purpose to ease; but if you can use the Elessar to recognize the nightmares and deal with them, do so and be fully welcome.”  Gently he drew Frodo to him.  “Oh, Frodo, if I could only take your burdens on myself, I would.”

       “I’m sorry, Aragorn....”

       “For what, Frodo?  For being a gifted individual whom all love?”

       Frodo gave no answer, merely pressed his forehead against Aragorn’s chest.  Finally the Man sighed.  “For now, Frodo, you need to rest and eat again, and soon.  The house will not be fully open to you until this evening, for they are now moving the beds about in it that you, Sam, and Merry will be comfortable, and I sent Gandalf down to see to it things are as you would wish.  They have furnished several rooms in the Royal Wing, in case I could convince you to remain near to hand.  I’ve not even seen my own quarters.  Will you go with me and see them and rest there for a time?”

       A brief nod, and the Man nodded his own head, then gently, reluctantly released his embrace.  At that moment there was a knock at the door to the smaller audience chamber to which the King had withdrawn with Frodo and Sam, and he looked up, slightly startled.  After a moment of puzzlement Frodo gave a small, stifled laugh.  “I think,” the Hobbit suggested, “they wait for you to tell them to enter.  Or have you forgotten you are King now?”

       The look of embarrassment on Aragorn’s face was swiftly masked.  He gave Frodo a sidelong smile, then straightened.  “Enter,” he said with just the right tone of authority in his voice.

       Master Balstador entered, accompanied by a boy of about thirteen or fourteen, followed by Mistress Gilmoreth and a younger woman of about twenty-two.  “My Lord,” the Seneschal said, with a bow, “you asked that we bring to you here one to serve as page and one as a housekeeper to those of your particular friends who will live in the guest house in the Sixth Circle, and we have brought two for your consideration.  May I present Lasgon son of Efram and Mistress Loren daughter of Parmetrion, both of the city.”

       “Thank you, Master Balstador, Mistress Gilmoreth.  Mistress, will you have one bring here two trays, both with servings of sauce of apples, mild lamb or fowl, if it is to be had, greens, water and apple juice?  Curds and whey would also be acceptable.”

       “Gladly, my Lord King,” the woman said, curtseying deeply and retreating from the room.

       The King examined the two who stood before him with interest.  Finally he spoke.  “I am, as you have been told, your new King.  Those of my companions who have labored most strongly against Sauron have elected not to dwell here in the Citadel with me, but in a guest house in the Sixth Circle.  I would have the two of you serve them as there is need.  Mostly they will seek to do as much as they can for themselves and one another, you will find; but there will be times when they will need assistance, or to send one to call for me or to run errands through the city.  You will find that all can and will usually prefer to cook for themselves; but should all be called on the business of the realm elsewhere during the day they will need to have meals awaiting them on their return, and may need to have things tidied at times.  There will be the need to see to the laundering of clothes and linens on a weekly basis, assistance in shopping as they have no knowledge of which markets are best, help in reaching things from high cabinets, assistance in the managing of stoves and such as will be difficult for them due to height.

       “There will be seven dwelling there--the four Periannath, a Dwarf, an Elf, and the Lord Mithrandir.  Here are two of them, Master Frodo Baggins and Master Samwise Gamgee, who are from the Shire in Eriador and who are both recovering from their labors and wounds.  They are to be treated with the gravest courtesy, that they bear good report of the city of Minas Tirith with them when at last they return to their homeland.

       “It will be in many ways light duty, but know this--it is a duty dear to my heart.  We eight and your Lord Boromir traveled far together and fought against the Enemy’s forces several times as we sought to bring him down.  Each of the Periannath came to the gates of death as a result of their determination to do what was necessary to see his end, and I would have them well treated and served.  Are the two of you willing to accept this duty?”

       They looked to one another with question, and then back at their new Lord.  “If you so desire, my Lord King,” the woman said. 

       The boy echoed, “Yes, my Lord.”

       “Tell us about yourselves,” Aragorn invited.  “Mistress Loren, have you worked in the Citadel long?”

       “I have worked mostly in the keeping of the guest houses of the Sixth Circle, my Lord, for the past two years.  My sister has served here in the Citadel itself for seven years, working among the housemaids.  My brother does much of the maintenance of the Citadel, overseeing repairs, cleaning chimneys at regular intervals, replacing windowpanes and floor tiles, cleaning the gutters and replacing roofing tiles after storms, and so on.”

       “And you, Lasgon?” asked the King, turning to the boy.

       “My family has served the Citadel of Minas Tirith through eighteen generations, my Lord King, either in service within the Citadel or in the Guard of the Citadel.  My adar is groundskeeper, and my daeradar was a Guard of the Citadel for twenty years.  My naneth serves in the archives.  I hope to serve as a page until I reach the age of eighteen, at which time I wish to enter the Guard of the Citadel.”

       “A worthy wish, sir,” the King responded.  He examined both of them once more.  “I would have at least one of you in the house at all times.  How does your duty schedule run now, Lasgon?”

       “I am here in the Citadel six days a week, my Lord, and sleep in the pages’ dormitory when I am not on duty.  On the Highday I am freed from service after breakfast and go to spend the day with my mother, and return at the second hour on Starsday so as to be ready to return to duty at the third hour.”

       “And your usual schedule, Mistress Loren?”

       That the King himself was taking such an intimate interest in the scheduling of this duty plainly had the woman flustered, although she managed to remain calm and answer his questions.  “Ordinarily I have the Moonday free, my Lord, and work from the first hour to sunset the rest of the week, then return to my family home in the Sixth Circle.”

       “Would you be willing to sleep overnight in the guest house on the night of the Highday, Mistress Loren, and have two days free instead?”

       “That would be acceptable, my Lord.”

       “Good.  Do you know which house has been chosen for this duty?”

       “Yes, my Lord--the furthest house down at the end of Isil Lane.”

       “Do any others live in the surrounding houses?

       “Opposite is a large building that in the past has served the family of Lord Forlong of Lossarnach when here in the capitol, my Lord.  However, his son has declared it to be too large and difficult to staff, and so he has given it back to the disposition of the Stew--of the Crown and has taken a smaller but more comfortable home of three stories in the Fifth Circle.  It would be a goodly building for an embassy from one of our allies, my Lord.  Next door lives a family which has served in either the Houses of Healing or the Citadel itself for thirty-seven generations, often both, as now.”

       “There is at least one there who serves in the Houses of Healing?”

       “Yes, my Lord, the Healer Eldamir, an excellent healer of great skill and compassion.”

       The King was smiling, as were the two Pheriannath.  “Healer Eldamir?  Excellent!  A gentle Man and a fully competent healer.  I am well pleased, as he is already acquainted with Master Frodo and Master Samwise.”

       “In the house next to the empty estate building live one of Lord Denethor’s personal guards and his wife.  He, however, is now incapacitated as he suffered a brain storm a few days after the death of the Steward.  He has been returned to his wife’s care, but he is not well and is said to be near death.”

       “I see.  I will try to visit him, then, on the morrow.”

       Both Mistress Loren and Master Balstador looked completely confused.  “But why would you visit him?” the woman blurted out, then flushed with embarrassment at her own forwardness.

       The King, however, did not appear to take any offense.  “In case you have not been made aware of this, Mistress, Master, I am a fully trained healer in my own right, and I labored in the Houses of Healing after the battle of the Pelennor and among the wounded from the battle before the Black Gate.  The health and welfare of all who serve me and the realm of Gondor is of interest to me.

       “And, Mistress Loren, Lasgon, you should be aware that not only are the Periannath you will serve during their stay in the city my close personal friends, but they have all been under my care for healing.  I am to be apprised of any signs that any is suffering from physical discomfort, although you will find that they are likely to fight you on this.  It is likely that either I or one of my Elven foster brothers will visit the house at least once or twice a day as we ascertain that all is well with our patients.  And if any seeks to bind you to silence, I will remind you that also within the house will dwell the Wizard Mithrandir, who I assure you is going to support my opinion.”

       There was a knock at the door, and the King called out, “Enter.”  Mistress Gilmoreth entered with a young girl, each carrying a tray with covered dishes and goblets.  “Very good.  Mistress Gilmoreth, if you and your aide will set those before Masters Frodo and Samwise, we will all be grateful.  And may I be introduced to the young lady?”

       “Yes, my Lord; this is Airen daughter of Geril.  She has only just joined our staff; her father died in the assaults on Osgiliath, and she had need to take service.”

       “I see.  Welcome to the staff of the Citadel, young Mistress.”

       The girl made an embarrassed curtsey and gave a murmured “My Lord” as she flushed deeply.

       The King smiled.  “Do not be embarrassed, Mistress Airen; you will find I am quite approachable and do not complain when service is given well and honestly.  Mistress Gilmoreth, if you will please advise the kitchen staff--my friends among the Periannath are from a race that requires more frequent meals than do Men, and will eat more at a meal, usually.  However, in the case of Master Frodo, when he is within the Citadel he should be brought small meals on the hour, and usually light foods, light meats, fruit, juices, occasionally watered wine, and other foods of the sort.  He and Master Samwise are to have water beside them whenever they are within the Citadel.  Advise the kitchen staff that requirements for the Periannath will be forwarded to them shortly.  When on duty Sir Meriadoc will be either serving Lord Éomer King of Rohan or standing honor guard before the tomb in which Théoden King’s body rests; Sir Peregrin will be a part of my personal guard.”

       “Yes, my Lord.”

       “From the staff of this house I prefer to be addressed as my Lord, Sire, or Lord Elessar, although Lord Aragorn is also acceptable.  I will usually eat in the household dining room or in my personal quarters, and my personal friends and guests will generally eat either with me or in their personal quarters.

       “We will discuss this more in depth tomorrow.”

       “Yes, my Lord.”  The Seneschal and Housekeeper made their courtesies and departed swiftly, accompanied by young Airen.  The King turned back to young Lasgon and Mistress Loren.  “I hope that you don’t find all of this too confusing.  However, you will find that my rule will be quite different from that of Lord Denethor.”

       Mistress Loren smiled.  “I can see, Lord Elessar.”  She was honored when he smiled in return.

       Frodo and Sam had lifted the covers off of their plates and had begun eating the food offered them.  Sam ate well enough, but Frodo was eating more slowly and deliberately, as if forcing himself to swallow.  Aragorn moved to where he sat on the low couch and knelt, then spoke to him quietly.  The Pherian lifted his eyes to those of the King and answered, then began to smile gently in response, his expression easing.  He ate more and then stopped.  “That is all I can eat for now, Aragorn.”

       “To know when it is all you can eat is important, Frodo.”

       Frodo returned the lid to the dish with an air of finality.  Then he looked up.  “If I might lie down now....”

       “We will go, then, and check out my own quarters, shall we?”

       Once Samwise was done, he, too, covered his dish.  “Shall I bear them away, Lord Strider?”

       “No, Sam, you need only attend on Frodo for now, as we both know he rests best when you are by him.”  He turned where the page and housekeeper waited.  “Mistress Loren, if you will show young Master Lasgon here where you are to serve, and Master Lasgon, if you will take your personal items down to that house and move them into the upper room on the near side?  Until those of the Fellowship choose to leave the city, that is your assignment.  And I thank the both of you.”

       Obviously if courteously dismissed, the two reverenced their new Lord, then stepped forward to each take one of the trays and left the room as Frodo and Sam stood and prepared to accompany their friend to the Royal Wing.

17:  Royal Apartments 

       Master Balstador and a footman waited outside the door.  “My Lord, this is Iorvas son of Beneldil.  He will serve you in your quarters at this time.”

       “Thank you, Master Balstador, Master Iorvas.  We are going there now.  And I will require that two rooms be prepared on the upper level of the Royal Wing for my Elven brothers.  Lord Elladan and Lord Elrohir will advise you as to what kinds of furnishings they will prefer.”  One of the Northern Dúnedain stood nearby at attention, and moved to fall in behind the New King.  “And where are the rest of the Fellowship?”

       “We led them to the receiving room in the Royal Apartments, my Lord Elessar, and have provided them with refreshments.”

       “Have the quarters been prepared for the Lord King Éomer’s party on the upper floor of the guest quarters as I requested?”

       “Yes, my Lord Elessar.  He and his sister and their people are in the receiving room awaiting you now, however.”

       Aragorn himself led the way toward the Royal Apartments.  Balstador asked, “You know the way, my Lord Elessar?”

       The Lord Elessar gave him a sidelong look and a half smile.  “You will find, Master Balstador, that I have a good deal of knowledge about the Citadel.  Probably not as much as does the Lord Faramir; but more than one might expect.” 

       Balstador thought he heard a stifled laugh from Master Frodo, but couldn’t be certain.

       As they walked Sam commented, “Well, at least you introduced us as ‘Masters’ and not ‘Lords.’  Does that mean we can do without these now?” as he indicated the circlet he still wore.

       “I would have them address you in accordance with your own preferences, but I do not regret to tell you that you both remain Lords in both name and fact.”  He stopped, and all stopped with him as he turned to face the two Hobbits, kneeling to look into their faces.  “Your ennoblement is binding, and I add this--it was not initiated by me, but was suggested by Gwaihir the Windlord as he paused by your beds ere he and his folk returned to their aeries.  And it has been ratified by my foster brothers in the name of Imladris and the Golden Wood, by Legolas representing Eryn Lasgalen and his father’s people and the whole of the sylvan Elves, by Gimli for the Dwarves of Erebor, the Iron Hills, and the Misty Mountains, by the folk of Rohan and Gondor and Arnor, and by Merry and Pippin as representatives of the Shire, as well as Gandalf for the Wizards and their masters.  Once the Ents have ratified it all of the free peoples of Middle Earth will join in the recognition of your Lordship.  It is no empty honor that has been given you.”

       “I see.”  Sam looked somewhat taken aback by that.  Then after Aragorn had risen to again lead the way into the hallway to the living quarters he asked, “You say Merry and Pippin recognized this for the Shire.  That doesn’t mean as the whole Shire knows by now, does it?”

       “There’s not really been time to allow that, Sam.  No, we shall allow Merry and Pippin to let that news be proclaimed in Buckland and Bywater, shall we?”

       Frodo laughed at Sam’s groan, and Aragorn rejoiced to hear it.

       Master Balstador watched the approach to the Royal Wing with concern, as he hoped all had gone well here.  For the past thousand years the only ones to enter this wing were those who saw to the maintenance of the place--housemaids once a month to clean and dust; plasterers twice yearly to look for signs of damage to the walls and see to it; glaziers on those occasions when a broken pane was identified; masons to check the integrity of flooring and pillars once a year; and so on.  The Royal Bedstead had been relieved of its mattresses early on; furniture draped or moved to storage very long ago indeed.  Most of the paintings that had hung in these quarters had been removed to the Halls of Memorial centuries past.  It had remained empty and sterile for so very, very long.

       But with the word that the King was returned the hinges had been oiled anew, the doors painted, walls refinished, new curtains of a neutral white hung, metal work polished.  What had been told them of the new King’s nature had been little enough; what colors he might prefer, what kinds of furnishings he might find most comfortable, even the type of mattress and coverings he would like for his bed had to be guessed at.  Hopefully the King would not mind the comparative starkness so far.

       From Ithilien had come the orders for rooms to be made up for the Pheriannath--two rooms with views of the gardens, each with two beds within it, and youth beds would be acceptable as long as the mattresses were deep and comfortable and blankets and coverings thick, warm, and soft.  Tables beside the beds were to hold carafes of water and mugs as well as adjustable lamps.  Shelves for books should be placed in both rooms, filled with books of poetry in Sindarin as well as Westron, histories of Arda, books of tales, geographies, herbals, books on Rohan, books on music, histories of the city and the realm.  Colors should be the greens of spring, warm browns, soft golds, rich wine colors.  Soft rugs should be placed by each bed.  Stands for armor should be placed for the four of them, and low wardrobes.  Desks with chairs for each, and comfortably upholstered chairs before the fireplaces.  A low table and chairs in each room apt for at least four.  Balstador found that the details for the rooms intended for the Pheriannath contrasted with the lack of guidance on what the King himself should find desirable said much about his nature.

       There was no question that the King did hold the Pheriannath deeply in his affections and that his care for their welfare was unfeigned.  The news had come that the Ringbearers had been ennobled upon the field of Cormallen before all of the army of the West, and certainly this had been confirmed.  Balstador looked at the two small figures, one slender, one solid, both walking solemnly at the King’s side, one with hair as dark as the King’s own but curling about his head, the other with hair of dark gold.  Each was dressed in a princely manner; yet they were barefoot; and the difference in the language used by each was fascinating.

       They reached the doors to the Royal Wing, and two of the King’s folk now stood at them, bowed deeply as he approached, and between them opened the two leaves to allow his party entrance.  “Thank you,” he said, addressing each by name and bowing in return.  Never would the Lord Denethor have done such a thing, Balstador realized.  Then the King took a deep breath and walked between them, taking possession of quarters left unused for a millennia.  Together he and the two Pheriannath walked down the hallway.  Hardorn and Pippin stood together before one of the doors, and smiled as the Man drew it open.  “Your chambers, my Lord Cousin,” the Dúnedain warrior said with a bow. 

       The first room was a private sitting room with a fine chandelier overhead, one wall of shelves for books, a table which could be expanded to sit from as few as four to as many as sixteen easily, a wooden couch with thick cushions of red velvet, occasional tables, several other chairs and lesser couches set in a group for conversation at one end.  To the right was the door to the King’s room and to the left that into the Queen’s chamber, each of which had its own bathing and dressing room, each chamber with its own doorway to the hallway with no knob on the outside for private passage when necessary.

       The Queen’s rooms were done now in soft blues; that for the King in golds and wine colors.  He examined it all and nodded.  “Other than that I would prefer greens to golds, this is acceptable for the moment,” he said, “although I may decide on some changes over the next few weeks.  I will try to not make my redecorating of the rooms to be a labor for you.  As for the Queen’s chamber--I will undoubtedly have changes I would have done before that is utilized.”

       Sam stood looking at the bathing chamber with awe in his eyes.  “I’d not wish to bathe in this tub, Lord Strider.  A Hobbit could drown in that, I suspect.”

       The King laughed.  But he was intent on seeing Frodo resting, and so they came out again and at Balstador’s direction crossed the hallway, and here the doors were opened to those rooms prepared for the four Hobbits.  Frodo and Sam looked at the first room with interest.  Frodo commented, “It’s yet too grand and big for me, Aragorn.  I’d feel quite at a loss to remain here for long.”

       The King nodded.  “I can appreciate that, Frodo.  Would it be too much to rest in now, though?”

       “Oh, I can handle resting in it, I think.  But let us first go see to the others so that they will see Sam and I are all right.”

       Again they left the room and walked down the hallway to a large room at the end of the wing designed for groups of up to about thirty people, and there they found the rest of the Fellowship and Éomer and his party awaiting them. 

       Gandalf entered behind them.  “I am told the house in the Sixth Circle will be ready for us about sunset, so for now we will remain here.”  He crossed and took a seat by one of the small tables where refreshments had been placed.

       Aragorn turned to the young King of Rohan.  “Éomer, have you seen the chambers prepared for you and your folk?”

       “Yes, and they are proper to our needs.  I’m told that these have ever been made available to my people?”

       “Yes, so it has been since Eorl led his horsemen South to the needs of Gondor.”

       Gandalf was watching Frodo with some concern.  “Well, my friend, come and sit down.  Would you like a small goblet of wine before you rest?”

       “Yes, Gandalf, I think I could handle that.”  Soon he was seated with a small glass of wine and another of water beside him, and accepted some vegetables and crackers, but before long he indicated he wished only to rest, and Merry, now off duty, went with him and Sam to one of the two rooms to see him settled.

       Frodo sighed as he sat in a chair and held up his arms so Sam and Merry between them could remove surcoat and mithril, hanging the mithril and sword on the armor stand, setting the mithril circlet on the table by the bed, and helping Frodo on with a nightshirt.  “I hope he won’t make me wear the corslet again,” he murmured as he poured himself some water and sipped it.  Sam turned back the sheets and blankets, and Frodo slid into the bed with relief.  “I’m ready for this, for certain,” he sighed.  Soon he was deeply asleep.  Sam pulled the green curtains closed, glad some light entered in anyway, rejoicing in the scented breeze from the gardens outside coming through the open casement.  Merry slipped out, but Sam, having divested himself of mail, circlet, and sword, chose a book and sat himself in a chair he’d drawn up nearby and set himself to read and watch.

18:  Amending the Rolls of the King

       Frodo slept for an hour and woke to find Sam asleep in the chair, the book resting still open in his lap.  He smiled indulgently at him as he rose, drank some more of the water, and lifting a throw from the back of the low settee provided gently draped it over his friend, then briefly visited the adjoining privy.  Finally, having donned the blue surcoat himself, he slipped out to rejoin the others.

        Merry smiled, a glass of juice in his hand.  “Sam’s drifted off to sleep himself, has he?”

       “Of course, dear Sam.”  Frodo sat and accepted a glass of juice for himself, then tried an orange fruit that lay on a dish, pulled apparently into segments.  He found it sweet and refreshing.  He turned to Aragorn, who had paused in his quiet discussion with Prince Imrahil, King Éomer, the Lady Éowyn, and his new Steward.  “What is this called, Aragorn, this orange fruit?”

       “It is called the orange fruit, Frodo.”

       Frodo laughed.  “But of course it is!  What else?  Does it grow here in Gondor?”

       “It grows on trees in the Southern fiefdoms, and very prominently in Anfalas and Belfalas.  Dol Amroth is one of the primary sources of it for trade.  There are some other similar fruits that grow there also.”

        Pippin, who’d come off his duty and who was making up for lost meals, asked around a mouthful of bread and cheeses, “How was the bed?”

        “Rather softer than I’ve become accustomed to, but quite comfortable.”

       “Good.  Then I’m thinking of trying one as well.  It was a long walk up through the city--I’d forgotten how long, in fact.”

       “Well,” Aragorn finally said, the discussions with lords and lady apparently over for the moment, “once Sam has joined us would you like to watch the amending of the Rolls?”

       “Gladly,” Frodo replied.  He looked much better, and was eating obviously with enjoyment.  King and Wizard exchanged looks of relief.  Frodo smiled as he looked out the window into the garden which grew outside it as he wrapped a slice of bread about a piece of cheese and ate it slowly yet with relish.  “It’s odd how this place can feel both ancient and very new at the same time,” he said.

       The door to the room in which Frodo had slept opened, and Sam came out, yawning.  He looked at Frodo as he entered the receiving room and smiled.  “Slept good, did you, Frodo?”

       “Very well, Sam.  Come and eat something more if you can.”  He looked up at Aragorn.  “I don’t need to wear the mithril shirt again, do I?”

       “Not today if you don’t wish.  Swords and mail are not usually worn in the feast hall of Merethrond.”

       “They name their feast halls here?”  Sam shook his head.

       “It sounds like a good idea to me,” Merry commented.

       It took some time for Frodo to finish the bread and cheese and a cup of juice.  Then, taking a mug of water with him, he and Sam followed Aragorn and Lord Faramir back to the Hall of Kings, Éomer, Éowyn and their attendants following behind.  A long table was being set into place as they entered, and a page was sent to call Lord Húrin, who was to bring with him the Roll of Kings while Faramir carried with him the Roll of Arnor.

       They’d been quiet as they returned, and Frodo sensed that Éomer was still reserved in his attitude toward Faramir, but that this was thawing.  Faramir was taking refuge in his role as Aragorn’s new Steward, and he uncapped the gold carrier he held with care and carefully slipped the scrolls it contained into his hand, then laid all gently atop the table.  On his arrival Húrin handed the second carrier to him, and he did the same.  Iorvas appeared with a tray on which sat an inkpot, several pens, drying sand and a penwiper, and held it awaiting his new Lord’s requirements.

       “May I please have a stool for the Ringbearer to sit or stand upon while we work on this?” requested the King, reaching down to take Frodo’s water for him.  “He is a scholar within his own land and is, I understand, the one who keeps his family’s genealogy; and this will be of interest to him.  Perhaps one of the stepped stools used by those who clean the tops of the statues within this room.”

       Iorvas tried to hide his surprise at the specificity of the request, and turned to one of the others who stood near the back of the room and gave a gesture of his head, and the Man hurried off to do his new Master’s bidding.  The servant returned swiftly with just that item and a clean cloth, and settling the cloth over the top of the step he placed it  by the King’s side where Frodo could watch. 

       “Thank you for your thoughtfulness in bringing the cloth as well,” the King said, smiling at the Man, who was overwhelmed and became the King’s man from that instant.  “Sam, would you like the same?”

       “No, thanks very much, Lord Strider, but I couldn’t perch up on one of those like a bird.  Mr. Frodo--well, he’s more used to such things.  I’ll remain down here with my feet planted firmly on the floor.”

       Seeing how Sam stood still so close by Éomer, Aragorn answered, “Well enough, then.”

       Frodo came forward, looked up at the servant and smiled.  “Thank you very much,” he said as he used the steps to reach the top, turned and sat, allowing the Man to push it closer to the tall table.  “This can be awkward, Aragorn,” Frodo continued as he adjusted his position on the stool, “trying to make things comfortable for both your height and mine.”

       The King smiled.  “Between us I think we’ll manage.” 

       King and Steward each carefully unrolled one of the large Rolls, and as Faramir worked to find the end of the Roll of Gondor Aragorn chose a pen from the tray held by the footman and prepared to work on amending the Roll of Arnor.  Carefully dipping the pen into the inkpot he began, writing swiftly but gracefully as he indicated that Aragorn son of Arathorn, on the first of May of the old year 3019, on the thirty-sixth day from the start of the new year in the new King’s Reckoning, had been crowned King of Gondor by acclamation and recognition of his descendancy from Elendil through his elder son Isildur, Valandil, and eventually Arvedui by his wife Fíriel daughter of Ondohir, thirty-second King of Gondor.

       “Nothing of having defeated the armies of Mordor?” asked Frodo dryly as he sipped from his mug of water.  Aragorn simply smiled at him as he examined the roll to that point.  Frodo looked at the inscription, reading it out loud.  Then he looked up in question.  “You’ve not indicated you are now the King of Arnor as well.”

       “No, I haven’t, Frodo.  The Kingship of Arnor is conferred by acceptance of the Sceptre of Annúminas, which is as yet still in the keeping of the Lord Elrond.  Until he presents that to me I remain but chieftain there.”

       “He didn’t send that as well by your brothers?”

       “No, Elladan and Elrohir brought to me the Star of Elendil and the King’s standard, but not that as yet.”

       “I did not realize you could read and speak Sindarin, Master Baggins,” commented the Lord Steward Faramir as he settled the Roll of the Kings of the South beside the first.

       “And Quenya, although I suspect my pronunciation is dreadful,” Frodo said with a shrug.  He was looking at prior inscriptions.  “That must be Lord Elrond’s hand--certainly it is familiar enough,” he said, indicating where the death of Arathorn was announced, followed by a largely blank area with two small marks and then the indication that Arathorn’s wife Gilraen and his son Aragorn had been taken into Imladris for the safety of both while the child was still in his minority. 

       Éomer had come close enough to examine the scroll.  “What are those two marks for?”

       “They are each the sign of a death, but of whose I don’t know.  I’m surprised that Adar didn’t note whose deaths they were.  My lord uncle’s death is noted here,” and he showed where the name of Halbaleg had been written in the same hand, preceded, as was that of Arathorn and later that of the Lady Gilraen in his own writing, with the same mark.  Then in the blank space between his mother’s death and the note of his own accession to the Crown of Gondor he inscribed the same mark, and noted the death of Halbarad of Eriador, Ranger and Steward of Arnor, in the battle of the Pelennor Fields before the walls of Minas Tirith in Gondor; and the appointment of Halladan son of Halbaleg and brother of Halbarad as Steward of Arnor as of the fifteenth day of March, 3019.  “And here is the indication I, having come of age, was advised of my lineage and confirmed as Chieftain of the Dúnedain peoples of Arnor and Eriador, and caretaker of the peoples of the Northern lands.”

       “You wrote that, then,” Frodo commented.

       “Yes, I wrote that.  As I said, it is the duty of the Lord of the Realm to keep the notations on the Roll as much as is possible.”

       “May I examine it, my Lord Elessar?” asked the Steward as Prince Imrahil and his two older sons entered, accompanied by Halladan and the minstrel Faralion.  “Welcome, Uncle, Elphir, Erchirion; Lord Steward Halladan, Master Faralion.”  Noting the ink was now dry on the Roll of the North Kingdom, Aragorn carefully exchanged the places for the two Rolls and reached out for the pen again, wiped its point, then prepared to inscribe the Roll of the Kings of Gondor.  Faramir continued, “It was interesting to open the Roll during your absence East of the River, my Lord King, and look at all of the hands that have inscribed it.  Were the first inscriptions truly made by Elendil himself?” 

       “So Elrohir and Elladan tell me.”  He looked up as, as if conjured by the mention of their names, the two Peredhil entered the Hall with Master Galador.  “Welcome; you’ve missed the inscription of the Roll of the North, and now I prepare to do that to the Roll of the South.”  He turned back to the blank area presented with a critical eye.  “It will need new material spliced into it soon, for I shall undoubtedly use up all that there is here now.”

       “But there is no need to put more than your own name into the Roll,” said Galador.

       Aragorn arched a brow.  “Is there truly, my friend?  No, I shall need to put in the list of Kings and Chieftains from the Northlands as the Kings of the Southlands were written into the Roll of Arnor so as to verify the legitimacy of my lineage on both sides.”  So saying he dipped the pen into the ink and began to write, one of the Elves peering over his shoulder while Halladan came forward to share the examination of the Roll of Arnor with his counterpart from Gondor. 

       Galador watched the King with interest.  “You do not consult the other scroll, my Lord?”

       The King looked over his shoulder at his Elven brother and smiled, then looked back to the Master of Protocol.  “With such teachers as these, I was required to memorize the entire list on both sides of my lineage, Master Galador, as well as the list of Stewards.  I will not put in all dates of birth and death into the list of Kings of Gondor, however.”  Carefully he worked, starting with the names of Isildur, his wife and four sons, then the indication that Elendur and his next two brothers had died at Gladden Fields preceding the death of their father in the River Anduin, and that Valandil, the youngest, had succeeded their father. 

       As he wrote, Éomer shook his head.  “I’d wondered why you don’t just have your minstrels put them into a chant and sing them in order at your kingmakings as we do in Rohan, but I suspect that if you did we would still be sitting at the King’s feast a week later and still not be near the end of it.  Is there truly a need to keep such a record, my brother?”

       His sister shook her head in embarrassment.  Aragorn paused in his writing to laugh.  “Remember, my brother, that we have had a full three thousand years to develop very complicated rules to compass us about, and another three thousand before that to start the process since Elros led those who chose to follow him to Númenor out of Middle Earth.  I fear our peoples are obsessed with lists such as this; and in a full six thousand years of history we’ve made the study of minutiae into an art form.”

       Frodo asked, “Did you have to learn the list of Kings of Númenor also?”

       “Yes, I did, as well as the names of those who were fathers to Elendil who did not sit upon the throne there.”

       Éomer was impressed.  “That is a mighty spate of names to keep in your head.”

       “He’s had over forty years to forget them all since last I tested him on them,” Elladan commented.  “Shall we watch to see if he’s forgotten any in this paltry list?”

       Aragorn gave him an annoyed look.  “Some have such poor memories they do well to remember the two generations their family has known in the same amount of time.”  Elrohir laughed, and Aragorn turned back to his writing.

       Father to son the list continued, Kings and Chieftains, until he came to the names of Aradorn, Arathorn, and finally himself.  For the last six chieftains he indicated the names of wives and all children, indicating that there were living three others of the line of Kings, Halladan and Hardorn sons of Halbaleg son of Elendur son of Bedorn son of Garthorn, second son of Arassuil; and Gilfileg son of Gilthor son of Nienoreth, younger daughter to Argonui; and son also of Arien of Dol Amroth.  Then, looking again at the scroll Faramir was still perusing, he put in the two marks indicating deaths that Elrond had indicated in the Roll of Arnor.  “I will have to question Lord Elrond what those indicate, unless either of you knows?”  He looked from one to the other of the two sons of Elrond.

       Elladan shrugged gracefully.  “I have no idea.  Adar and Lord Glorfindel have failed to tell us all of the business of your lineage, young brother.”  Elrohir looked from his brother to his foster brother and indicated that it was the same for both of them.

       Halladan looked at the two isolated death signs, and shook his head.  “Our adar certainly did not tell us of any deaths that ought to have been included in the Roll, Aragorn.”

       Frodo watched as carefully Faramir manipulated the rods of the scroll he and Halladan examined, working backward all the way to the first.  To realize he looked on the writings of Isildur and Elendil himself was humbling.  Then Faramir went back through the scroll again to its end, finally stopping at the indication of one who was son of a woman of Dol Amroth.  Here he paused, caught the eye of his new King and indicated the notation.  Imrahil had turned, for one of his own knights had entered the hall accompanied by a Guard and approached him and his sons.  Aragorn cast a quick glance at the record, then at the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and said quietly, “The facts of that will one day be made clear, Lord Faramir, but the time is not now.  It would be best to wait until this one of my cousins comes himself to Gondor to meet with his mother’s kindred, for I have not his permission to tell his tale.”  He gave a small smile.  “You will learn that there have always been a few of the Dúnedain of the North that have served among the forces of Gondor.  I was not the first, and am certainly not the last.”

       Frodo looked at the Prince of Dol Amroth, and saw that most were more interested in his discussion with his knight than in that between the King and his Stewards at the moment, including Master Galador and the minstrel Faralion.  The discussion deepened, and finally Imrahil gave a decisive nod.  Faramir finally rolled all the material to the end of the scroll and fastened the ribbon provided about it as his uncle approached the table. 

       “My Lord King,” the Prince said, “word has come that a craft from Umbar comes up the River and approaches the Harlond.  It is flying a flag of truce.”

       “This is remarkably quick work for those of Umbar,” commented Aragorn.  “Usually they must discuss things for days before anyone will come to a decision for anything, even as trivial as which standard to hang on their ships.  However, I have still several matters to discuss before I speak to outsiders.”  He asked Iorvas, “Will you please call Master Balstador here, Master Iorvas?”

       “Gladly, my Lord,” Iorvas said. 

       He started away with the tray, but the King stopped him.  “I will keep this, for I have other things I must write and perhaps it would be best done now.  Once you have sent for Master Balstador, please bring me about ten sheets of paper on which I might write.  Thank you.” 

       With a brief “Yes, my Lord King,” Iorvas gave the tray into Aragorn’s hands and hurried off.  The King set the tray upon the table, then turned to the others in the room. 

        “There is no time to call for the full Council at this moment,” he commented, “and so it appears that we will need to decide how to deal with our visitors hastily.  My own thought is that there will be no real time to deal with an embassy properly today.  I suggest, therefore, that once we know their numbers, they be brought into the city and to a suitable guest house in the Sixth Circle, and be given a guard of honor sufficient to keep them out of mischief for the time.  I then suggest that the leaders be invited to the Coronation feast tonight, and seated on the inside of the curve of the table, opposite the Lord’s seat.  Such will give them sufficient importance to allay outright offense, allow us to keep them under surveillance, and yet will not exaggerate their importance as seating them to my right or left would do.”

       “That might give offense to some of the lesser lords of the realm,” Galador commented, obviously thinking rapidly and not particularly happy with the situation, “but would indeed serve as you indicate.  Shall I see to this, my Lord?”

       “If you will.”

       “Who will sit by you this night?”

       “Lords Frodo and Samwise will sit to my right with Halladan beyond them; the Lord Éomer to my left with his sister beside him, Lord Faramir and Prince Imrahil beyond them.  Lord Elphir and Lord Erchirion, if you would agree to sit to the right of Lord Halladan and the Ringbearers?  And Elladan, Elrohir, would you agree to flank those from Umbar?  It would give them a great deal of pause.  And if Legolas and Gimli were to sit also one on each side of them with Gandalf beside one of them, it would give them even more pause.  Those of Umbar have always had poor relations with those of other races.  They would thus be boxed in, close enough to me to appear to be receiving due attention, yet isolated from those whom they might consider likely to be impressed by their presence or open to intimidation.”

       One of the sons of Elrond laughed.  “Ah, younger brother, it appears Glorfindel has managed to indeed teach you the value of containing possible threats in an elegant setting.”

       Galador agreed with the King’s proposed seating situation for those from Umbar, but found himself yet bemused.  That the new Lord of Gondor was taking a decisive role in arranging the seating at his own coronation feast was unprecedented; that he knew how the tables in the feast hall were arranged simply went unnoticed by him.  Nor did Prince Imrahil seem to pay attention to this knowledge, although Erchirion was giving his new liege a look of evaluation which the King answered with an enigmatic smile.

       The King continued, “Until the feast, we can certainly plead the press of the ceremony and needs of the day as excuses not to actually have to deal with the embassy’s business today.  In fact, we can use these excuses for two or three days and allow them to cool their heels and become uncertain as to whether or not we will treat with them in an official manner at all; such should make them more amenable to reason when I finally do agree to allow them an audience.  That will also give us more time to gather intelligence of the reasons for their arrival on this day of all days and what they hope to gain by coming so soon to Minas Tirith.  It will also allow us to hold a proper meeting of the Council before we meet with them.”

       Again all found themselves agreeing.

       Aragorn nodded, then looked where Iorvas and Balstador were entering from the back of the Hall.  “Now, my Lords, if you will excuse me for some minutes, I have some directions to write to my kitchen staff.  Lord Faramir, my Lord Prince, if you will please explain the situation to Master Balstador so that we can have the housing for the Umbarians prepared, I will take care of what needs to be done now.”

       So saying he accepted the paper brought by Iorvas and sat down to write.  It took him about half of an hour to finish his missive, which he folded and entrusted to Iorvas to take to the head cook, at which time he wiped his pen one last time, stoppered the bottle, and set the tray aside.  Another footman had taken the place of Iorvas.  “Your name?” the King asked.

       “Ithildor son of Borongil, my Lord King.”

       “If you will please fetch me some sealing wax, I will seal the ribbons about the Rolls and see them properly returned to their carriers.”

       “Yes, my Lord.”  Ithildor gave a stiff bow and hurried off, returning quickly with a small salver on which he carried a stick of black sealing wax and a lit candle, setting these on the table.

       Aragorn took out of an inner pocket a carved seal and set it on the salver.  He then took up the Roll of the Kings of Gondor, opened it enough to ascertain he had the proper roll, rolled and secured it properly with the black ribbon, then applied sufficient wax to accept the seal.  Once it was hardened, he examined the two carriers briefly, slid the Roll into its proper one and then handed it to Faramir; then did the same with the second Roll, slid it and the two lesser scrolls into it, and gave it into Halladan’s hands.  He looked at both Galador and Lord Húrin.  “Are you both assured that these have been properly dealt with?” he asked.

       “Yes, my Lord,” Húrin indicated with a profound bow, Galador following suit.

        Sam asked, “How do you know as you’ve set each in the right holder, Lord Strider?”

       Aragorn smiled.  “The caps on each end are marked with their original Lord’s signs, the Roll of Gondor with an image of the Sun in glory and that of Arnor with a crescent moon.  Elendil’s roll, Lord Elrond told me, had an eight-pointed star on each end.”

       Galador cleared his throat.  “The seal you are using, my Lord King...?”

       “I have used my personal seal, which is a single A glyph with an inset of an eight-pointed star.  I will have a proper signet ring made that will be the ring of my rule once I have received the Sceptre of Annúminas.”

       “Then the last time the Roll of the North Kingdom was sealed it was sealed by you?”

       “Yes, after I noted the death of my mother.”

       “I am surprised she did not live to see you crowned, my Lord.”

       The King merely shrugged, his face solemn.

       Iorvas entered followed by a second servant, each carrying a tray.  “The trays requested for Masters Frodo and Samwise, my Lord.”

       “Thank you.”  He turned to Sam, who’d moved to the side of the stool on which Frodo still sat, and Frodo.  “Would you prefer to eat here or in the lesser audience chamber where we were before?”

        The two Hobbits looked at each other, and then at a slight nod from Frodo, Sam said, “I think the other room, then.”

       “Can you find your way on your own?  I have more business here.”

       “We can manage.  Can you get down all right, Master?”

       Frodo carefully descended from the step-stool and straightened his surcoat.  “My Lords, gentlemen,” he said politely, “if you will excuse us....”  He and Sam gave courtly bows and led the two servants out of the room.

19:  A Fresh Wind in the Citadel

       Aragorn watched the exit of the two Hobbits with concerned eyes, then sighed as he turned back to the ones still in the chamber.  “How much longer ere the feast begins?”

       Lord Galador answered, “It is to begin a half a mark after sunset, my Lord.”

       Aragorn nodded.  “About two and a half more hours, then.  It makes a long day for the two of them.  Ah, well, at least it gives time for the Umbarians to be met and conducted up through the city and introduced--late--to the feast.” 

       The door to the back of the room opened, and Gandalf entered.  Aragorn looked at him with some relief.  “You are in time, Gandalf--we have a new complication to deal with.”  The approach of the ship from Umbar was explained as well as the decision to include the leaders of the embassy in the feast as well as the proposed seating arrangements. 

       “An excellent plan.  I don’t believe you will need to prepare for more than five at the feast--they wouldn’t send less, and more than that and the lords of Umbar are likely to completely distrust them all.  How are they to be met?”

       Elphir looked to the rest.  “I could go to the Gates and meet them there.  As my lord father’s heir I have rank enough to be less than outright insulting, yet I am not of sufficient importance at the moment in the eyes of the world to give them outright honor.”

       In moments he was on his way down to the gates, accompanied by a mixed troop of Aragorn’s kinsmen and Guards of the Citadel and members of the Swan Knights to serve as honor guard as well as outright guard to them.

       Aragorn had divested himself of the armor and mail after he saw Frodo resting earlier, and wore the crimson shirt and dark trousers he’d worn under all.  He was plainly tired, and now his foster brothers were looking at him critically.  Elladan gave a glance at his twin, then both fixed on the newly made King.  “You need at least an hour’s rest yourself, Estel.”

       “There is much left to be done----”

       Elrohir was shaking his head.  “It would be of no use to anyone if you press on now and then fall asleep with your face in your plate as you did once before at a feast.”

       Aragorn flushed.  “I was but seven years old at the time.”

       “Yes, we know.  And Lord Halbaleg was most embarrassed for you.  It was your birthday feast, after all.”

       Elladan continued, “For now, be grateful that you have two Stewards of the combined realm here as well Prince Imrahil, who is well experienced in meeting the needs of Gondor when his brother-in-law admitted he needed some relief of his office.  You need an hour’s rest, and afterwards will need to dress for your Coronation Feast.”

       “And what shall I wear then?”

       Elladan smiled.  “I brought more than the two surcoats for the Periannath in the bag sent from the vale, Estel.  I gave a formal robe into Master Iorvas’s hands earlier, and he has seen to it that it is properly steamed and brushed.  You will not bring shame upon our adar’s house.”

       Elrohir gave a half smile.  “If you do not comply, I suppose I could explain the situation to Frodo or Samwise, who would be most happy, I think, to return the favors you have imposed upon them over the last few weeks.”

       Gandalf laughed outright.  “Face it, Aragorn--you are now outmaneuvered.  It would be best to give in, I suspect.”

       For the moment Aragorn chose to ignore them.  “Where are Gimli and Legolas, then?”

       “Still placing their things in the house in the Sixth Circle.  They won’t rescue you now.”

       Aragorn gave a sigh, then shrugged.  “If you will insist, my lord brothers.”

       “We do,” Elladan said gravely.  “You’ve accomplished a good deal already, but cannot expect to set all things straight again in the first hours.  Now, go with you and rest.”

       Imrahil smiled.  “There is nought else that needs to be done this day of all days, my Lord King; and it gives yet another viable excuse to offer those from Umbar as to why they cannot see you ere the feast.”

       The King laughed.  “Yes, I suppose it does, while underlining the fact they are not perhaps the most welcome of guests, that the King prefers to rest rather than to treat with them?  So be it, then.  My Lord Stewards, my Lord Prince, I will then leave the realm in your most capable hands.  If you will pardon me, Éomer, my lady Éowyn.”  He straightened, gave a particularly graceful bow, and withdrew, the guard at the door following behind as he headed behind the throne for the hallways to his own quarters.

       Prince Imrahil watched after with interest.  “I still cannot put myself in mind of whom the King reminds me.  But he is a most canny soul, I must say.”

       The Wizard nodded.  “That he is, but it is to be expected, I must suppose, of one who grew up in the household of Elrond of Imladris.”  He smiled.  “To see him at last come to his full estate is heartening.  It will be good to give over my labors into his hands at the last, now that my purpose is finally fulfilled.”

       “Then you will not linger long in Gondor?”

       The Wizard gazed at him gravely.  “Long enough to see the final promises fulfilled, but not longer, I fear.  I would not follow the example of others; and the longer I linger, the stronger the desire to order things in accordance with my own understanding grows.  It will come to no good if I have fulfilled my commission in bringing all to stand against the tyranny of Sauron and the proposed tyranny of Saruman if I but seek to take their places in the end.”

       Erchirion examined the Wizard closely.  “But you are nothing like either Sauron or Saruman.”

       “Am I not?  No, I suppose not, if I give over the desire to do more than I was given to do.”  He looked at where Éomer stood, almost pointedly, between his sister and the Steward of Gondor.  “Ah, my Lord King, I would ask if your question as to why your sister chose not to come to you in Ithilien has been answered?”  He examined the young King’s face, and smiled.  “Apparently it has, but you are yet uncertain how to respond?”

       Éomer shrugged.  “There is much to think on.  I am not certain yet what to think of this new state of affairs, particularly so hard on the heels of a former attraction.”

       Éowyn looked at her brother slightly slantwise.  “Well, obviously Merry remained discrete, which is a pleasant surprise.”

       “Merry was involved in this, too?  He has much to answer for....”

       “Don’t you dare, Éomer.  He saw that when I was with Faramir my mood lightened, and at first, as deep into the depths of despair as I was, he sought only that which would draw me out of myself and away from the threat of self-destruction.  Then, when he realized that Lord Faramir’s own mood lightened markedly when he was with me, and that his--his heart was stirred by my presence he began to mention my name to him to help ease the bad times; and then the same with me when my heart was darkened.

       “Brother, you cannot begin to know what--what it was like, lying there inside the Shadow like that, to feel the coldness spread from hand and up my arm and through my body, seeking to still my very heart.  I needed to see a light somewhere so that I--that I could begin to seek more of it.  Merry only sought to help open me again to the light, and I am grateful.  But that by it I should find love--and quite a different love than I’d imagined before, although no less honorable--that I did not expect.”

       Faramir looked directly into the young King’s eyes.  “Long have I sought to find one whom I could love as my father loved my mother.  I’d begun to believe that I would not find her in this lifetime; but in the end I found her in spite of all expectation.  And to find that she is what your sister is--it is far more than I had dreamed of.  I will tell you this--I find my heart lifts each time she comes into view; that even when I have been most concerned about the confusion which must come with such a change in the world her smile is enough to reassure me that good will come in spite of all; and that when I have held her in my arms I feel as if her love is all the armor I’ll ever need to wear from this day forward.  Her humor inspires me; her forwardness eases my own reticence to say difficult things; her fire warms my heart; her impatience touches me.  We will wait as long as you direct, although I do not believe that you will find it easy with her at your side should you make that time overlong.  But I find my heart has been captured by a shieldmaiden of Rohan; and I hope that you will find having a faithful Steward as brother of the heart will be recompense enough to have her away from your side.”

       Imrahil smiled.  “I can vouch for my nephew’s good reputation and honorable nature, my Lord Éomer.  And I would delight to be allied again with your house in such a manner.”

       Gandalf nodded his head.  “Certainly Queen Morwen would have been pleased to see another such alliance between Gondor and Rohan, especially when there is a foundation of love and mutual respect there ahead of time.”

       Éomer was looking from one to the next, his eyes searching.  “We will see what comes of my thinking in the next few days.  Although certainly my brother Aragorn has made it clear he is pleased to support such a match.”  Then he shook himself.  “But I will warn you--if you seek to keep her caged primarily in this city of stone I will seek vengeance for any hurt to her spirit.”

       “Fair enough warning, my Lord.”  Faramir’s eyes shone warmly.  “I have inherited estates outside the city, and we will dwell primarily in one of them, I think, for although I am delighted to have my family’s duties confirmed, yet there are many dark memories here I would seek not to inflict often on my family.”

       He straightened.  “Although there is one thing I am learning--that many of the windows in this Citadel I’d long thought fixed have catches, and it appears that the Lord Aragorn is intent on seeing them thrown open to sweep out much of the bad air that has gathered here while the city lay in sight of the shadows of Mordor.  And I rejoice, my friends; I rejoice at finding the breeze in my hair, even here in the Hall of Kings.”  He straightened.  “If you will forgive me, but I must speak with Master Balstador.”  He reached across before Éomer and clasped Éowyn’s hand, lifted it to his lips, both of them smiling, her brother quite forgotten for the moment, then reluctantly let it go, gave a bow and withdrew.

20:  Seating Arrangements 

       After Faramir’s departure Prince Imrahil sighed.  “I would return to our house in the Fifth Circle and relax myself before dressing for the feast.  Erchirion, will you come also or dance attendance on your cousin?”

       Erchirion looked after the way his cousin had gone, then turned back to his father.  “I doubt he has much interest in me or my affairs now, Ada.  His mind is full of far higher thoughts than how many enemies I slew in the counter attack on the ambush.  So--at last my beloved cousin has responded to the glances sent his way, has he?”  He examined the Lady Éowyn with interest.  “I am pleased, my Lady, that you have caught his attention at the end.  For too long has he avoided more gentle pursuits, for our need has been great for his leadership since Boromir set off in quest of answers to the riddling dream.  But although he is an excellent warrior and captain, Faramir deserves one who will love him for his own sake.  A most deserving soul he is, my cousin.”  He turned to his father.  “I will go with you, my lord father.”

       With bows to Halladan, Éomer, Eowyn, Gandalf and the two Elven lords, the Prince of Dol Amroth and his second son left the Citadel, their personal guards following behind. 

       Halladan looked questioningly at the Wizard and the two Elves.  “I suppose this means that I am presently in charge of affairs.  Do the words of the Steward of Arnor hold any weight here in Gondor, I wonder?”

       “For the moment, apparently so,” Gandalf replied.  “And where is Frodo?”

       “In the lesser audience chamber, wherever that might be, or so I understand.  I don’t know if the Citadel of Annúminas will ever be as large or complicated a place as this is.  Shall we seek it out?”

       “And I suppose that we should see to the rooms they are preparing for us,” Elladan commented.  “We shall have to teach those who keep the place how to do things properly for Estel.  Otherwise a soft-footed servant come to present him with his morning’s drink will startle him out of his sleep and end up spitted by mistake.”

       “And I, my brother, desire to go and bathe before I dress,” Éowyn said.

       Her brother responded, “I am not certain I have anything so grand as to wear to Aragorn’s Crowning Feast.”

       “Aelthrim brought back with him a goodly supply of clothing for the both of us.”

       “I must suppose that is a positive side to having tarried so long on the fields of the Cormallen, my sister, that our folk were able to travel to Edoras and back and bear messages and bring us those of our things such as we now require.  Then let us also depart to our own quarters.”  With a nod to his guards and a polite exchange of bows with Gandalf and Halladan, the King and Princess of Rohan followed the Peredhil out of the Hall of Kings.

       With Gandalf and the Lord Halladan heading for the lesser audience chamber, now only Galador and Faralion were left.  Galador watched after the wizard, shaking his head.  “To think that Mithrandir is now a welcome guest.  Our Lord Denethor respected him, but did not welcome him with warmth.  Will you join me in my office and share some wine?”

       Soon the two of them were in Galador’s office which was in the same building as the Feast Hall of Merethrond.  Together they looked through the inner door to watch the small army of servants involved in preparing for the night’s festivities.  Banks of flowers had been brought from Lebennin and Lossarnach; long-burning candles were being fitted into the seven chandeliers that lit the room from above; brightly polished eating ware was being carefully settled at each placesetting; a boy was busily folding napkins while a young girl was taking them from him as he finished to place them on the tables.

       Galador pulled back into his office and sat heavily in his chair.  “Well, all apparently goes well enough there,” he sighed.  He indicated a second chair and turned to open a low cupboard beside him, and brought out a tray kept there with a fine decanter of wine and a few glasses.  He turned to set these on the desk, turned two of the glasses upright and carefully filled them, then presented one to his guest.  He sipped from his own glass, then turned to a representation of the table in the feast hall which hung on the wall and began to examine it carefully.  The shape of the table itself was inlaid into smoothed slate with a groove about it inside and out into which various pieces representing chairs could be fitted.  For as long as he could remember the black piece indicating the Steward of Arnor had sat at the center seat.  Now a silver piece representing the great seat of the King sat there instead, and it appeared that all was to be rearranged yet again, now that he’d spent much of the preceding day and late evening deciding who was to be settled where.

       Faralion examined the model on the slate with interest.  The feast hall of Merethrond was not set up with a main table on a dais with lesser tables in ranks below it as was true in most places. Instead there was a single great table actually put together of lesser tables, set in a great open shape similar to a child’s drawing of a water tumbler.  The Lord of the feast sat at the center of the curved bottom of the tumbler’s shape; when there was a Lady, her seat and his were at the center, and she usually sat at his right.  Closest to him were set those highest in rank and most deserving of recognition. 

       Galador had set the black seat of the Steward immediately to the right of the King with three blue seats indicating the three from Dol Amroth beyond that, but now apparently these were to be set further from the new King as he would have the Ringbearers beside him.  He chose two of the pieces he rarely used, two of spring green, and then set about sliding the seats about.  Five pieces of dark grey he now placed on the inside of the bottom of the tumbler shape in place of several bright pieces he’d had there before.  Those five pieces he set back by similar groups of colors he’d placed here and there about the length of the tables.  One of green with a white center that represented Rohan remained at the King’s left; one of the same colors had been placed directly opposite the King’s seat; it was now placed to the left of its mate and the black piece indicating the Steward and one of the three blue pieces set beyond it; and as pieces were squeezed somewhat closer together to the right of the King’s seat the two of spring green were set immediately to the King’s right in token of two of the Pheriannath and beyond the grey piece that now represented Lord Halladan.  White pieces he’d seldom used indicated the three Elves, the Dwarf, and the Wizard, with the other two spring green pieces representing the Pheriannath he set beyond those of the Rohirrim opposite the piece denoting Gandalf. 

       Red indicated the ruling house of Lossarnach, yellow Lebennin, turquoise Anfalas, amber Anorien, and so on.  Pieces used to indicate eligible daughters were now replaced with the rest of their families as he considered the five grey pieces indicating those from Umbar with distaste.  Finally, his shuffling done, he took up a piece of chalk and wrote the names or designations for those who’d been added to the table or moved with a note of finality.

       The servers had used this system for centuries to settle questions of precedence, and all knew that the patriarch of the family sat closest the Lord with wife next and then children with heir next and the remainder in order of age.  It was a system that had worked for generations, and hopefully it would continue to serve under the new King as well; but with so many unusual parties now added to the mix things looked to grow muddled in the future.  The King’s own seat had been shifted slightly right and that of Éomer King slightly right as well, making them now the central places; well, those who set up the places at the real table knew all too well how last minute shuffling worked as feasts were prepared. 

       He rose and opened the inner door, and signed to one of the chief heralds who was overseeing the settling of the seats, and brought him in to show the new designations.  The herald nodded, then took the board out to set into the area where it was hung for the use of heralds and ushers so it could be studied for the evening.

       With that done, Galador turned to the minstrel.  “I understand you wrote the lay commissioned by our new Lord King telling of the final downfall of the Enemy.”

       “Yes, the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers.”

       “Does Lord Frodo truly have but nine fingers?” Galador asked with interest.

       “Yes--the ring finger of his right hand was lost as the Enemy’s Ring at the last was destroyed.  That he and the Lord Samwise live yet is a true miracle.”

       “Lord Samwise?”

       “Yes, for both of them were ennobled.”

       “Yet he addresses the Lord Frodo as ‘Master’--how is this?”

       “In their own land Lord Frodo is the head of his family of name and lived in the house denoting the place in society he held, while Lord Samwise served as his gardener and caretaker for the estate.  But apparently they have been friends in spite of the differences in their ranks and ages since Lord Samwise was a child.  Sir Meriadoc tells me that such mixing of classes is far more common in their land of the Shire than it is in Gondor; and that although Lord Samwise and Lord Frodo have long been close in their friendship the Lord Samwise’s father has always insisted his son use the title of ‘Master’ when addressing their employer.”

       “Then they have known one another since childhood.”

       Faralion shrugged.  “Apparently the Lord Frodo was nearing adulthood when they first met, although definitely the Lord Samwise was yet a child.  I know that Lord Samwise and Sirs Meriadoc and Peregrin are all most thoughtful of the Lord Frodo and all concerned for his health and welfare.  Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin are kinsmen to Lord Frodo and are themselves most devoted to him.”

       The minstrel sipped again from his mug.  “Deep love do all of the Pheriannath hold for one another, Master Galador; and both Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin are fully pleased that Lord Samwise was ennobled alongside their cousin, declaring that had it not been for Lord Sam’s aid Lord Frodo would have died before he reached Mordor.  And the Lord Elessar has said much the same, that Lord Frodo definitely needed the presence of the younger three Hobbits to help him keep his determination to see the quest to the end.”

       “Then the Pheriannath do not age as Men do.”

       “They mature more slowly; but the Ring affected the aging of the Lord Frodo.”

       “I see.”  Galador drank thoughtfully from his own glass.  “The King seems most solicitous of him,” he said as he set his glass upon the tray once more.

       “All are most solicitous of him, including, I find, myself.  A most worthy being he is.”

       “They seem to seek to offer him food at all hours.”

       “Yes, for his digestion was harmed by what he has endured; and orders were given in Ithilien that he was to have water available at all times.  He and Lord Samwise almost died of thirst as they made their way from the borders of Mordor to Orodruin.”

       “And this new King himself?”

       “A most unusual one.  He is almost full Dúnedain in heritage, and is far older than he appears.  He is most learned, skilled at singing, speaks Rhunic and Haradri as well as Westron, Sindarin, Adunaic, and Quenya, and appears to know more about the social aspects of those of Umbar than I’d have imagined.  Prince Imrahil appears already to have given him his affections as well as his fealty; he and Éomer of Rohan speak of one another as brother already, and this is truly meant on both sides; the sons of Elrond truly consider him their brother as well, and together they labored among the ill at the side of the rest of the healers.”

       “He is a healer, our new King?”

       “Did you not hear the tale that this was how he was first recognized by our people, that he showed he has the hands of the Healer?  Our own Lord Faramir was at the very gates of death when the King called him back, then the Lady Éowyn and Sir Meriadoc, and then he went through the ranks of the wounded to aid as he could, his Elven brethren beside him.  They are all three descended from Eärendil the Mariner and the Lady Elwing.”

       “But Eärendil and Elwing are but the stuff of legends!”

       Faralion shook his head.  “Say no such thing to the Peredhil, I will warn you; for they are the sons of Elrond, who was himself son to Eärendil and Elwing, alongside his brother Elros, from whom our King is descended.”

       Galador looked at the minstrel amazed.  “But how can this be?”

       “Tales and legends have come to life before us, my friend Galador; rejoice that it is so.”

       Galador poured himself another glass of wine, and his hand was shaking so as he drank it that he spilled a good deal of it on himself.

21:  Robing 

       Frodo ate well enough for the first few minutes, but then found himself unable to eat much more and pushed the tray from him in frustration.  He watched with envy as Sam finished his applesauce.  “I wonder if my ability to eat will ever improve,” he said darkly.

       Sam felt somewhat guilty, but finished what had been brought to him.  “It might not, Master.  But don’t worry--Strider’ll see to it as you get enough to eat, even if it must be in small servings.”

       “I know.”

       “Can you get the milk down you?”

       “I’ll try.”  Frodo picked up the glass and sipped dutifully at it.  Setting it down with a quarter of its contents gone, he commented, “Hopefully it will be easier in the new house.  I can’t imagine living here--the size of the place is intimidating.”

       Sam looked about him and shrugged.  “Master Pippin must be feeling right at home, growin’ up as he did in the Great Smial.”

       “Actually, he grew up mostly on the farm outside Tuckburrow.  It was only in the winters he lived in the Great Smial until his father was made Thain when Cousin Ferumbras died.”

       “Thinkin’ of home, Mr. Frodo, I worry about them and as how they’ll be welcomed once we get back there.  Thain Paladin must be fit to be tied, his son gone off with Mr. Merry and you and me and with no warnin’ to speak of.”

       “I know, Sam.  Uncle Pal and Aunt Lanti will most likely blame me for it all.”

       “Well, you can tell ’em as it was all my fault if you wish.”

       “When it was really Merry’s?  No, I’ll take the blame.  I’m the oldest and ought to have insisted they stay behind.”  He picked up the glass again and sipped from it thoughtfully, then nibbled at a bit of bread and butter.

       “Neither of ’em would of done so, and you know it, Frodo Baggins.  What’s more, the world out here needed ’em as much as you did.  It would of been far worse for all had they stayed back in the Shire.  Captain Faramir, for example--he’d most like be dead if’n Mr. Pippin’d not of been here to tell that Beregond as how the Steward had gone mad and was lookin’ to burn hisself and his son both alive; and it took both the Lady Éowyn and Mr. Merry to kill that Nazgul, it did.”

       Frodo shivered and he set down the bread.  “I know that, but I’d still rather they’d remained home.  Oh, Sam, I know we should go soon; but I find myself reluctant to leave Aragorn’s side.”

       “You could always stay, Master.  It’s not as if there was much of the family of Baggins there no more, after all.  And I’d stay aside you.”

       “You’ll do no such a thing, Samwise Gamgee.  Rosie would come to Minas Tirith herself to peel my hide off my bones, and both young Tom and Jolly would come to avenge their sister’s grief on you.”

       Sam gave a slight laugh.  “Yes, they’d do that, right enough.”  He watched as unconsciously Frodo again took the glass and sipped at it, nodding slightly in approval.  “Anyways, as long as we’re here you just do as you’ve done so far.”

       Frodo nodded absently as he drank some more.

       Gandalf and Lord Halladan’s arrival heartened both, and soon they were accompanying the two of them back to the King’s quarters.  Halladan and those of the Grey Company had been given quarters in an almost abandoned barracks in the Sixth Circle which was being refurbished now, although Halladan indicated that Lord Faramir had offered to give him rooms in the Steward’s wing if he desired. 

       Frodo agreed to rest again for a time, and Samwise went through the clothing which Aragorn had ordered made for them while they were recovering to choose what they should wear at the Coronation Feast to come.  Sam chose to wear a flame-colored shirt under the surcoat he’d worn earlier, and he prepared a shirt of silver-blue for Frodo to wear under the blue one with the star.  Merry and Pippin were to take full part in the feast, and he helped Merry choose outfits for the both of them, warm burgundies and browns for Merry and cheerful greens for Pippin.  Sam was glad that Aragorn's words about no new clothes for the young Hobbit hadn't turned out to be strictly true after all.

       Their own things would be taken down to the new house just before the feast, and they’d see it first afterwards.  Sam just hoped his Master would hold up properly throughout it.

       Finally, with Iorvas’s help the three of them were dressed and their hair brushed, and Iorvas went into the King’s own chambers to help him prepare as Sam saw to Frodo.  Frodo hadn’t slept, but had rested, thinking, in the coolness of the room.  He smiled solemnly as Sam entered, then rose to allow Sam to help him with the shirt and surcoat once more. 

       “I never dreamt that at my time of life I should need dressing like a bairn, Sam.  I don’t believe I shall ever recover completely.”

       “You were awful bad hurt, Mr. Frodo.  You can’t expect that it will all go away.”

       “No, I suppose not.”  He accepted the brushing that Sam offered him, then drank a small amount of water and set his glass back down again.  “Shall we see how Aragorn is accepting his coddling?”

       Aragorn was dressed in a robe of black velvet, embroidered with a white tree and with seven stars between its boughs.  His face was still as he reached down to adjust the sleeves.  Hardorn and Iorvas between them were straightening away the discarded clothing he’d worn earlier, and Aragorn turned to look at these two who’d just entered his room.  His expression softened.  “The two of you look marvelous.  But you will need your circlets, you know.”

       “Aragorn!” Frodo said in protest, to which his friend laughed as he reached for a brush to use on his own hair.

       “If I must wear the Star of Elendil, you can bear wearing your circlets of honor.”

       Sam gave a deep sigh.  “Only for you would I do this, you know.”

       Soon they were preceding Aragorn out of his own chambers and into the receiving room at the end of the hallway where Gandalf stood with Sam’s and Frodo’s circlets in hand.  “There you are,” he said.  “Well, come here then and let me place these.  Then we must go off to the feast hall before Master Galador suffers from a fit of apoplexy.”

       Aragorn sighed.  “No, not apoplexy, not that one.  I’d put him down for a brainstorm, myself.”  Gandalf gave a chuckle as he settled Sam’s circlet in his dark golden curls. 

       Elrohir and Elladan entered wearing long robes of grey and gold, each wearing his own circlet, rather simple fillets of silver set with berils.  Behind them walked Legolas and Gimli, each looking much as they’d done that morning.  The faces of the four shone with satisfaction as they looked at Aragorn and the two Hobbit with him.

       “Very fine indeed,” grunted Gimli.  “No question as to the identity of the King, I must say.”

       Hardorn came out of the King’s chambers carrying the Elessar brooch, which Aragorn carefully pinned to the neck of his robe.  “No mantle?” Hardorn asked.

       “No, not tonight.  It’s already warm, and I’d be stifling were I to wear a mantle over this.”

       Merry and Pippin came out of the second room prepared for the Hobbits’ use and joined the group, pausing to smile in pleasure at the looks of the rest.  Merry looked up at Aragorn, and said, “Very nice indeed, my Lord King.”

       “I must say that your own father would be pleased at the figure the Master’s heir is cutting this night, were he to see you.”

       “Yes, he would, and then he’d pull out a switch and begin to use it on me for leaving them all in confusion for this long.”

       Together they walked in procession back to the main hall, where they were joined by Éomer’s party led by Master Balstador.  Aragorn smiled at the sight of Éomer and Éowyn and those of their household knights who would sit behind them.  “It is an honor to be seen in the company of your people this night, my brother,” he said, his face alight with pleasure.  “Apparently those of your folk who went back to Rohan to carry your dispatches chose well from your own garb.”

       Éomer was examining him in return.  “You can forget how I look, my friend.  Never could I appear so magnificent.”

       They went through the Citadel first and out past White Tree and fountain, across the Court of Gathering to the keel of the great outthrust of rock which split the city.  There Aragorn went forward alone to stand in sight of the whole of Minas Tirith as the sun set in glory, the new King before he went in to attend his own Coronation Feast.  All could hear the calls of joy from below as songs were raised in all the ways of the city in gladness that the King had indeed come again to Gondor.

       Halladan and Faramir stood near the Hall of Merethrond on their return, both smiling at the magnificence they saw approaching.  “A worthy robe indeed, my Lord,” Faramir commented.  “I must meet the embroiderer and see to having some new robes made for myself for the future--although I don’t know that any will again match your appearance.”  He examined the circlet Aragorn wore.  “The Elendilmir.  How long it has been since it was worn here.”

       Aragorn’s smile grew more solemn.  “This is the first time this has been worn here.  The stone for this circlet was made here in Ennor by the smiths of Imladris for our adar, who gifted it to Valandil in place of that lost with Isildur.  I hope that one day the original may be found again, however--both my mother and I have had visions of it found anew.”

       As they turned to come to the private entrance where the King’s party was to enter from, Faramir said quietly, “From the Roll of Arnor I gather that your Lady Mother was yet relatively young when she died.”

       “Yes.  She never truly appeared to recover from the loss of my father so soon after my own birth, and truly regretted I was but the one child born to her.  She loved me very much and remained with me for the time I lived in Imladris, then returned to our own people to finish her life.  She told me that with me she had given the whole of her hope unto the descendants of Númenor, but had kept none for herself.  I think she feared what would happen if Sauron should have won, and would not live long enough to see that should it occur.  I grieve that your own mother died so young.”

       “At least, as is true for you, she lived long enough for me to have known her and to have rejoiced in her love.”

       “She must be joyful to see what you have become.”

       “I would rather have her here, you know--her, my father, and my brother.”

       Aragorn looked down briefly, then back into the younger Man’s eyes.  “I, too, would wish that.  However, that not being possible, we shall rejoice in what has been given us.”

       Together they turned to the curtained entrance, and servants within carefully pulled the drapes back and behind the waiting half-rings set to hold them, and watched as the lesser lords and ladies were led within.

22:  Guests at the Feast

       Wasnior of Umbar looked at the party waiting inside the empty gateway to Minas Tirith with concern.  There before an honor guard, clad in fine mail, stood a tall man with an outer robe of blue, white, and silver, the Swan of Dol Amroth displayed on the front.  Yet this Man was young, too young to be Prince Imrahil.  Wasnior looked right and left at the six who’d accompanied him, Beslor, Angrapain, Dorath, Belladon, and two to serve them, and saw that the four of his fellow lords at least looked presentable.  He led the bow.

       “My Lord,” he said unctuously, “I am Lord Wasnior of Belden within Umbar, aide to Lord Marcipor, ruler of our people.  I have come to treat with the lords of Gondor.”

       “Welcome, my Lord Wasnior, to you and your folk on your arrival in the White City.  I am sorry that it may be a few days before you will be able to meet with those you desire to see; it is only this day that our Lord has returned and been welcomed.  However, you have arrived in good time for the feast, and you and those with you are welcome to attend.  I am Elphir, heir to Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth.”

       “I was unaware that Lord Faramir had attended the battle before the Black Gates, my Lord.  I had thought that battle led by your father and his allies from Rohan and the North.”

       Any hint of gracious welcome faded from the young Man’s face.  “That battle was led, Lord Wasnior, by our King returned; it is just this day he has entered into the capitol and has accepted the Winged Crown.  It is his Coronation Feast you are bidden to attend.”  He turned rather pointedly to lead the way within, and the mixed guard in blue, grey, and black and silver formed around the seven that comprised the embassy.  A youth was beckoned forward by Lord Elphir, and in a low voiced directive was instructed, then he was sent off on the run up the ways of the city to those waiting above.

       “Orders have been given to prepare a guest house for the use of your party.  Will the remainder of your folk remain upon your ship?”

       The meaning was clear--those who’d crewed the small bark on which Wasnior’s people had come to Gondor’s heart were not to leave the ship.  “Yes, only the five of us and these two to serve us were to actually enter the city.”

       “I’ve sent word that the smaller house considered for your use is to be made ready for you.  I believe you will find it comfortable and fully adequate to your needs.”

       “When is this feast?”

       “A half mark after sunset, my Lord.”

       Wasnior was concerned--that was not long, and they had yet to make it to the upper levels of the city.  How they were to appear suitably garbed at a feast on such short notice....  And the King was returned?  Since when had there been a King in Gondor?  Unless there was indeed an heir remaining in the North, born perhaps to the line of Isildur?  But the word there was that the last known Lord of that lineage had died some eighty years or more past, and that his only son had died of fever, still but a child.

       Anxiety growing within the turmoil of his thoughts, Wasnior followed his guide up through the city of Minas Tirith, feeling as if the eyes of Gondor were indeed on guard against him and his errand.

*******

       At last the names and titles of Faramir and Halladan were called, and they straightened, then walked within, following the two ushers to the seats prepared for each.  Then it was Merry and Pippin, then Frodo and Sam, and finally the Lord Éomer King of Rohan and his sister the Lady Éowyn.  Now only Aragorn himself was left with Hardorn, who stood as Guard of Honor this night, now dressed in the Black and Silver of the Guard of the Citadel.  Briefly the two faced each other, embraced one another, and prepared to step through the parted curtains.

       “The Lord King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, Lord of Gondor and Arnor,” announced the chief Herald, and all straightened and turned toward the Lord’s entrance, watching the coming of the tall figure robed in black, the shining jewel upon his brow, the almost equally tall Guard behind him, shining sword drawn in readiness.

       Wasnior and his fellow lords peered through the curtains to the vestibule to which they’d just been led, their own attention focused on the tall figure they saw approaching the great seat set prepared for the King.  As Wasnior had feared, their own preparations had been frighteningly rushed, and they’d arrived at the feast hall after all others were seated.  There would be no announcement of their names and titles, he knew, not now that the King himself had been shown to his seat.  He only hoped they’d been given seats at the end of one of the two wings to the feast table so that they would not attract attention.

       No, that hope was dashed when an usher appeared at the curtains and beckoned them within, then led them between the two wings to the inner table and up its length to places opposite the King himself.  It was even more alarming to Wasnior than if they’d been shown to a place at the ends, to be beneath the gaze of the new King himself as well as the Lords of Gondor.  What was more alarming still was the nature of those who were to sit by their party--Elves, a Dwarf, and a Wizard in white.  Curunír was here?  But the rumor was that he was dead!

       Together all stood and waited as the eyes of the King examined the room.  He was very tall, well in excess of six feet, Wasnior judged, and clearly the tallest Man in the room; although the two dark-haired Elves on either side were even taller than he.  There was no mistaking the circlet the Man wore--stories had come to Umbar of the appearance of Elendil the Tall and what he’d looked like when he appeared wearing the Star of Elendil.  Yes, definitely from the North, then.  Hair very dark brown near to black, short but full beard, deep-set eyes of clear grey barely touched by hints of blue and green like the Sea, skin tanned by years of exposure to the sun and weather.  Wide shoulders, but not exceptionally so; relatively slender, but with the slenderness of a mature tree.  How old he might be Wasnior would not guess--those of pure Dúnedain heritage, after all, often lived well over a century before they showed signs of age.

       Then Wasnior looked to the King’s right and his attention was captured again.  Directly to the King’s right was a very small figure.  Did the King have a son, then?  But, no--not a son, not with that face.  That was no boy’s face; and his ears, where they showed through the dark curls, were definitely gently pointed.  What race from among the Children of Iluvatar might he be? Wasnior wondered.  And beside him still another, this time with short curls of darkest gold, broader in the face, but with a most responsible expression on his countenance.  Both were crowned with fine circlets which, if Wasnior was a judge of metals, could only be of mithril.  Wasnior looked about, and spotted two more, both some taller than the two standing by the King, one with hair of a warm brown and the other with auburn curls, both also well dressed, standing on the other side of the party from Rohan and the Steward of Gondor.

       The woman from Rohan was tall and slender, dressed in a white gown over an under gown of dark green, both her waist and her head encircled by linked golden flowers, each centered with a garnet.  On the other side of her stood the tall figure of Faramir son of Denethor, a gold circlet on his own dark hair, his grey eyes examining Wasnior coolly.  As for the young King of Rohan--tall for his own folk, though not as tall as the new King of Gondor; long golden hair now lying loose about his shoulders, his restless blue eyes actively examining Wasnior’s party, weighing them to a nicety.  Both the young King and the woman by him stood as did Prince Imrahil beyond them, as did the new King of Gondor himself, as did the one in grey and silver with his circle of seven silver Stars on his surcoat who stood beyond the two small ones, as did the two sons of Prince Imrahil who stood beyond them--all with the balance of swordsmen.

       At last the new King spoke.  “I welcome you all to this feast celebrating my coronation today.  For those who could not arrive in time for my entrance into the city this morning, I am the Lord King Elessar.  I was born Aragorn son of Arathorn in Eriador and am descended, father to son, through many generations, from Arvedui, Valandil, Isildur, and Elendil.  Although the land of Gondor chose not to accept the claims of Arvedui, it has accepted mine.  The lands of Gondor and Arnor are now rejoined into one realm again, one which will have in time two capitols, one in the Southlands and one to the North, again on the site of Annúminas on the shores of Lake Evendim as was true of old.

       “Sauron has been cast down through the destruction of his own artifice, and will not arise more.  I shall be the last King of the Eldar days, much to the loss of Middle Earth, for I deem few of those among the Elves will choose to remain in the mortal lands once I am gone.  This causes me great grief, for it was among the Elves of Imladris I was raised and protected after the death of my father, and after I myself nearly died in the fevers that raged throughout Middle Earth at the time.

       “I have returned to Gondor and the City of Minas Tirith, and rejoice that you have accepted me and have followed me against the hosts of Mordor.  Let us now prepare to rejoice in the days of peace to come, and rejoice together that this night so many hopes have been fulfilled.”

       He smiled, then turned to the West.  All within the Hall did likewise; and finally all sat and the feast was begun.

       Chairs with high seats had been prepared for the small ones who sat beside the King, and there was no question that these were not children.  Their faces had the look of ones who have been perhaps ill but were now well on the road to recovery.  That of the one with dark hair was finely featured, intelligent and observant, rather ascetic in nature.  That one took up his fork, then dropped it, and the King was instantly turning to him, reaching out his hand, taking the right one of the small one, asking quiet questions and listening intently as he massaged the hand briefly.  The small one closed his eyes, then opened them, obviously relieved.  He smiled and spoke again softly to the King, who smiled in return, placing his hand on the slight shoulder, then turned away to answer the question put to him by the King of Rohan.

       The small one then turned toward Wasnior, his own eyes, eyes of a clear, startling blue, examining the party from Umbar much as the others had been doing.  He took a bite of his first course and chewed it thoughtfully.  For the rest had been placed plates of green stuffs; to this one had been brought a plate on which rested chopped fruits.  Wasnior wondered about this difference.  Finally he decided to find out who and what this one was.

       “I beg your pardon, small Lord, but I do not recognize your kind.”

       There was some color in the small one’s cheeks as he replied, “I beg your pardon, sir.  I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire.  The Elven name for my people is Periannath.  Our land is far to the North and the West of here.”

       “Then you came South with the Lord Elessar?”

       The Perian’s expression was steady as he answered, “Yes, we came South with Aragorn and other companions from Eriador.”

       “You are a lord among your people?”

       Frodo Baggins of the Shire gave a smile that was totally devoid of humor.  “I fear that my title of Lord has no relevance within the Shire at all, and my own people will be unlikely to recognize it, or honor it even if it is told to them.”

       Realizing that somehow he’d given offense to this one, Wasnior looked to the other who sat beside him.  He was broader in build, his hair the dark gold noted earlier, and his eyes were a similar color, a golden brown that was intelligent and considering.  He examined Wasnior, then turned his attention to the one who sat beside him.  “Is there ought I can do for you, Frodo?” he asked.

       Frodo Baggins smiled and shrugged.  “Not now, Sam.  Eat your own salad.”

       “If you’d like a taste of mine, I’ll share gladly with you.”

       “And if you would like some of my fruit I’ll do the same, as you know.”

       “You just be sure and eat what you can, now.”  An exchange of nods, and the two turned their attention back to their dishes.

       Wasnior glanced back to the right to find the new King was watching him, evaluating his reaction to the two Periannath.  After a moment the King asked, “Is your salad to your liking, my Lord?”

       “It is quite good, really.”  He ate a few more bites and watched as the King did the same.  Finally he commented, “I have not met any Periannath before.”

       “It is unusual for any of them to leave their own land.  I’ve heard of only a few ever having done so.”

       “You have seen their land?”

       “Yes, I’ve seen it and have even ridden through it.  It is a pleasant enough place, but in the end is of interest only to their own folk.  It is fertile, but no more so than many other places throughout Arnor.  It is near to the Sea, but not so near as to frighten such as these.”

       “Periannath are afraid of the Sea?”

       “Not all of them, but more than aren’t.  They are more the children of Yavanna than of Ulmo, I fear.”

       “Oh--a farming people.”

       “Yes, very much so.”

       “Your own people trade with them?”

       “Few of their folk will trade outside their own borders, save in the Breelands where they have some kin.  Although I suppose that will now change.”

       The one called Sam looked up.  “I suspect it well might.  We often have excellent years, and we might look to tradin’ some of our wine and wheat South, perhaps for some of the fruits we can’t grow so far North.”  He looked at the one called Frodo Baggins at that, who was still working on his plate of fruit.

       “I’ll make certain to send some fruits North to you as they come into season, Sam.  I’d hate for Frodo to do without.”

       Again the cheeks of the one called Frodo reddened somewhat.

       “And you can believe as we’ll be shippin’ off some barrels of pipeweed to you.”

       “Ah, a worthwhile trade, Sam.”

       The smile between the two was familiar.  Sam had finished his salad and sat back as a server smiled down on him and took the empty plate away, bringing now a soup to set before him.  “Thank you,” the Perian said, smiling back, then turned back to his own setting, obviously trying to decide which utensil to use next. 

       “The spoon furthest to the right,” directed Frodo.

       “Thanks, Mr. Frodo,” replied Sam, picking up the indicated spoon and applying himself.

       The one called Frodo straightened, looking at his own plate with regret.  A server refilled his goblet of water, and he reached forward and took it up, sipping gratefully at it.  It was then Wasnior realized that one of the fingers on the Perian’s hand was missing, and wondered at it.  Was it that which had caused his hand to apparently hurt earlier, then?

       Another server leaned over the Perian and spoke a soft question, then lifted the plate and carried it away as another set a small bowl of broth before him.  Soon Wasnior was surrendering his own plate and accepting a bowl of a fine fish soup.

       The rest received wine; Frodo was served the juice of the orange fruit.  During the fish course Frodo was served curds and whey.  Others were served large servings of fowl; Frodo was given a small serving of the same over a bed of rice which he looked at with great distaste.  When the meat course came Frodo waved away the plate presented to him, obviously unable to eat more at the time.  A server came to speak to the King, and went off; a time later and a dish with small amounts of small carrots and celery, nutmeats, slices of baked apple, and flat breads was placed by the Perian.  Over the course of the rest of the feast he continued to eat small amounts from time to time from this, watching apparently with envy as course after course was brought to the rest dining there.

       Wasnior watched the Perian with interest, which was a distraction from all else at the table that evening.  It was better than realizing the new King was watching him--something about those searching grey eyes was most disturbing to Lord Marcipor’s aide.  It was certainly more pleasant that watching his own companions.  Dorath was eating as though he’d never seen a decent amount of food decently cooked and elegantly served in his life; Belladon was examining each item presented to him as though it contained poison and would consent to eat only swallows of anything; Beslor was sitting stolidly and eating each dish as it came with such singular lack of interest that Wasnior felt that it would be more enjoyable to sit by a cow in a field and watch it chew its cud.  Only Angrapain was eating with any indication of grace, but then Angrapain always exhibited grace, even when he was involved in the horrible things he appeared to enjoy doing that sickened others.  Why these had been chosen for this embassy Wasnior could not imagine.  None exhibited the type of behavior one would wish to see in a representative of Umbar to another land, and particularly at a formal dinner.

       As the final dish for the meal was presented the King leaned down to speak with his small companion, who shrugged apparently in response to a question.  This last course was candied cherries in a thick cream; a small dish was set in front of the Perian, who thanked the server courteously as he had throughout the meal, and who tasted it almost as suspiciously as Belladon did.  He ate a small amount with what appeared to be a level of pleasure, and then stopped, looking up apologetically as the King asked another question and once again shrugged.  Again the King placed his hand on the small one’s shoulder.

       Music had been played throughout, not that the general conversation around the table had allowed much of it to be heard.  Now, as the servers began removing the last dishes but did not replace them with others, the music stopped for a time, then began again, louder as the King arose, the rest of the company hastily following suit and giving bows to him and those who sat closest by him.  No closing remarks appeared forthcoming, and the King instead led the way about the length of the tables back to the open area which all had crossed as they’d entered the hall.  During the last hour chairs had been brought from the edges of the hall into the areas about the dance floor, and now all moved there, some taking seats, others obviously intent on joining the dance.

       It was at this moment the new King looked slightly embarrassed as he approached the Lady from Rohan, as the woman of highest rank present, and asked if she would partner him in the first dance.  She flushed somewhat and looked a question not at the young King of her land but instead at the Lord Steward Faramir.  He smiled and made a gesture shooing her onto the dance floor.

       A servant had come with a low chair, almost one intended for a child, and set it for the dark haired Perian, who looked up again with thanks and sat in it.  Soon another came to set a small table by him, followed by another with a small tray on which were foods suitable to be eaten with the fingers and two goblets of water.  Again the quiet courtesy shown by the Perian.  Then the other Periannath were clustered about the seated one, the one with the hair of dark gold taking possession of the second goblet.  Somehow Wasnior was not surprised to see a second low chair produced and this one take it.  He examined the faces of the two taller Periannath, noting they were alert and cheerful, but each also exhibited signs he had been less than whole recently.  The one with the auburn curls and green eyes had a narrower face, more similar to the one named Frodo Baggins, and he held himself in check as if he held within a fount of restless energy that would have him careering off the walls and other guests if not properly controlled.  The one with the hair of warm brown also had about him the air of responsibility seen in the one called Sam, his eyes examining the company carefully.  After a moment he leaned over to whisper into the ear of Frodo, who smiled up at him and who could be seen mouthing the words “Go on, then.”  With a brief nod the responsible one turned to walk toward the young King of Rohan.

       Angrapain was approaching a younger daughter of a lesser lord, apparently intent on gaining his own partner for the coming dance.  The young woman accepted his offer, and Wasnior made up his mind to approach the Man when the dance was over and remind him their orders were to refrain from offering insult to the people of Gondor.  It was one restriction Wasnior knew well Angrapain would prefer to forget if he was allowed.  Beslor, Belladon, and Dorath found unclaimed chairs nearby and brought them over  for themselves and Wasnior, and together they sat.

       Beslor commented in a low tone, “The new King sets great store by these Periannath, I see.  And all apparently defer to them as well.”  Wasnior nodded.  Perhaps the stolid posture had been masking awareness of what was going on about them after all.  Beslor’s next words confirmed this.  “And apparently there is an understanding between the Lady from Rohan and Lord Faramir.”

       “So I noticed.”  Wasnior realized that the apparently blank expression Beslor sported proved excellent camouflage for one who could possibly serve as a spy in this land, now that the world had changed.

       It would be expected that the new King would lead the first dance, and together they watched to see how well he would manage it.  The introduction for the first set was begun, and all watched as King and Lady took the prescribed positions.  It could be quickly seen that although the new King had been trained in dancing he was not exceptionally gifted at the activity, and that the Lady was markedly better than he for all that neither was she inspired at it. 

       The Perian Frodo was watching the dancing, his eyes suddenly coming alight, and in moments his bare foot could be seen tapping in time to the music, and his arms lifting as if taking in the expected movements for the forms.  There was an eagerness in him that Wasnior found intriguing, a longing in his expression.  Suddenly Wasnior’s attention was drawn back to the bare feet with the decided curls atop them--a definite difference between the Periannath and Men, he noted with deep surprise.  A quick look at the other three, including the one who now stood by the young King of Rohan, showed this to be apparently a universal trait for the race.

       Wasnior turned his attention to that young King.  Word from those who’d fought on the Pelennor in Sauron’s hosts had been that King Théoden of Rohan had fallen on the Pelennor beneath the onslaught of the Lord of the Nazgul and the great winged beast he rode as he stooped on the battle.  This must be his son Théodred.  There had come after a tale of confusion as their own ships had approached the Harlond, only instead of the expected swordsmen from Umbar the ships had disgorged Men from all across Southern Gondor, including, it was said, warriors from the Northern Lands as well.  A black banner had been displayed on the greatest of the ships, but what was figured on it those who’d returned to Umbar had not been able to say, only that at the sight of it the forces of Mordor and Harad who fought between them and the docks had gone almost mad with fear and confusion.  One had spoken of the Standard of Elendil, but no one had countenanced that.  Realizing that the tide of the battle had turned in earnest this time, those from Umbar had begun making their way Eastward and had fled through Osgiliath and across the bridge of boats that had been created and slipped away Southward back toward their own lands.

       So, Théoden had indeed died, and this was the new King.  He wondered at the Lady--perhaps the Princess Éowyn.  Had she married her cousin, then?  There could be no question they were closely related, their brows and noses being so similar.  If only intelligence had been more clear.  He was watching the dancing of the Lady with the new King of Gondor with a marked concern, that was certain.  When at last the dance was over she returned laughing to the Lord of her land.  “I fear Aragorn’s no dancer,” she commented. 

       The Lord Elessar, who’d followed, relief his duty had been done in starting the dancing clear in his face, smiled and shrugged.  “I regret, my Lady Éowyn, that this is true.  I’ve had time to learn to dance, of course; but I fear I never had a great deal of heart for the exercise.”

       The Perian Frodo had risen, carrying his goblet of water and following after them.  “Aragorn, that was pathetic!”

       “You could do better, mellon nín?”

       “Of course I could!  My Lady, if you will allow me to demonstrate by leading you out in the next set?”

       Again she looked to her own Lord and Lord Faramir, surprise and amusement in her eyes as she allowed herself to go out again, pausing only for them to leave the goblet on the small table as they passed.

       They joined the forming line some ways into it, and at last the music began.  For much of the first turn the Perian was simply marking time, watching how the forms were run; but as the second repetition began he came into his own.  No one watching this dance could be in ignorance that the Perian Frodo Baggins was a gifted dancer, his movements certain and graceful, his head lifted in enjoyment.  No one cared he was little more than half the height of his partner and not a Man at all--so well did he dance that those around him caught his flame and the tone of the whole group was uplifted.  Through six repetitions he danced, and then suddenly he flagged, and the Lady Éowyn swiftly withdrew them both from the dancing and helped him back to his chair, which the one with auburn curls had occupied as he watched the dancing with unexpected joy and satisfaction.  Seeing his friend leaving the set, however, he swiftly rose and went forward, lending his shoulder to his friend.

       The King was there before anyone was aware, kneeling before the now seated Perian and setting a hand to the side of his throat.  The goblet of water was lifted and he drank from it eagerly, then the King was rising and returning to the company once more, drawing attention away from the Perian to allow him more time to recover.  The Lady leaned over to kiss the top of the Perian’s head, then returned to where her Lord and the Lord Faramir stood, now joined by the tall Man in the grey robe with the circle of seven Stars upon it.

       The Wizard was approaching through the throng, Prince Imrahil and another lord in the colors of Anfalas following in his wake.  The three other of the Periannath were clustered now about the Perian Frodo, and he was seeking to wave them away.  His clear voice was saying, in as low tones as he could manage, “I’m all right, Sam, Pippin.  Merry, don’t fuss.  I only became fatigued.  It’s not that long since we were still abed, you know.”

       Confirmation that there had been illness known, perhaps whatever happening had brought with it the loss of the finger.

       Those dancing had continued on, but it took two repetitions of the forms for all to return to competence and recover from the loss to their number.  When at last the dance was over several drifted the way of the Perian to express their concern for his well-being and their admiration for his gift.  No one appeared to worry that he remained seated, and several took turns going down on a knee to speak with him.  He remained dignified, as did the other one who remained seated.

       The one with the auburn curls followed the one with brown hair as he returned to the side of the King of Rohan.  “Oh, Merry, I thought a dream had come true!” he was saying.  “It has been so long since he danced last.  To see him out there again, his face alight, bringing out the best in his partner....”

       “He’s still not recovered, Pip.”

       “Why not, Merry?  I was hurt the same time he was, and I’m not laid so low.”

       The one with the brown hair gave a look of grief at the one now again sitting in the low chair.  “There you’re wrong, Peregrin Took.  The wounding started a long time before that, probably has been going on since Moria.”

       “He has to recover, Merry.  He has to!”  The exclamation was low and intense.

       “And if he doesn’t, Pippin?”

       Wasnior looked back at the seated Perian, saw the grave courtesy he showed the young woman now speaking with him, saw how he unconsciously rubbed at his left shoulder as if it were aching, but as if that ache was familiar.

23:  Circle of Light 

       Gandalf and Legolas slipped Frodo out of the crowd early, and took him down the ramp to the house that would now serve as temporary home to the Fellowship, except for Aragorn himself.  Halladan and Elrohir had joined them, opened the door and brought Frodo to the room Gandalf had seen prepared for him in what had plainly been a library or study.  Together Gandalf and Legolas helped Frodo out of his clothes and into a nightshirt, and showed him the side door into the bathing room and privy.  Having a private door into the privy would be a great help, Gandalf realized, and he was glad that when the pipes and drains had been added to this house such an extra door had been cut through from the study.

       A tall narrow window, heavily draped, looked out onto the street between two of the bookshelves; a smaller one with a casement which could be opened looked eastward beyond the bedstead.  The bed was yet tall for Frodo to climb into, even with the stepped stool Gandalf had asked be placed there.  With Gandalf’s help he got into the bed, sat up against the headboard and sipped from the cup of water provided, and smiled sadly at Wizard and Elf.  “I only pushed myself too far,” he commented.  He sighed, then looked at the window.  “I would like my wind rods hung there in the window if I might,” he said.

       “We’ll see to it tomorrow,” promised Gandalf.  “You were superb.  The years have only made you a better dancer.”

        Frodo’s expression darkened.  “For all I’ve barely danced for so many of them?” he asked somberly as he set the mug on the table beside him.  “Was this another pleasure stolen from me by the Ring?”

       “I strongly suspect this is true, Frodo.  You would not claim It, and you made no move to leave your place.  It would seek to punish you as It could; and to remove your pleasures one by one would fitting to Its nature.”

       Frodo lifted his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.  “I hate It more and more by the day.”

       “So do we all, Frodo.  So do we all.”

       The door to the room opened, and Elrohir came with Frodo’s evening draught.  The Hobbit made a face.  “And how much longer will I need to take these?  For the rest of my life?”

       “It is possible, Frodo.”  The son of Elrond looked down on him with compassion. 

        Frodo shivered.  “Robbed of the hope of marriage and children; robbed of dancing; and now robbed of my health.”  He took the mug and with a sour expression he drank it down, returning it to Elrohir as rapidly as possible and reaching again for the water.  After finishing that which was in the cup he thought for a minute, then looked up at the Elven healer.  “Can I rebuild my ability to do things again--normal things such as walking, riding, dancing?”

       “Yes.  But it takes a commitment to work on it regularly at least twice a day, every day from now on.  It means getting out each day and walking, the first few days on level ground, and then on steeper and steeper ground until you can walk freely again.  But the probability is that you will never again be able to walk all day as you did before, no matter how you try it.”

       “I hope that I will not again be called upon to walk all the day as in the past year,” Frodo replied, “but I do wish, once I get home again, to be able once more to take a proper walking trip to Buckland again.  I wish to be able to resume something resembling my life as it was before.”  He thought for a moment.  “Sam is recovering, and doing so well at it.  I envy him so.”

       “Sam was not stabbed with a Morgul knife, and did not carry the Ring awakened for weeks on end, nor have It first take him and then lose It as you did.  For all that he was beside you the entire time, Sam still bore the lesser burden.”

       “He bore with me, and the Valar know that was burden enough.”

       Gandalf answered, “Oh, there is no question of that, Frodo, and truly the scars of watching one he loves as dearly as father, brother, and child all in one person nearly die, descending into the madness of the Ring’s visions and threats and persuasions, has left him also deeply scarred.  But the fact remains that his physical scars are little more than skin deep, while your physical scars have affected your entire body.

       “You and he bear similar mental and spiritual scars; but yours are the deeper, for the weapon was buried long in the center of your heart and mind, while It barely brushed the surface of his.  He was stronger than you the short time he bore It, although not as strong as you were during the years before you left the Shire.  He could still fight It with every fiber of his being while It had come to the point of hollowing out your soul.  It used every grief, every stubbed toe, every fear for the safety of others, every regret for the stars not seen to assault you; and as the journey continued and you had less and less to sustain you It could work more quickly and surely.  But with you shielding him as you did while you held It, how could It be ready for the defense he was able to give It when he took It from you when he thought you dead?”

       “And what do you know of it working on me when I was still in the Shire?”

       Gandalf looked at him intently, obviously evaluating how much to tell.  Finally he spoke.  “The last time I visited you before I went in search of Gollum, you had a nightmare, one which I believe had been recurring for some time.  It was a night that Sam had stayed overnight in Bag End.”

       Frodo looked at him warily.  “Which one--the eyes or the running?”

       “It appeared to involve both.  You were running in terror from the Eye.  I could not at the time understand why it was given to me to share this dream with you, but I suspect that it was intended I should at last begin to accept the nature of the Ring Bilbo had given you.

       “You were running, I believe through familiar tunnels of Brandy Hall at the first, then through nightmare tunnels which were turning into caverns full of bones.  But as you ran, you kept checking backwards to make certain what sought you did not turn onto any other path.  Suddenly you stopped, and you became Took angry.  You were glaring behind you, for the Eye had begun to turn aside, seeking a different target.  ‘No!’ you cried, and this you cried aloud, for I heard you from Bilbo’s old room, ‘No!  If you wish to chase someone you shall chase me, not my friends!’  And it was as if a shielding circle of Light went out from you and encircled both you and the Eye, forcing It to seek you and turning It away from whatever was outside that circle.  And what was just outside that circle, Frodo, was Sam.”

       Frodo just looked intently into the Wizard’s eyes. 

       Gandalf continued, “I rose and went into your room, and I could see the Light of your Being very clearly.  Rarely do I see such things made clear in defiance save by the greatest of Elves--they are usually manifested most strongly in times when the spirit is most at peace or moments of great emotion.  Certainly I could see that of Aragorn this morning.”

       Frodo nodded.  “Yes, I could see it, too.”

       “I rather thought you could.”  He stroked his beard.  “That night I could see yours raised as a barrier, a barrier between something and Samwise Gamgee.  So bright was it that the Eye could see nothing else save you, not even me when I entered that room.  And It became confused and withdrew, and the dream faded for you.  You suddenly woke, and when I told you I thought you’d had a nightmare----”

       “----I told you that I’d dreamt of falling.”

       “So you remember?”

       “Yes, I remember.”  He started to drink from the cup he held, realized it was empty.  Legolas took it from him, refilled it and gave it back.

       Gandalf watched him before he went on, “The next evening we were walking toward the Green Dragon, and Sam, who’d gone to the Cotton’s farm earlier in the day, was walking back to Number Three with Rosie and Young Tom at his side, the three of them laughing, Sam and Rosie holding hands as they walked.  Suddenly you started to look after her and the look in your eye--then suddenly that stopped.  It was as if a small child had just made an improper joke before its father, and you said quietly but still aloud, ‘No, never that.  Behave yourself!’  And you turned very deliberately away.”

       Frodo’s face had gone white.  “You remember that?”

       “Well, apparently you do, too.”

       “Only because you reminded me.”  He looked into the depths of his cup, drank a quarter of its contents, then set it aside.  “So, that was the Ring?  I thought it was just that perverse side of me I hated.”

       “Frodo, everyone has such a perverse side to themselves, but they don’t slam doors shut in their head with their Lights of Being when it whispers to them.”

       “You saw me using the Light of my Being on it?”

       The Wizard nodded.  “It was the fact that twice in less than a day’s time you were using your Light of Being as a shield that first truly made me fearful that what you bore was indeed the Enemy’s Ring.  I’d considered it several times, you know, but couldn’t convince myself that Saruman would lie to the entire Council about it.”

       “So that was why I didn’t see you or hear from you for so long?”

       “It was part of it.  It was then that first the signs began that Sauron was sending servants again to the areas around the Gladden Fields to search for It.”

       Frodo nodded.

       “It remains, Frodo, that you somehow realized that although the Eye was seeking you and It was trying to corrupt you, yet there in the Shire you were able to construct very effective defenses against them, defenses that were intended to shield not so much yourself but others--and particularly Sam, the friend closest to you.”

       Frodo thought deeply, rubbing at the place where his finger had been lost.  Elrohir asked, “Does the hand pain you, Frodo?”

       Frodo almost answered No but thought better of it.  “Yes, it does.  It’s not throbbing as yet, but it is beginning to ache.”

       Elrohir took his hand and held it, gently massaging it as had Aragorn at the feast, singing quietly.  Frodo felt the muscles relax, the finger stop tingling, felt warmth fill his hand as it had with Aragorn’s touch earlier.  As he sang the Elf’s eyes closed, until at last he finished, then lifted his head and looked into the Hobbit’s face.  “Estel is correct--even as the healing enters you, it is pulled away.  I think this time it went to your heart.  Your pulse has strengthened.”

       The Hobbit was as puzzled as were the others.  Finally Gandalf said, “I think it is time you let yourself sleep, my friend.  If you wish to begin rebuilding your endurance you should start now by being rested for the morrow.”

       Frodo sighed, then nodded his agreement.  Elrohir and Gandalf saw him lying down, and the tall Elf brushed the hair away from the Perian’s brow.  “Sleep, tithen nín; sleep and be rested.”  

       The Hobbit’s expression eased as he relaxed into slumber.

       An hour later the rest came in.  Elrohir had returned to the dancing and had reassured all that Frodo was well, and reluctantly Sam had stayed.  But he felt it was worthwhile, and he did enjoy the evening, particularly when the singing began.

       Many of the lesser lords had left, and now that fewer were interested in dancing songs were called for.  One of Éomer’s Riders who was known for his singing sang the coming of Éorl and his folk to Mundberg to assist the folk of Gondor and the battles waged against the Easterlings.  Faralion sang a song about Nienor and Túrin which reminded Sam of when he’d first read the story in one of old Mr. Bilbo’s books when he was but a little one, not long after Mr. Frodo had come to live in Bag End.  Then Sam found himself begging the Lord Strider to sing for them, and finally he’d sung one of the hymns to Yavanna he’d learned while laboring in the orchards of Imladris.  The hearts of all were quieted as they listened; and when he entered the second stanza and the sons of Elrond joined in the singing all were even more moved.  There was no question that the King was truly gifted in this as the small Perian was gifted in dancing.

       They finally gave Aragorn their good nights, and Elladan walked back down the ramp with them to see all safely inside and Sam given his evening draught.

       They examined the rooms given to their use, Merry and Pippin sharing the parlor on the West side of the house, and Sam and Frodo each having one of the rooms on the East end.  All gave their good nights to a sleepy Lasgon and Lord Halladan, who was sitting in the day room discussing orc incursions with Gimli.  Sam was glad when he realized that the parlor he slept in was the proper way for any to come to the room in which Frodo slept.  He’d make certain none would harm his Master.  He looked into the room where Frodo rested, Gandalf sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed with a mug of ale beside him and a book in hand, sucking at his empty pipe.  Frodo awoke, smiled sleepily at him, asked, “Was it fun?” and at Sam’s affirmative answer slipped back into dreams.

       Sam accepted his mug of herbs, and indicated he’d ready himself for sleep.  Carefully he removed the clothing he’d worn, got into his nightshirt, slipped through his Master’s room into the privy for the last time, then after assuring himself Frodo was indeed at rest and old Gandalf keeping watch, he went to his own room and managed to climb into the high bed and slip into sleep himself.

*******

       “You’ll tell us where it is, and now!”

       The sound of a lash on bare flesh and a cry of pain.  He’s at the bottom of the tower, and his Master is somewhere up there, far up there, probably at the top, and he must get there, get there before they can strike him again.  He begins to run up the stairs.

       “Stubborn, are you?  What are you, a Took?” 

       Another lash, and a cry wrung from a body already battered and depleted.  “I don’t know!  I don’t know!”

       The Ring burns against his breast.  It is happy with this turn of affairs, is excited that Its former bearer is being beaten.

       “We’ll strip you to the bones, we will!”

       He is running as fast as he can, but the stairs never end.  The more he heads for that landing he can just see, the further off it becomes.  The stairs are multiplying....

       “Sam!  Sam!  Wake up!  Wake up, dear Sam.  It’s only a dream.  It’s over.  It’s over and you’ve won through.  You got me away, and I’m safe now.  I’m here, Sam.”

       At the touch of the hand on his brow, Sam woke up, still fearful to waken to find his master lying, stripped and beaten, on the rags on the floor of that chamber again, the blood oozing from the stripes across his back and side.  But the Mr. Frodo he saw was sitting up beside him on the bed, was brushing the hair off his sweating brow, was wearing a simple white nightshirt----

       Simple nightshirt, is it?  Oh, yes, simple if you consider a Hobbit wearin’ a nightshirt of silk cloth simple.  But if ever there was a Hobbit as deserved such things, it was the Master.  That his own nightshirt was also of silk he ignored.

       He looked up and smiled, sat up some and drank the cup of chamomile tea Gimli had brought to him, smiled again as he lay back down and drifted back into sleep, still holding his Master’s maimed hand in his own.

       Frodo finally allowed Gandalf to help him back to his own bed, and accepted another mug of tea from Gimli before he closed his eyes.  But before he dropped off into sleep he remembered what Aragorn had said about how they were all likely to have nightmares, and a tear slipped from his eye.

       Gandalf, again sitting in the chair with book and mug and empty pipe, saw the tear and grieved for it.

24:  Seeking Intelligence

       Wasnior found himself speaking with Lady Amberieth of Lossarnach, a niece to old Forlong.  “I am grieved to hear of your uncle’s death,” he commented.

       “I know--so many were killed upon the Pelennor,” she answered.  “If our Lord Elfstone had not arrived in the black ships when he did, all would certainly have been lost for Gondor.”

       “Black ships?” asked Wasnior.  “You will have to forgive me--I’ve come from afar and only arrived late this afternoon on business--that I was asked to the feast was a bit of a shock to me and my fellows.”

       “Oh, yes, the Corsairs of Umbar.  They were sailing up the River Anduin, and our Lord Elfstone took their fleet at the Pelargir.  He went through the Paths of the Dead and called the lost army out to fight for him against the forces of Umbar who were sailing up to fall on our armies and allies from behind.  When their sails were first seen many called out in despair, believing our cause was lost at the end; but then the King’s Standard was released from the mast of the greatest of them, and our Lord Elfstone came off of it at the head of an army gathered in haste from the South.  All tell of his valor upon the field, and how he and the forces of Rohan met in the center of the battlefield, then turned together and destroyed all who would not throw down their arms.”

       “What did they do then?”

       “They chose to march against the Black Gate itself to draw out the armies of Mordor that the Ringbearers might win through.”

       “Win through to where?”

       “To the heart of the Black Land.  They carried the Enemy’s Ring to its destruction, and so he was cast down.  The one who sat tonight beside our Lord Elfstone, he carried it and almost died of it, or so we are told.  Those who came earlier back from the battle carried the word how he and his esquire were acclaimed Lords of the Free Peoples of the West for their actions in destroying Sauron’s power.”

       Enemy’s Ring?  Wasnior blanched at the thought.  The Ring of Power was no more?  How could this be?  It was lost an age ago--all knew that; but had it indeed been found?  By whom?  When?  Under what circumstances?

       “My Lord?” said a voice.

       Lord Wasnior turned to find that behind him stood a group of four guards and the other members of his embassy.  Angrapain was not doing a great deal to hide the fact he was annoyed at having had his evening cut short, while Belladon was eyeing the guards with the suspicion he’d shown all since their arrival. 

       The guard gave a bow.  “We have been asked to escort you back to your guest house.  And a housekeeper will come to it in the morning to assist in preparing a dawn meal if you wish.”

       “That would be appreciated,” Lord Wasnior said.  He didn’t really wish to leave the feast hall as yet, but apparently their hosts had decided to see their unwanted guests contained for the night and there wasn’t anything he could see that could be done about it.  Wasnior bowed his goodbye to Lady Amberieth and handed the goblet he carried with him to a passing server, then followed their escort out of the building, past the dead Tree and its fountain, and down the ramp to the Sixth Circle where they turned South toward the house assigned to them.  Two guards already stood at attention on the corners of the place toward the street.  They saluted the ones coming and prepared to be relieved of duty as those accompanying the Umbarians wished them a good night, and two exchanged places with those already there.  For the night the Umbarian lords were, in the eyes of Gondor, settled.

       The five gathered in the day room at the back of the house, after Belladon checked and announced in low tones there didn’t appear to be any listeners on this side of the building.

       “Well,” Wasnior finally said, “Let us share what we have learned.  Angrapain, what has the lady you have favored shared with you?”

       “The Lord Denethor died by his own hand, although none seems certain of the details.  Lord Faramir was dying of wounds he suffered escorting his Men back across the fields before the city at the time, and apparently despair at his son’s condition after the news of the death of the famed Captain Boromir contributed to the Steward’s madness.  He appears to have died at the height of the battle before the city.  She insisted that the new King laid hands on the Lord Faramir and healed him.”

       Belladon shrugged.  “Our ships appear to have been taken as they approached the Pelargir by the one who is now proclaimed King.  He is said to have come through the White Mountains by cavernous ways, leading out of them the army of the dead past the Stone of Erech until at last they came to the river.  There the army of the dead came onto our ships and our Men threw themselves into the flood to escape them.  He and his folk loaded their horses aboard the ships, and with reinforcements gathered in haste they began rowing up the river, until at the last a South wind caught the sails and bore them to the battle--or that is what they say happened.”

       Beslor looked from Belladon to Wasnior.  “The Wizard is not Curunír, but Mithrandir, who is now the White in place of Curunír, whom many call Saruman.  Some of those of the Rohirrim described being betrayed by Saruman, and of a massive battle in the strong places of their land, of being succored by Gandalf Greyhame and the one they call Lord Aragorn, of a victory past hope.  They say they thought the Lord Aragorn rode to his death when he left them to enter the dread places of their lands, and to see his arrival upon the Pelennor in the ships of the enemies of this place was a wonder and a marvel in their eyes.  They spoke in murmurs of marvels in Isengard and of Curunír stripped of his power by Mithrandir.  They, too, had heard that Mithrandir was dead; his arrival with the Lord Aragorn, a Dwarf and an Elf was looked upon with suspicion at the time.  They tell also of a dread spell of despair and premature aging laid upon their King, and the loss of his son Théodred at the hands of Curunír’s forces, and the lifting of the spell on their King by the new White Wizard.

       “They tell of a desperate ride through the darkness put upon the lands of the West by the Dread Lord, and of coming to the battle to raise the siege.  King Théoden was crushed by the fall of his horse, but named his nephew Éomer King after himself ere he died.  The Lady Éowyn rode with them, and together with one of the ones called Periannath slew the Lord of the Nazgul.”

       Dorath coughed.  “One of the Periannath was here, also, the one known to be the Prince of their people.”

       “The one who sat by the King?”

       “No, he is called the Ringbearer.  The Ernil i Pheriannath is instead the one with auburn curls.”

       Wasnior of Umbar had watched as the small, dark-haired Perian was quietly assisted out of the Hall.  He had heard the soft-voiced conversations about him, the comments about the Ringbearer, the King’s Friend, the Ringbearer’s Esquire, the Ernil i Pheriannath, the Esquire to King Éomer.  Certainly all had seen the honor and concern this new King showed for the one with the dark hair, and the laughter he’d shared with the three who’d remained in the Hall.

       All four of the Periannath stood with dignity, and the two who’d sat beyond Éomer King and his sister and the Lord Steward Faramir certainly showed the easy manners of those born to privilege while the one with the hair the color of dark gold displayed all signs of one who has borne responsibility for years.  Yet his language was at odds with his bearing, his clothing, and his position at the new King’s side.

       Wasnior shook his head.  “Well, at least we have learned now how our fleet was lost--by sorcery and dread spells.”  His fellows nodded their agreement.

       Dorath grunted, “And the Perian with the dark hair is apparently a magician of some great power, for he led the other who sat by the King into Mordor itself, hiding the both of them, to come to the Mountain of Orodruin and cast into it the Dread Lord’s Ring.”

       “He has not about him the look of any great magic,” commented Angrapain, dismissively.

       “Then how could he have brought the two of them into the Black Land, much less through it?” demanded Dorath.  “Only great power could have brought them to Mount Doom unseen.  Or did he draw on the power of the Ring Itself to get them there?”

       “Nonsense,” Wasnior said, shaking his head.  “Had he used the power of the Ring, would he have been able to let it go to throw it into the Fire?”

       The five of them looked from one to the other with uncertainty and discomfort.  The idea of having sufficient power within oneself to withstand the desire to use the power inherent in Sauron’s Ring was a new one, and all were uncertain they’d wish to meet with the Ringbearer alone.

*******

       The next day a Captain of the King’s own personal guard came down to the house to tell them that the business necessary in beginning his reign kept the King and other officials of the realm busy this day, and would undoubtedly do so for the next few days as well; but that he would grant them an audience as soon as he could.  He had to meet with the lords of the realm, and many of those were newly come to their offices and needed to be confirmed and instructed in them.  He had to review the forces of the city and meet with the captains of the hosts of Gondor and Arnor.  He needed to hear the reports on the damage inflicted on the lower levels of the city by the catapults and fires of Mordor, and the evaluations of what needed doing that the fields of the Pelennor might again be cultivated.  He needed to consider the losses to the population of the land from those killed by the enemy and those who’d died of despair, privation, and madness induced by the Enemy’s actions.  And he needed to discuss how Gondor and Arnor from this day forward worked together as one.

       Valid reasons, of course; valid and obviously used as excuses to put off meeting with Wasnior and his fellows.

       Those from Umbar were also told that they might walk freely about the Sixth Circle; but for their own protection were they to seek to leave that level a Guardsman would join any who sought to go up or down.  None would hinder their movements, but they must be accompanied.

       Looking at the Man’s clear gaze it was obvious that their movements would be noted, and those they met with would be remarked as well.

25:  Honoring Service

       “Of course I know the way!  I was there just yesterday with them, you know.”

       Belveramir could see the two small figures silhouetted against the window at the end of the long hallway off of which the living quarters opened. 

       “I was just asking, Merry.”

       “It’s just that you’ve developed the habit of questioning me all the time.  Now, you take good care of Aragorn, you hear?”

       The valet’s lips thinned.  There was no reason for pages to speak so familiarly of their new King.  He quickened his pace as much as his leg would allow him so as to come up and reprimand them, was surprised to see them embrace one another before he realized these were dressed not in the livery of pages of the Citadel but instead in mail, swords girded at their sides.  He paused as he recognized the face of the Ernil i Pheriannath who’d attended on the Lord Denethor and the other Pherian who was esquire to the King of Rohan.  He remained still briefly, embarrassed and glad he’d not called out to them.

       “You have a good day watching over Éomer and the Lady Éowyn, Merry.”  The Pherian Peregrin straightened, giving a salute to his kinsman, who returned it with a smile as he turned toward the stairs to the upper guest quarters.

       Peregrin then turned to the valet.  “Ah, Belveramir, so you have the enviable duty of rousing Aragorn, do you?”

       “Yes.”

       “I thought that Iorvas was assigned to him.”

       “Well, after the words from his Elven brothers it was decided I might do better serving him in the morning.  I’m well accustomed to waking warriors.”

       “That’s a good thing.  We found we had to stand well out of reach and cough when it was our turn, for we Hobbits don’t make enough noise with our feet to waken him that way.”

       “He’s that wary?”

       “You live out in the wild watching for wolves, orcs, wargs, trolls, and other enemies and escorting creatures such as Gollum about, and you’d become wary as well.”

       “Oh, I know.  I was in the Rangers of Ithilien once.”

       “You were?  I didn’t know.”

       Belveramir smiled.  “It was very long ago.  I used to serve under the Lord Captain Thorongil when he served Gondor, you know.  I served as his aide for a short time during his regular aide’s absence on some errand or another, and I was rather carefully trained how to waken him.”

       “How did you go from serving in Ithilien to serving here?”

       The valet’s face grew solemn.  “The younger son of Lord Beldin of lower Lamedon was granted a captaincy in the Rangers, and fourteen of us were assigned to him.  We were attacked one day while we were resting.  Only a few of us were alive when the Lord Captain found us.  Hirigion died under his hands.  I survived, but had an arrow buried deep in my leg and could never walk quietly through the woods afterwards.  He removed the arrow and did what he could for me, and I suspect that I would have died had he not been as able with healing as he was.  He convinced Lord Ecthelion to allow me to serve here in the Citadel, and here I’ve been ever since.  Any time the Captains of the Hosts have been housed here I’ve been the one to waken them, even our Lord Captain Boromir and Captain Faramir.”

       “Oh, well, if you could awaken Boromir and live to tell about it then you’ll undoubtedly do well enough with Aragorn.”  Belveramir heard the light tone, but saw the grief in the Pherian’s eyes.  Together they turned to the Royal Wing.

       “I am sorry,” one of the two guards in grey said politely.  “Sir Peregrin we can admit, but not you, for you’ve not been identified to us by Master Balstador.”

       Pippin spoke up.  “I can identify him, sirs.  He is Belveramir son of Palastor and a valet to the Citadel, and served as valet for Lord Denethor while I attended on him.”

       “If you speak for him, Sir Peregrin, then we will allow him entrance.”  Together the two of them opened the door allowing Belveramir and the Pherian to enter in.

       They approached the door to the King’s chambers; and after being examined by the one on watch he bowed to Sir Peregrin and gave over his duty.  Pippin saluted and bowed, took his place before the door, then opened the door to allow Belveramir to enter.

       The door to the King’s own room was closed, and Belveramir gave a soft knock and entered.  The shape on the bed looked familiar, somehow, lying half on his side, a knife lying at his hand.  Yes, a warrior born and bred, and one too soon come from the battles to remain unarmed.  Belveramir smiled, then coughed.  The grey eyes opened and examined him without the Man raising his head. 

       “My Lord King, I have brought you your morning drink.”

       “My morning drink.”  The voice sounded familiar.  “Your name?”  Then the Man raised his head and smiled broadly.  “Never mind, Belveramir.  So, you’ve remained here all this time, have you?”

       It was probably as well that he’d already begun to set the tray he carried upon the table inside the door, or he’d have been spending the rest of the day cleaning the carpet.  He felt his mouth drop open as he stood transfixed.

       “So, they still have you awakening the warriors after they return from the field, do they?  A wise idea, although you never used to cough to waken me.”

       Somehow Belveramir managed to say, “Sir Peregrin suggested it--said it was how he would awaken you when you traveled together.”  He carefully released the tray and turned and straightened, examining his new King.  “So, those who said you were from the Northern Dúnedain were correct, were they?”

       “Yes.  Are you sorry?”

       Belveramir shook his head slowly.  “No, my Lord Thorongil, I am not sorry in any way.”  He felt the great shock he’d experienced being lightened, and his face brightened, and suddenly he began to laugh.  “All things are renewed indeed!”

       And as suddenly the King was on his feet, a night robe about his tall form, and the two of them were embracing.  “I never thought to see you again, my Lord Captain,” murmured the former Ranger of Ithilien turned valet.

       “And now I find I have one I know here.  It makes things so much easier, you realize.”

*******

       Elrohir and Elladan entered with Legolas, who’d come up early from the house in the Sixth Circle.  Aragorn had already sat down to the right as one entered the dining hall from the hallway, and was examining a document that Master Galador had brought in for him to read.  He looked up in welcome, a gesture stilling the voice of the Master of Protocol.  “And how have things gone with the three of you?”

       “We saw to the morning draughts for Frodo and Samwise,” said Elladan, “and I do not believe Sam will require further, although he had nightmares last night.  From the little Gandalf would tell us, he dreamt of searching through the Tower of Cirith Ungol for Frodo, and hearing him cry out in pain as he was beaten and threatened.”

       The King took a deep breath.  “He began that dream a few times while they were recovering in Ithilien, and it was one of the worse memories to plague his dreams while he was in healing sleep, although his thoughts were mostly focused during that time on the welfare of Frodo.  He never slept anywhere as deeply as I might have wished.  Were there any reports of Merry’s or Pippin’s dreams?”

       “No, none.  No crying out as so often happened there in Ithilien.”

       “Good.  And Frodo himself?”

       “Only grief expressed for the terrors the others had borne.”

       “How did the one sent to waken you do?” asked Elrohir.

       “Very well.  I believe I will use him primarily as my own valet, for he knows well how one fresh from battles and long watches must be dealt with in the morning.”

       “Good--I would have hated it had the first day in your new quarters begun with the wounding of the one sent to waken you.”

       “He’s done much the same for others, and had a few tales to tell on Boromir--and I told him one of ours during the trip through Hollin.”

       “Ah,” Elladan commented, “so he’s experienced, is he?”

       “Yes, and well prepared.  In fact I believe the one who saw to it he realized how I ought to be roused was Hardorn.”

       Galador couldn’t appreciate why the faces of the two dark Elves lighted with amusement.  Of course it would be wise for the one assigned to rouse the King to consult with one who’d served in that manner before! 

       The one called Legolas sat down nearby and shook his head.  “So now the Citadel of Minas Tirith begins to rouse to the awareness of just who their King is.”

       Aragorn shrugged.  Several of the important folk from the Citadel and of his own kinsmen and three lords and their ladies who’d slept in the guest chambers of the place came in and took places at the table, several of those from Gondor apparently surprised to see the King himself in the dining chamber with the rest, while one of the ladies stared with fascination at the three Elves.  The King had risen at their arrival and returned their bows and curtseys with a deep bow of his own, greeting each by name and with appropriate questions as to how each had slept and their plans for the day.

       At last when those who were to eat all appeared to have gathered he led the Standing Silence, then returned to his seat as those from the kitchens brought in the morning meal.

*******

       When almost the whole of the staff of the place had been gathered in the Hall of Kings, the King entered from the back still accompanied by Master Galador who seemed intent on making himself the King’s secretary until the King stopped.  “Master Galador, I thank you for all your attention to this point, but I made arrangements to meet the staff of the Citadel at this hour, and I must see to that at this time.  I do not wish to have meals not provided properly or the laundry left undone because I must keep them from their responsibilities while I discuss how to respond to a letter of flattery sent by a lesser lord of the realm.  If you will excuse me.”  Galador flushed deeply and stepped backwards awkwardly, gave a bow and accepted the obvious dismissal as Lord Hardorn entered.

       Belveramir and Iorvas stood near Balstador and Mistress Gilmoreth as the King came to stand upon the dais between the black chair of the Steward and the one set the previous day for Lord Halladan of Arnor.  Belveramir had, at the King’s request, not shared his awareness of the Man’s past identity with anyone else, but all could see that he straightened with pride as the King’s eyes met his as he looked over the group gathered in the throne room.

       The King’s words were to the point.  He introduced himself and Lord Hardorn, and explained that his would be a far different manner of dealing with staff than they’d known before.  He himself, with Lord Hardorn, would be visiting all parts of the Citadel over the coming weeks to see where each group worked and as to the conditions under which they labored.  He then had first Master Balstador and then Mistress Gilmoreth introduce those who headed each group of servants and questioned each as to the focus of their work and how long they’d worked in the Citadel and whether each felt comfortable to remain working here, would prefer to follow Lord Faramir when he left to set up his own household, or would prefer to leave the employ of the Citadel and work elsewhere.  The answers in a few cases surprised even themselves, apparently, as three indicated they’d truly prefer to leave the Citadel entirely, four indicated they’d prefer to follow Lord Faramir when that time came, and two admitted they had no idea of what they wished to do and hoped that experience with their new Lord would help them to decide.

       “I see.  I thank you for your honesty, and hope that your questions will be adequately answered as we come to know one another better.”  The King examined the rest of them in turn.  “There is no time today for further introductions, but I will tell you this--I will meet with each and every one who serves in this place in the coming weeks.  And it is my intent that all who enter and guest in this building shall honor each of you as you deserve for the service you give, and respect you as they expect themselves to be respected.  If any offers you true insult, I expect you to inform Lord Hardorn or myself immediately.  I will not tolerate discourtesy to those who offer honest labor freely.  Nor will I allow any to take advantage of your labor unduly.  However, I do ask that in return that while you not allow yourselves to be exploited, yet you should do the best you can to meet the needs of those who take advantage of the hospitality of this house.

       “Another thing which needs to be explained now--my personal guard will not allow any they do not know to approach me when I am in my personal quarters or about the work I must or choose to do.  Master Balstador, Mistress Gilmoreth, it will be your responsibility to introduce those who head each department to Lord Hardorn and myself and those of my personal guards, and the responsibility of those to bring to our attention any who take service in the Citadel, and particularly all who might seek to serve me or my family and guests personally.

       “As time progresses there will be changes to the livery of the Citadel, and I hope each of you will accept these changes as demonstrating the respect we hold for you in your service to the realm.  I shall ask all senior staff to join with me at the dawn meal on the High Day to discuss whatever needs to be discussed regarding this house.

       “One last thing--I am a healer as much as a warrior.  If any shows signs of illness, I wish to be informed immediately.  Not only does this give me better chance to ease those who are ill, it will help to halt as much as possible the spread of illnesses throughout the Citadel.

       “I thank you all, and you are dismissed back to your work.”  He bowed to all and asked, “Master Balstador, Mistress Gilmoreth, will you stay for a time?”

       As the party began to disband, one of the elderly servants who oversaw the cleaning of the Hall of Memorials commented, “He reminds me strongly of the Lord Captain Thorongil when he would visit here with the Lord Steward Ecthelion.  And certainly this Lord Hardorn reminds me of his aide.”  When he was pulled aside by Belveramir he was surprised, and even more so when that one took him back to the Hall to speak to the King personally.  When afterwards he returned to his own work with a decidedly shocked smile on his face he would tell no one of what he’d learned; but it was plain that he was well pleased to have spoken personally with the King himself.

26:  Searching for Answers

       “My Lord Frodo Baggins--and how are you this day?”

       Frodo turned at the voice, finding himself looking up into the thin face of the one who headed the group from Umbar.  “My Lord?  I suppose I am well enough.  And you, sir?”

       Wasnior looked at the small figure, who in spite of the warmth of the day walked along the paved way toward the Houses of Healing wearing a grey-green cloak of exceptional beauty over his clothing.  His cheeks, which had looked rather pale, now showed small spots of color, and Wasnior sensed he felt uncomfortable at being addressed.  “Forgive my, my Lord.  I didn’t wish to interrupt you if you wished to be alone.”

       “It’s not the company which distresses me, sir, but the address.  As I said last night, titles are not commonly used in our land, and I find myself uncomfortable when addressed as ‘Lord’.”

       “I am sorry, then.  What form of address do you prefer?”

       Frodo paused.  There was something about this Man he didn’t truly like.  Finally he replied, “You may call me Master Baggins.”

       “I see.  Well, I greet you, Master Baggins.”

       “Thank you.”

       “You are taking the air?”

       Again Frodo paused before replying.  “Yes, I suppose I am.  I’ve not been able to get much exercise for some weeks, and it was suggested I walk back and forth the distance between the Houses of Healing and the barracks complex on the North end of the level two or three times today to begin rebuilding my endurance.”

       “Then you were ill?”

       Something in the pale features evaluated that question and showed that the Perian found it somewhat ironic.  “It can truly be said I was not well for some time.”

       “I hope for a speedy recovery for you then, sir.”

       “Thank you, my Lord.”

       “You know the Lord King Elessar well?”

       “That is hard to answer.  We came together from Eriador to the borders of Gondor, and have again been together for just over the past month.  Certainly I have come to respect and honor him greatly, and am glad he has at last achieved his destiny.  But that is but a little part of his life, which I have been assured by my uncle has been a rich and varied one.  And although Bilbo told him of me, there is much about me of which he knows little.  I think that last night was the first he’s realized that I--used to dance.”

       “You are a very fine dancer, sir.”

       The Perian shrugged, and turned to continue his walk.  “I have not had great occasion to dance much for some years, and I see that lack of practice and my illness have worked against me.”

       “Your people enjoy dancing?”

       “We Hobbits simply enjoy.”

       “I see,” commented the Man, actually not truly certain what had been meant by that declaration.

       The Hobbit looked up sideways at him, and gave a small smile.  “We are a relatively simple folk.”

       “Your King indicated you are farmers mostly.”

       “Yes, mostly we are farmers.  We enjoy watching the earth bring forth its bounty, eating, drinking, laughing; and certainly dancing is a means by which we express our enjoyment.”

       “Those with you are your followers?”

       The Perian stopped and looked up at him, his face solemn and even a bit stern.  “Merry and Pippin are my cousins, and Sam is my best friend.  True, they followed me out of our own land, but out of love for me rather than because of any wish of my own.”  He reached for his chest, then paused when his hand apparently didn’t find something he had known there.  His face went pale.  Finally he thrust his hand into his pocket in a decided manner and he spoke.  “I never asked them to come with me, and tried not to let them know I was leaving.  They came anyway.”

       “It was said last night that one of them helped destroy the Lord of the Nazgul.”

       “Yes, Merry and the Lady Éowyn destroyed him between them.”

       “How were you injured?”

       Frodo slowly shook his head, keeping his eyes steadily on Wasnior’s own.  “That is a very long and uncomfortable tale, and I will not tell it now.  Now, if you will forgive me, I must finish my walk.”  He turned away deliberately and continued on to the gates to the gardens of the Houses of Healing, paused, then walked on and into the main entrance.  Wasnior watched after him, his curiosity overflowing.

       “My Lord?”

       Wasnior turned to see that a Guardsman stood behind him.  “Yes?”

       “It appears that Lord Frodo does not wish further conversation at this time.  If you will please allow him his privacy?  He labored long and hard, and is still recovering from the injuries he suffered.”

       Realizing he could not afford to antagonize any within Gondor at this time, Wasnior returned back to his own guest house, and after a time watched from the bedroom he’d chosen on the upper floor as the Perian walked back, rather slowly, past the place toward whatever housing he’d been given toward the North end of the Circle.  As he came even with the ramp to the level of the Citadel he met with a party coming down it and stopped, his posture indicating pleasure.  In this group, apparently, was the King, another of the Periannath dressed as a Guardsman, and one of the dark-haired Elves.  After speaking for a few moments they walked Northwards and turned down a lane toward the Pelennor.  Was that perhaps where the Perian lived, then?

       Then he saw three coming from the gate to the Fifth Circle, and realized this party included Belladon.  Belladon had intended to sneak down and find at least one of their spies.  He’d been gone for an hour or better, but apparently he’d finally been found.  Wasnior hoped that he’d learned at least something before he was recognized and escorted back.  He went down to find out what had been learned.

       Belladon was trying to look unconcerned, but could not keep an expression of frustration out of his eyes.  One of the Guardsmen bowed.  “We escorted your companion back from the Fourth Circle, my Lord.  If you will please remind the others in your party that if you wish to leave this Circle you need to be escorted for your own protection?  The folk of Umbar are not held in warm esteem by most of those here in Gondor considering how many have lost family members, homes, and crops to the Corsairs among your people.”  Again he gave a bow and turned away, returning back toward the gate to the lower city.

       Wasnior looked right and left; the two assigned to their house remained, one on each front corner of the building.  He drew Belladon inside and closed the door.  Once they were in the dayroom he waited for Belladon’s report.

       “The trader who has the house in the Fourth Circle is dead.  He was returning from a trading trip to Harad three months past--had a fleet of four ships.  Two of the four were taken by our own Corsairs--including the ship on which he rode.”  Belladon’s expression was accusatory.  “All aboard were put to the sword.”

       Wasnior gave a deep sigh--their own folk had cost them a faithful spy.  He nodded for Belladon to continue.  “The sculptor that Landrion favors is there, but has no knowledge.  He was among those who were sent out of the city to the places of refuge, and he at this time knows less than the rumors we’ve already heard.  There has been little chance for him to gather any information so far.”

       “Why not?  Certainly there must have been deaths enough to increase his custom.”

       Belladon shrugged.  “True; but many were buried in Ithilien, for there were not wagons enough to carry home the bodies of most of the dead as well the wounded; and those who have commissioned the tomb effigies since the return of the refugees have been almost solely the women who also are just returned from the places of refuge.  Such have little if any knowledge of how the battle actually was won.  Most who know what truly happened have only returned to the city yesterday.”  Angrapain brought in a beaker of mead and handed it to him, and Belladon sipped from it as the more decadent lord sat on the arm of the sofa opposite where Belladon had seated himself on a more simple chair.

       Finally he continued.  “The bookseller in the Third Circle was arrested by Denethor’s folk two weeks before the battle before the city walls.  I had no time to check out any others.  I don’t know if they saw me in the workshop of the sculptor; but they know for certain I visited the house of the merchant and the bookseller.”

       “No indication of where the ships of our fleet have been taken?”

       “No.  Perhaps many ended up being used to ferry Men and goods between the place in Ithilien where the army rested and here.  Although I did hear one comment in the marketplace in the Fourth Circle that at least one larger ship had sailed to the Mouths of the Sea to bring back provisions.  The city is much depleted of fresh meats and produce.  Perhaps there have been others used similarly.”

       Beslor, who’d been sitting in the room all day slowly emptying mugs of mead, looked up at that statement.  “They aren’t going to return any of them to us, you know.”

       Wasnior took a deep breath, reluctantly agreeing with Beslor’s evaluation.

       Dorath gave a deep grunt of disgust.  “I don’t know why we even came.”

       “We still need to have some knowledge of what changes there are in the land and government of Gondor,” Beslor pointed out.  “And certainly the fact that Denethor is dead as well as Boromir, and that Faramir has been supplanted in lordship by a new King from the wilds of the North and West indicates much change will affect our land as well.”

       The five of them looked to one another.  One of the two servants listened from the door to the dining room of the house, and wondered if somehow he might make some profit off of what he had just heard.

27:  Halargil of the Guard of the Citadel

       Frodo paused, smiling to recognize those who came down the ramp from the Citadel.  Aragorn wore grey trousers and a rather simple shirt, a plain grey surcoat and the Elessar stone, and carried the worn red bag that held his healer’s kit over his shoulder; Pippin was dressed in his uniform; and Elladan wore soft golds.  “Good morning, Aragorn, Lord Elladan, Pippin.”

       “Good morning, Frodo.  Do you do well this morning?”  Aragorn noted the wearing of the cloak, although the day was warm and promised to be much warmer.

       “Now that you are here, very well.  How was it to sleep in a proper bed--the first in months?”

       “Decidedly odd, but comfortable.”

       “Did you manage to sleep until you were roused?”

       “Yes, actually.”

       “And how did the meeting with the Citadel staff go?”

       “Very well, and there were at least two there who remember back to the days when the Citadel was visited by the Lord Captain Thorongil and who remember him--and his aide--well.”

       Frodo laughed, and Aragorn saw some of the almost unnoticed stiffness leave his posture.  “You will have to tell me the details later.”

       “Would you like to accompany me as I visit the guardsman who served Lord Denethor?”

       Frodo sobered.  “I would be honored.”

       Together they turned back toward the lane where stood the house in which the Fellowship dwelt, but stopped at the first house on the left.  The King looked at his guard and ordered, “You will remain on guard here, outside the house.”

       “Yes, my Lord,” Pippin said formally, then turned, sword drawn, and faced the street, his expression watchful.

       As they approached the door, Elladan smiled.  “I would not have imagined such as he should prove so apt to his current duty; but he fulfills it admirably.”

       Aragorn nodded.  “I wish some of the young soldiers among Men were as steady.”  Frodo, glancing over his shoulder at his cousin, saw Pippin straighten even more with pride, and smiled.  He noted that Healer Eldamir was crossing from his own house, and his smile grew brighter, for he found he truly liked the young healer.

       The rap at the door was answered by a young maid.  “Yes, sirs,” she said, her face properly politely interested in spite of the paleness and drawn expression indicating long nights of standing by her mistress and master.  Then she took in the tall Man and the presence of Elf and Pherian and her eyes grew wide with amazement.  She turned her attention to Healer Eldamir as he came up with the rest for explanation and reassurance.

       “I’m the King Elessar, Mistress.  You are Mistress Avrieth?”

       Turning her face back to the taller Man who’d addressed her, the girl’s face went even paler.  “My Lord?”  Her face was a study in confusion.

       “Mistress Avrieth?” he asked again.  “I am your new King, the Lord Elessar.  May I visit your mistress and master?”

       She stepped back automatically, still uncertain as to what was expected of her.  “I don’t understand, my Lord.”

       As they passed her, Eldamir answered her.  “Avrieth, the Lord Elessar is himself a most gifted healer, and he has come to see to the welfare of your master and mistress.  Will you please announce us to Mistress Berilien, and then go put water on to boil?”

       “Certainly, Healer Eldamir.”  This she appeared able to deal with somewhat better, leading them to the study at the back of the house where a narrow bed had been set up for her master, as they had been unwilling to take him upstairs, so far from the kitchens and bathing room and fresh water.  Carefully she called out from beyond the doorless casement, “Mistress, the healers have come.”

       The woman beside the bed was of middle years, her face pale with grief and exhaustion.  She sat by the bed, a table with a bowl of broth and an invalid’s cup on it.  She looked up, smiled with relief at Healer Eldamir, then turned her eyes to the others in the room.  The Man on the bed was considerably older than his wife, and his face was pale.  He was awake, but how much awareness he might have had was hard to tell.  His breathing was harsh and rasping.  The King gave a deep sigh.  “The lung sickness, then.”  Eldamir and the Elf both nodded, and the three of them walked swiftly to the bed and leaned over the one who lay there, partially propped up to ease his breathing.  The woman who sat by the bed rose in her own confusion, wondering who these others were who had accompanied the familiar healer.

       The woman looked at the one who did not walk to the bed.  Frodo saw the pain in her eyes and was filled with compassion.  “Mistress Berilien?” 

       She looked at him, and her eyes cleared.  “The Ernil i Pheriannath,” she breathed.

       Frodo’s cheeks briefly pinked.  “No, Mistress--I understand that title has been given to my cousin Peregrin, who stands before the house now on guard.  Frodo Baggins at your service, Mistress.  There were four of us Hobbits who came South with the King.”

       “Four of you?”

       “Yes, Mistress Berilien, four of us.”

       “Yes, there is a new King now--Avrieth told me.”

       “Yes, Mistress.  Mistress, this one with Healer Eldamir is the Lord Aragorn.  He is a healer also, as is Lord Elladan, who has accompanied him today.  Both were taught by Lord Elrond, the Master of Imladris, who is the greatest of healers now in Middle Earth.  Lord Elladan is the son of Lord Elrond.”

       “They are both healers, trained by Lord Elrond,” she repeated.

       “Yes, Mistress.”

       She took a deep breath.  “I am afraid--afraid it is too late for us, Master Frodo Baggins.  He has the lung fever now.”

       Frodo looked over at the three figures leaning over the one on the bed, then looked back at the woman.  “If any can aid him--even if it is only to ease the way--it is the Lord Aragorn, my lady.”

       Aragorn looked over his shoulder.  “Frodo--can you make certain that young Avrieth has set water to boil, please.  Both she and Mistress Berilien are distraught with concern and lack of proper sleep.  I will see if I can have another to aid them over the next few days so both can get proper rest.”

       “I don’t wish to leave his side.”  The woman’s voice shook slightly.

       “I can understand, Mistress.  However, you do neither of you any good if you also were to fall ill.”

       Frodo found the kitchen and saw that the girl had set a goodly pan of water to heat, and now sat on a simple stool by the worn work table watching, her face blank.  He noted that the fire was properly burning, then came to her and took her hands.  “It will be well enough, Avrieth,” he murmured. 

       She looked down at him.  “You are a halfling.”

       “We call ourselves Hobbits.”

       “Is he truly the King?”

       “Yes, he is truly the King.”

       “Master Halargil--he was so distraught when--when Lord Denethor died.  It was Master Halargil’s torch Lord Denethor took there, there in the Tomb of the Stewards.”

       Frodo took a deep breath and then let it go.  What a thing to have the memory of!  “It is of no wonder that he had a brainstorm.”

       She slowly nodded her head in agreement.

       “I will go and tell the King that the water is heating.”  He looked up and smiled reassuringly.  “You are doing well.” 

       She smiled weakly, and squeezed his hand before she let him go.

       He returned to the other room.  “She has the water heating.”  He took another deep breath.  “He gave the Lord Denethor the torch he used at the end.”

       Elf and King looked at one another, then exchanged looks with Eldamir.  Aragorn closed his eyes and shook his head.  “Feelings of guilt can destroy so much of one’s spirit,” he said quietly.  Knowing from personal experience just how true this statement was, Frodo simply nodded.

       Elladan was listening to the lungs when young Avrieth entered carrying the steaming basin.  Aragorn took it from her and thanked her and set it on the table by the bedstead, then brought out one of the packets of athelas from his kit, culled from one of the plants ordered planted in the herb garden for the Houses of Healing by the Warden there in the shadow of the healings done there by the King.  Gently he breathed upon the leaf and rolled it between his fingers, singing softly under his breath as he committed it to the water, then lifted the basin to hold near the sick Man’s face.  His breathing deepened as he took in the steam scented with the odor of lilies, and his face cleared somewhat.  His eyes became more alert, and he looked up at the face of the tall Man standing over him.  The lid to the left eye drooped, as did much of the rest of the left side of his face, the lower lip on that side slack.  As Aragorn took a square of clean cloth that lay there and dipped it into the steaming water and wrung it out the former Guardsman tried to speak. 

       “Thorongil,” he finally managed to say.

       Aragorn paused in his reach to wash the Man’s face and looked more closely at him.  “What is your name?” he asked.

       “Hal--”  He was obviously having difficulty forming the words.

       “Halargil.  His name is Halargil, my Lord.”  The wife’s voice was flat with fatigue.

       “Halargil.”  The tall Man’s voice was distant with memory.  “I see.  It is a very long time, Halargil, since Captain Thorongil served in Gondor.”

       “Thorongil.  Captain.  Re--returned.”

       Aragorn gave a soft, very gentle smile as he began to gently cleanse the Man’s face.  “Returned.  The King has returned, Halargil.”

       “Fire--was ordered--brought----”

       “Do not trouble yourself, Halargil.  Denethor was a masterful Lord, and ever required strict obedience, even when it was to the detriment of his own comfort.”

       “Fara----”  The right side of his face showed frustration that he couldn’t appear to finish the name.

       “The Lord Steward Faramir has recovered, Halargil.  He will serve the realm long and well, and with the great honor he has ever displayed; and will receive the respect he has ever deserved.”

       “Lord Steward?”

       Aragorn again dipped the cloth into the basin and wrung it carefully, began washing Halargil’s chest where it could be reached through the opening of his night robe.  “Yes, Lord Steward.  Faramir has been confirmed as Lord Steward of the Realm of Gondor.”

       “He knows--Thorongil?”

       “Yes.

       The Man weakly fumbled up his right hand, caught Aragorn’s, held it to his cheek.  “Back.”  His eyes closed, and he appeared to drift into sleep; but the right side of his face was clearly smiling.

       After they coaxed Mistress Berilien to go to the kitchen herself to get some food, Frodo sat on a stool on the near side of the bed and took Halargil’s left hand.  His face very pale, he looked up into Aragorn’s face.  “His hand--it’s dead and wooden--like mine when----”

       “The brainstorm has simply left that side of his body without direction, Frodo.  It may recover--or it may not.  We do not understand how or why this happens, but it usually happens that one side or the other is weakened or lost.”

       Frodo listened to the labored breathing and looked again at Aragorn, but the Man put his finger to his mouth when Frodo would have spoken.  Aragorn continued to clean the Man’s body while Elladan combed Halargil’s hair and Eldamir went out to see to it that Mistress Berilien ate.

       At last Aragorn finished with his cleansing and set aside his cloth.  Together he and Elladan set their hands over the sleeping Man’s breast, and together they began the invocation....

       At last they both came back present, looking into one another’s eyes.  Halargil woke suddenly and looked up into Aragorn’s face.

       Aragorn studied him.  “You have been very ill, Halargil.  We can aid you with the lung fever if you wish, but I doubt you will be able to walk easily ever again.”

       Halargil looked up at him intently.  “Not walk?”

       “Not easily.”

       Halargil trembled, and closed his eye.  His breath was quite labored.  Finally he murmured, “Don’t know.”

       The King looked to his Elven brother, then made a decision.  He turned to Frodo.  “Frodo, will you please go to your house and fetch Lasgon for me?”

       “Certainly, Aragorn.”  With Elladan’s help he slipped from the stool and headed for the door.  Halfway to his own door he had to stop and take a deep breath himself.  Finally he was able to complete the walk, entering in and calling the young page to him, then escorting him back to the other house.

       Eldamir had looked out the front window in time to catch Frodo having to stop and pace himself, then returned to the sickroom.  “The Ringbearer is not recovering well.”

       Aragorn looked up at him with concern in his eye, then gave a reluctant nod to his head.  “I sent him to fetch the page I’ve assigned to their service.  I need him to go up to the Citadel for me.”

       Eldamir looked at Halargil and smiled to see him more alert and aware again.  “You may yet make a recovery,” he commented.

       Halargil gave a one-sided shrug.  “Ringbearer?”

       “The Halfling who sat beside you is Peregrin Took’s cousin Frodo Baggins.  He carried the Enemy’s Ring to Mordor so it could be destroyed.  He himself was terribly hurt by his ordeal, Halargil.”  The healer looked to his King, then spoke the one thing he knew they all hoped to be untrue, but feared was all too likely.  “He may never fully recover.  He has awakened, is able to walk and talk again, even to smile and joke.  But he is still only a few steps from despair, and knows pain and frustration, and becomes exhausted so easily.”  He smiled.  “Yet he is a game soul, and seeks to do all he can in spite of the weakness.”

       Halargil gave a slight nod, then looked to the right.  “King.”

       “Yes, Halargil,” Aragorn replied, “I am now the King.  Aragorn son of Arathorn, the heir of Isildur, Valandil, and Arvedui.”  Halargil went quiet for a time.  They heard the knock at the door and Avrieth opening it to admit the Halfling and the page.  “If you will excuse me....”  He left the room, went to speak to the boy who’d returned with the Hobbit, sent him off, then turned to the girl.  “Please bring Master Frodo a small glass of water.”

       “Gladly, my Lord,” she said with a curtsey.

       Berilien returned to the room and smiled to see her husband obviously aware of her.  “You are doing better?” she asked as she walked around the bed to stand where he could see her better.

       “Beri----”  He fumbled his hand again to catch hers and hold it.  His breathing was still very labored.  “Love you--so,” he finally managed, then closed his eyes. 

       She looked up, again alarmed.  The Elf and the two Men looked from the Man on the bed to her eyes.  “He is very tired, Mistress,” the taller Man said quietly.  “And it appears he blames himself for what Lord Denethor did and tried to do.”  Reluctantly, she nodded.  He continued, “We may be able to help him some; but as he has not recovered markedly since the brainstorm itself occurred, we may not be able to do very much to help him regain his control over his body.  The longer it is from the brainstorm, the less healing is likely.”

       Again she nodded, closing her eyes to control the threatening tears.

       The Elf now spoke.  “We have asked him to decide how much he would have us aid him in his recovery from the lung sickness.  And my mortal brother has sent for one to ease your husband’s spirit so that he might make the final decision in a clearer mind.  Are you willing to stand by him, no matter what he decides?”

       She looked from one to another and then to the third.  Finally she took a deep breath.  “It is his decision,” she said quietly.

       “You will not be alone through it,” the tall Man said again.

       “Thank you, Lord Aragorn,” she murmured.

       Frodo again came toward the bed and was helped by Elladan up onto the stool.  The girl returned with the small glass of water and set it by Frodo’s hand.  Frodo accepted it with thanks and drank gladly from it.  Elladan finally looked up.  “I will go to the kitchen and prepare a draught.”

       “Hannon le, muindor nín,” Aragorn said quietly, handing the invalid’s cup across the bed.  “Take the bag.”

       The Elf took the red healer’s bag as he went.   When Halargil again opened his eyes he definitely smiled on the right side of his face to look into his wife’s eyes first.  “Berilien,” he said quietly.  “Love you.”

       “And I you, beloved.  Do you feel better?”

       “Yes.”  After several minutes of just looking at her, he added, “Sorry--leave--I think.”

       She looked up at the tall Man beside her, felt him set his hand on her shoulder.  “If you feel it is time,” she finally said steadily enough.

       Elladan returned with draught in hand.  He handed it across the bed to Aragorn, who helped Halargil drink it.  Once he was leaning back again he sighed.  There was another knock at the door, and Avrieth could be heard opening it and then leading someone to the study.  Mistress Berilien raised her head to see who it was, then grew pale as she recognized the new guest.  “My Lord,” she said, surprised.

       “Mistress Berilien,” answered the Lord Steward Faramir as he approached the bed.  Aragorn indicated he should come around it and gave up his place.  Faramir looked down at the Man on the bed with compassion as he placed his hand on the Guardsman’s shoulder.  “Hello, Halargil.  I’m told you became ill while I was still within the Houses of Healing.”

       “Captain....”

       “Yes, friend?”

       “Well now.”

       “I am well now, apparently, if that is what you mean.”

       “Yes.”  Halargil began to cough, and Elladan and Faramir held him straighter while his wife held the basin to catch the phlegm.  At last he was through, and they settled him back against the cushions set to hold him lying more upright.  He looked again at Faramir.  “Sorry.”

       “That you are means a good deal, but there is no need.  The same despair that took my father almost took me without the need for the fire.  It was permeating the land, everywhere the shadow of the clouds from Mordor lay, everywhere where the cry of the Nazgul could be heard.  My father was certain our doom was at hand, and, I truly believe, sought to spare me the greater pain of dying at the hands of the servants of the Enemy.”

       Halargil nodded weakly.  His head fell back and his eyes closed.  “Tired.”

       “Yes, I am certain you are.  Rest, and grow strong again.”

       A slight shake to the right.  “No, too old.”

       “Halargil----”  But the King’s hand took his shoulder, and Faramir straightened, looked into the eyes of the new Lord of Gondor.  He turned back to the Man on the bed.  “You know best what is right.  I would have you remain long enough to see that all does indeed go well with the land and the city--and with your wife and myself.”

       The right side of the Man’s face lit with a smile.  “All--is well.  King.  Thor----”  He did not finish, took as deep a breath as he could.  “Beri----”

       Faramir released Halargil’s hand to his wife and stepped back.  Halargil opened his eye again, looked into his wife’s face and smiled.  “Protected.  Good.”

       Aragorn said steadily, “I will see to it she is protected and surrounded by caring.”

       “Thank you.”  All could see the squeeze he gave to his wife’s hand, a surprisingly strong squeeze.  He again closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift into sleep.

       It was some quarter mark later that the last release of breath was not followed by another inhalation.  King and Elf together laid their hands on his forehead and murmured a prayer for protection for him in his release, and the King leaned over him and kissed his forehead.

       Faramir straightened.  “I will see to what must be done, my Lord, and to provisions for Mistress Berilien.  As a sister she shall be to me.”

       Mistress Berilien looked at the Steward’s face, saw the grief and resolve displayed there, and smiled through her tears.  “Thank you, my Lord Faramir.”  The King turned to her and took her hands, then, as she wavered, swept her into an embrace.  “Thank you, my Lord, that he died at peace with himself.”  For a time she wept and then he drew her to a chair and saw her sat, knelt in front of her for a time, his right hand on her temple.  Finally he rose, went out to speak to the girl.  They heard her cry of grief. 

       Elladan looked to Frodo, who understanding, rose.  He approached the new widow.  “Mistress--my kinsmen and I will remain in the city for some time more in the house at the end of the lane.  If you should wish for anything, you may call upon us.”  He reached up and touched her hand. 

       She looked at him and took his hand in hers, held it tightly for a moment, smiling again through her own tears.  “Thank you, Master,” she said quietly.  “Thank you for being here to see him go.  I think it calmed him.”

       Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Frodo nodded.  He kissed her hand, then turned to leave the room.  Elladan lingered a moment longer, then after a final exchange of looks with the healer who remained there, he bowed deeply and withdrew as well.  Soon the three of them emerged from the house.  Pippin stood on one side of the entrance while Faramir’s personal guard stood on the other.  Pippin looked to them, and gave a slight nod at their expressions.  Then he fell in behind Aragorn as he turned to take Frodo back home.

       Sam was sitting in the doorway with a mug of ale in his hand, and he stood swiftly at their approach, taking in their aura of solemnity.  He held the door open to draw them in, looked with mild surprise and then realization as Pippin turned to wait outside the door, and with a brief comment, of “Very well then,” he closed the door and went to see to the comfort of his Master and his King and the King’s Elven brother.

28:  On Lordship and Lands

       Sam opened the door when Aragorn came down, accompanied by one of his kindred from the North as personal guard, to bring Frodo his evening draught. 

       As they walked into the day room, the King asked, “How has he been?”

       “Since you brought him home earlier?  He’s been quiet, Strider.  Been mostly in his room.  Watched the carpenter fix the legs on the beds and the chairs and desks and all, helped to make up the bed all over again, watched as Gandalf hung his wind rods as Master Faralion give him in the window, then sat in the cushioned chair as is in there reading.  Or, at least he’s had a book in his lap.  Don’t know as he’s actually been reading it.  Did go out and walked up to the barracks and back to the Houses of Healing and then back here again, and Gimli walked with him to keep off those folks from Umbar.”

       “Have they been disturbing him?”

       “No, not really.  But the leader, the one with the narrow face and the mouth as looks as if he was eatin’ sour sloes, he was there askin’ questions this mornin’, and Mr. Frodo decided as he didn’t want to have to answer them this afternoon.”

       “What kind of questions?”

       “Did we come with you from the North?  That kind of thing.  Tryin’ to figure you out, I suspect.”

       “Oh, I can imagine.”

       Pippin was sitting in one of the chairs in the room with a mug of ale to hand, his expression uncharacteristically solemn.  “I didn’t realize that was Halargil’s house there.  And now he’s dead?”

       “Yes.  He apparently suffered a brain storm after the death of Denethor.”

       “I’d think so.  He was the one whose torch Lord Denethor took and lit that pyre with.”

       “That may have been a contributing factor, Pippin, but he was not a young Man.  He’s served the Steward of Gondor for about fifty years.”

       “How do you know that?”

       “It’s been forty years since I was here in Gondor last, and he’d served ten years then.”

       “Did he recognize you?”

       “Yes.  Will you allow me to examine you so that I can decide whether you can return to full duty tomorrow?”

       “Shall I remove my shirt?”

       “It would help.”

       “That’s right--you was the mysterious Captain Thorongil as they all talk about,” Sam commented as Pippin removed the surcoat and green shirt he’d put on when he came off duty.

       “Yes.”

       Pippin, pulling his arm free of the sleeve of the shirt, looked up at him quizzically.  “You were?  But he’s a legend!”  Aragorn gave a small grin and a shrug.

       “Any others recognize you?” Sam asked.

       “A couple in the Citadel.”

       “And Captain Faramir.”

       “Yes, and the Lord Steward Faramir.”

       It was the first time Sam had seen Pippin without a shirt since he’d awakened in Ithilien, and as he looked at Frodo’s younger cousin he gave a whistle of surprise.  “You know,” he said, his voice somewhat hushed, “I knew as a troll landed on you, but I just didn’t realize as to just how hurt you was till now.  I didn’t know as bruises could come in those colors.”

       “What colors?” asked Frodo as he came out through the room in which Sam slept--and then he caught sight of Pippin and stopped, his face going paler.  “Sweet Valar!” he whispered.

       “It’s nothing compared to how you looked, Frodo,” Merry said, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of steaming mugs of tea.  “Even when I reached the encampment and Pippin was still in healing sleep himself, as badly bruised as he was then he still looked so much better than you did.”

       “This is nothing, Frodo,” Pippin said quietly.  “When I awoke I had a black eye and my jaw and forehead were still swollen from where I caught them on my shield and helmet as I fell.  And my hip is more green than my chest.  This is almost all gone now.  But you and Sam----”  He shivered.

       Frodo turned his attention blankly to the Man, whose own face was solemn.  “They are right, tithen nín.  Each of the four of you came close to death, and each of you I called back to life again.  But it was you two and Lord Faramir who came the closest to actually passing through the Gates of any I have ever called.  And, Frodo, you have had the furthest to come back.”

       “He’s our little Pippin,” Frodo finally said.  “I brought him to this!”

       “You brought him to nothing!” the Man insisted sternly.  “No one brought him to anything, Frodo.  He went to fight in a battle--for your sake and for the sake of all Middle Earth.  He went out of love for you, and because he refused to be the only one who did not hazard himself for the sake of all.  And because of him at least three others besides himself are alive, not to mention the rest the troll would have gone on to kill once he was done with those four.  He paid the price for heroism.

       “But all of us would have died if not for you and Sam.  And even if he had stayed home in the Shire, he would not have been safe had you two had not done what you did.  If you think that once he was aware of the Shire’s continued existence Sauron would have allowed it to remain clean and isolated and safe, you are mistaken.  His treasure lay there for seventy-eight years, in the center of your land and people.  He would have wreaked his vengeance toward you and Bilbo on the Shire, and those of your people who survived would have regretted doing so.  And your closest kin and those you loved the most would have drawn his greatest cruelty and malice.”

       Aragorn ran his fingers down Pippin’s chest, gently feeling the knobs where his ribs had been cracked or broken, feeling the healing where the bruises had faded to green and yellow, where the hip had been disjointed, the arm injured, muscles pulled.  He looked into Pippin’s eyes and the two of them shared a smile.  “I am proud of you, Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel.”

       “I, know, my Lord.  And no more than I am of you.  I’ve fought in only a few battles; you’ve been fighting them from the time you were little more than a child.  And who knows how many injuries you’ve suffered?”

       Aragorn laughed.  “Oh, my adar and brothers have done their best to keep a full count, believe me.”  His face grew solemn again.  “And I do not regret it, for others have remained whole only because I have been willing to be hurt for their sakes.  That is the whole point--the only point I have ever seen, to being a warrior.”  He turned his attention to Pippin’s body again, had him turn, twist, bend; had him pull and stretch.  Finally he straightened and signed that he was satisfied.  “You are fit for full duty, Peregrin Took.  Tomorrow you are to tell this to your captain, and are to resume full training sessions either here on this level or in the salle behind the Citadel.”

       “Yes, my Lord,” Pippin said, his face solemn but proud, his salute crisp.

       “Now, put back on your shirt.”

       “No, wait,” Frodo said, and he came forward, gently ran his own hands over Pippin’s body, the knobs, the discernible bruises, the healing hip.  Then he pulled his younger cousin to him and held him tightly.  “Oh, Pippin, how much I love you.  How very proud of you I am.”

       Pippin clutched him back so hard it almost hurt.  “And you, Frodo--we couldn’t protect you, and that was why we came, after all--to protect you.  So, since we couldn’t protect you, we each did the best we could to protect someone else.  And between us all, every one of us, including Boromir, we’ve managed.”

       Frodo was shivering, and the tears could be seen pouring down his face.  Merry joined the two of them, then Sam, the four Hobbits holding one another tightly.  The front door opened and closed, and Mistress Loren and Lasgon came into the day room from the passage, baskets and parcels in their arms as they returned from the Citadel’s stores with supplies they’d obtained.  Now they stopped, looking on the huddle of Hobbits with surprise, and on the sight of their King watching.  When at last Sam and Merry stepped back, they could see Pippin’s back where the last of the bruises could be seen healing, and more on his chest as Frodo finally pulled away and gently helped Pippin to don his shirt.  Sam produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Frodo, steered him to a chair and insisted he sit, then brought him one of the mugs of tea Merry had brought from the kitchen and insisted he drink it.

       Once he had Frodo settled, Sam turned on Aragorn.  Setting his hands on his hips, he looked him up and down thoroughly.  “As for you, Lord Strider, looks as if you’ve been pushin’ yourself too hard today as well.  You take that tall chair there and have a cup of tea and let yourself relax a bit, also.  Won’t do to have you work yourself into a frazzle, it won’t.”

       Mistress Loren was horrified and young Lasgon fascinated.  Aragorn just looked at Sam and shook his head, a smile lighting his features.  “Yes, my Lord Samwise, I will do just that.”  As he took his seat in the indicated chair he asked, “Have you been taking lessons from my brothers?”

       “Can’t say as I have, but if they make you rest when you ought, then I’d say they have the right of it.  I’ve seen you, you know, goin’ days without sleep, watchin’ out for everybody else.  Well, as we’re not in immediate danger of an orc attack or nothin’ like, you can afford to rest from time to time.”  Sam had picked up one of the mugs, checked the temperature of it, then brought it over to place it in Aragorn’s hands.  “Now, drink that and rest yourself a bit.”

       Aragorn caught Frodo’s eyes on him, and saw that he was amused.  The Man gave an exaggerated long-suffering sigh and sipped at his tea, enjoying being coddled for a change.  Merry smiled, then turned to the housekeeper and page.  “Here,” he said, taking a couple of packages threatening to slip from Mistress Loren’s arms and a third from the boy’s, “I’ll help you with these.  Now, where have you been storing them?”

       Watching the others being domestic, Frodo finished his tea and continued to sit there, holding the mug between his hands as if he found its residual warmth comforting.  He closed his eyes and leaned back, a faint smile on his lips, then drifted into a doze.  At last, having finished his tea, Aragorn set aside his cup and rose, came to Frodo’s side and felt the side of his neck, then looked at Sam.  “I’ll see him to his bed,” he said quietly, and at last Sam gave a reluctant nod.  Gently the Man took the mug from the now lax hands and handed it to the gardener, and then he as gently lifted the sleeping Hobbit and followed as Sam led the way through his own room to that prepared for Frodo.

       Frodo woke as Aragorn gently set him on the bed.  “What...?”

       “You fell asleep, my brother,” Aragorn murmured.

       “Asleep?”

       “Yes.”

       “Pippin knew Master Halargil before?”

       “Yes.  The two served Lord Denethor together.”

       “Could you have saved him, Aragorn?”

       Aragorn considered as he sat on the wooden chair that Sam pushed forward for him.  “Had he desired it, I could have helped him live further and to recover from the lung sickness.  But he would not have lived much longer in any case, Frodo, and it would have been very hard for him, for he could not have risen again, he could barely have spoken again, he could not even have eaten by himself again.  If one does not recover from the effects of a brainstorm quickly, the muscles waste even more quickly than they did with you and Sam, and the chances to recover strength to them dwindles by the hour.  He had not recovered in over a month.  It is unlikely I could have brought back any strength or control to the left side of his body again.  The lung sickness he felt to be a kindness, as it allowed him release from a body which was now no longer a vehicle for his spirit but a prison.”

       “Why did you send for Lord Faramir?”

       “That his spirit might be eased, and that any decision he made be made not from grief or guilt.  He blamed himself, Frodo, for coming so near to causing Faramir’s death as well as allowing Denethor to do what he did to end his own life so horribly.  However, Faramir was not hurt by what he did--he, as you and Merry have experienced, was suffering in part from the Black Breath as well as fever from his wounds and fear from the growing unreason he saw in his father’s actions.  He also was at the Gates of Death when I sought after him, as you and Sam were.”

       “He’s made a complete recovery.”

       “He was healthy and strong when he was wounded and overtaken, Frodo.  You were not.  Only Baggins stubbornness brought you back to us, I suspect.

       “Know this, Frodo Baggins--I may have called to you, but it was your choice to return.  The Gates were opened for you--for you and Sam; but it was you who turned and came back.  I will rejoice that you did, for I would have been loth to lose you again....”

       “Oh, Aragorn!”  Man and Hobbit embraced.  “I will try to make the best I can of the gift you’ve given me.  But it is so discouraging at times.”

       “I know, Frodo.  And I’m selfish, I’ll admit, not wishing you to go on as yet.  But in spite of all you can know beauty and laughter, joy and delight.”  He sighed as he straightened.  “Now, I brought with me your evening draught.”

       Frodo sighed and turned away.  “Thank you, I suppose.  Sam doesn’t need it any more.”

       “No, he doesn’t.  He was not as heavily scarred as you, Frodo.”

       Sam cleared his throat.  “Shall I fetch it, Strider?”

       “If you will, Sam.  It’s covered by the blue cloth.”

       “I’ll be right back, then.”

       A breeze stirred the wind rods hanging in the window, and Aragorn turned toward the open casement at the head of the bed, unconsciously smiling as he looked up at it.  “Those were a gift to you?” he asked.

       “From Master Faralion, the last night before we left Ithilien.”

       “The sound of them is beautiful.”

       “Yes, it is.”

       “I bless him for the gift.”

       “I wish I could have stayed last night for the singing.  What Sam and Pippin have described for me sounds as if it were beautiful.”

       Aragorn shrugged.  Finally he said, “It is good you have begun walking out.  And I am glad that Gimli went with you if you were bothered by those from Umbar this morning.”

       “Not bothered so much as----”  Frodo stopped, not knowing precisely how to put his unease into words.  “The one who spoke with me this morning was the leader.”

       “Lord Wasnior, then.”

       “Is that his name?  He never told it last night.”

       “No, he didn’t.  Lord Elphir told me.”

       “He’s trying to learn as much as he can of you, Aragorn.”

       “Yes, that would be to their advantage, of course.”

       “I don’t know that I would truly distrust him; but I still find I do not feel completely comfortable with him or his fellows.  What kind of place is Umbar?”

       Aragorn sighed.  “It was once one of the centers of Númenorean culture within Middle Earth, before the return of Elendil and his followers.  It was founded by adventurers from the Star Isle, mostly--adventurers and some exiles.  Many did not wish to remain but subjects in Númenor when they could be great lords of Men, they thought, were they to return to Middle Earth.  After all, they bore with them the knowledge and culture and technologies of Oesternesse, and carried weapons and knowledge of sea craft and the making of tools such as were not known here in Middle Earth.  But most of those who settled there became enamored of power to the point they allowed themselves to be wooed by Sauron.  The Black Númenoreans, they were called; and many were much given to sorcery and the black arts.

       “For a time after the founding of Gondor Umbar was part of the realm, but resented the rule of the heirs of Elendil.  Then during the days of the Kinslaying, those who supported Castamir the Usurper followed him to Umbar when he was cast down and claimed independence, and the hatreds between that land and Gondor grew.  Since the deposition of Castamir there has ever been enmity between the two lands, and their ships have ever been a terror to the coastal cities and towns here as well as to Gondor’s ship traders.”

       Frodo nodded thoughtfully.  “I see.”

       Sam entered from his room, carrying the cup holding the draught and a fresh carafe of water.  “Merry heated it up for you, Master.”

       “Thank him for me, then.”  Frodo accepted the cup and drank it down, then took the water Sam had poured out for him and used it to wash away the taste.  “Nasty stuff.”

       “I’m hoping that in the next week we can go to lighter herbs and focus mostly on those which will ease your digestion.  Elladan tells me that your heart seems stronger and more steady.”

       “So he said last night.  It was affected, too?”

       “Frodo--there’s little of your body that was not affected by what you went through.”

       Aragorn again felt the pulse at the neck, then helped Frodo out of his shirt and had him lie back so he could listen to his chest and his stomach, then roll onto his stomach so as to listen to his back as well.  Then he helped Frodo to roll again and set his hands over chest and belly and began to sing the invocation, allowing himself to feel deeply.  Reassured, he took Frodo’s hand in his and massaged it gently as he’d done the night before and as Elladan had done, caressing the palm, easing the wrist.  More thoroughly than he’d done before he worked up the arm to the elbow and then the shoulder.  At last he finished, and saw that Frodo lay back relaxed.

       Sam brought the night shirt and Aragorn helped Frodo slip it over his head.  Frodo stood to loosen his trousers and let them fall.  “Still feel a bit insecure without braces,” the Hobbit commented.  He reached down to pick up the trousers and folded them as neatly as he could over his arm, then surrendered them to Sam who laid them over a chair for the coming day.  He went into the privy, coming out a few minutes later, his hair neatly brushed and his face and hands clean. 

       Sam had folded back his covers, and he gratefully laid himself down, and pulled the blankets over himself.  He leaned back for a time thoughtfully, then looked back at the Man.  “Aragorn, we cannot go on allowing you to do all for us simply because you are the King.  We need to be able to pay our own way, for the sake of our own dignity.”

       “I know.  Merry and Pippin have their wages they receive as Guardsman and esquire; but for you and Sam--for the two of you, it must be galling not to have employment for your hands and wits.  However, I do have need for your services.  I would have you attend on me for the rest of your stay and advise me about some of those who will seek to meet with me over the next few weeks.  And I would have you accompany me as you did today and in the camp in Ithilien when I visit with those who are ill and wounded, for you hearten them.  Men who were despondent when I last saw them are smiling and planning how they can do things anew when I see them again after speaking with you.  How you do this I cannot tell; but I will not argue with the truth when I see it.

       “I spoke further with Mistress Berilien this evening before I came here.  Before our arrival Halargil was distant, and did not appear to be aware of what happened around him, responding little even to her taking his hand.  When we entered, and particularly after you took his left hand, he began to rouse notably.  I doubt he could feel you taking his hand--the affected side after a brainstorm often has little feeling.  But he did respond simply to your presence.  He was able to rouse and to think clearly, and to in the end accept the Gift with a degree of grace, which I am certain he’d not thought to have been possible to him earlier.”

       “Why would you wish me to meet some of these who would meet with you?”

       “You are very discerning, Frodo, and I would appreciate your evaluation of them and their motivations, strengths and weaknesses.  And, for those times when you are willing to accompany him, Sam, I’d appreciate the same from you.  Both of you have shown the ability to see beneath appearances----”

       Sam flushed.  “See beneath appearances?  How about as when we met up with you at the Prancing Pony, then?  I thought as you was the scurviest knave as ever walked Middle Earth, I did!”

       Frodo laughed.  “Nonsense, Sam--you saw his Light as clearly as I did there in Bree, and you know it.  And that’s a good part of the reason you reacted to him as you did, because you saw it so clearly and hadn’t seen such in Men before.”

       Sam shrugged.  “Don’t know about all that, but I suppose as you’re right.”  He looked back at Aragorn.  “And what are we to do about what we see, then?  Tell you in front of ’em or behind their backs?”

       “Speak honestly about what you see when I ask you, or write me a written report on what you think about what you learn of them, whether you meet with them in my presence or on your own.  What little Frodo has told me about Lord Wasnior I certainly find interesting and important.  I’m certain part of the mission of his embassy is to learn what has become of Umbar’s fleet; but that he is trying to learn about me in particular confirms my own suspicion they are also to learn as much as they can about the new government of Gondor so as to figure out how they might exploit us as they can.”

       “I see,” Frodo said.  “And we will receive a wage for doing this?”

       Aragorn sighed.  “Frodo, let me explain something to you.  You are now a Lord of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  This means that each of the peoples who have accepted this status for you and Sam has accepted the duty to see that you are supported in accordance with that status.  That means you are free to enter any Elven land or enclave throughout Middle Earth and are welcomed as an equal to their own Lords.  That means that every Dwarf in Middle Earth, once your identity is made known, is honorbound to serve you as he or she can, will welcome you into their realms, will see you comfortably housed and fed and accoutered as you need--and much the same within Rohan.  And there are lands in Gondor and Arnor that are now in your names.  Those who work those lands do so in your names, rents collected on them are being put into accounts in your names, the profits of the enterprises of those lands that are the Lord’s share are also put into those accounts in your names.  You are now rather wealthy individuals by the accounting of Gondor.”

       Frodo flushed.  “We are wealthy on account of the labor of others and not that of our own hands?”

       Again the King’s expression became stern.  “And what do you consider your service to all of Middle Earth, Frodo Baggins, but the labor of your own hands?  Does that count for nothing, think you?  As I already told you, the ennoblement of you and Sam is no empty gesture.”

       Then his expression softened.  “I, too, have lived with a similar situation here in Gondor.  Ondoher settled certain of his own lands on his daughter Fíriel on her marriage to Arvedui, and then quietly saw to it that the management and profits of those lands went into a special account under the most discrete and respected of bankers here in Minas Tirith.  When I first thought to come South to serve in Rohan and Gondor I was given a token that has been passed down through my family for centuries, from the mother of the heir to his wife, since the death of Arvedui.  It was the ring given by Ondoher to Fíriel on the occasion of her marriage.  My mother herself gave it to me.

       “The bankers themselves had no knowledge of the name of the one who’d opened the account or for whom it was opened--only that it was there, and those who bore the accepted token were to have all opened to them and could draw on the funds kept for them and could order the investment of those funds at their own discretion.  Only one other of my ancestors since the days of Arvedui had ever come South--Arassuil, who came here briefly during the reign of the Lord Steward Beren.  Arassuil was the last to open those accounts, and he ordered much of the funds accrued to be invested in lands scattered throughout the realm.  I’m not certain exactly how many estates I hold title to, but I believe Denethor would have been appalled.”

       Sam was fascinated.  “It sounds like to the farm shares and partnership agreements of the Shire, doesn’t it, Mr. Frodo?”

       Reluctantly Frodo nodded.  “Yes, it does, Sam.”  He looked back at Aragorn.  “So, you’re only the second of the Northern Heirs to come South?”

       “The second in the last thousand years.  Arvedui was the last King in the Northern Lands, and came to Gondor when it was under the rule of Ondoher and took his daughter Fíriel to wife. 

       “I had much of the funds accrued since Arassuil’s visit invested in trade goods, and when I went to Harad, it was as a trader.”

       “Did you do well at it?” asked Sam.

       “Oh, yes, quite well.  I made a clear profit, and more of one with those goods I took back to Arnor with me.  Círdan was very impressed.”

       Frodo was intrigued.  “Círdan, the Elven shipwright?”

       Aragorn smiled.  “Even so.  I had my cousin Gilfileg bring a good part of those earnings South with him when he came to serve under Denethor about fifteen years ago, and the ring to allow him access to the account; he was to order the profits invested in setting up forges for sword smiths and armorers within the city and Dol Amroth, and in commissioning the building of two trading ships.  I haven’t been able to check on those accounts since I returned, but look forward to doing so in a few days.”

       “So, Sam and I have interests in lands here in Gondor now?”

       “In Gondor and Arnor, although I’ll admit the lands in Arnor, as they are currently uninhabited, aren’t going to give you much in the way of returns for some years yet.  But they are quite close to Annúminas.  You also have a part interest in our family trading ship, in case you didn’t know.”

       “Aragorn----”

       “It was Halbarad’s part interest, Frodo.  Halladan and Hardorn insisted.  You and Sam share it equally.”

       Frodo took a deep breath.  Finally he said, “You are telling us that Sam and I are now independently wealthy in the outer world?”

       Aragorn’s eyes were steady.  “Yes.  The lands settled on you are partly from my own lands, but also from estates whose traditional lords have died in the war, Men who left no heirs.  Better they should go to you than that they be fought over by distant relations who have no interest in them and will only interfere with those who currently manage them, or exploit them and leave them depleted.  It is what usually happens.  They may not do you much good within the Shire; but they give you a good deal of leverage outside of it.

       “Although,” he added slowly, looking down to his hands, “you will probably find them useful in your endeavors within the Shire as well.  You spoke while we were in Rivendell, Frodo, of the idea of opening schools free to all throughout the Shire--the income from these lands could assist in the purchasing and copying of books, maps, and other documents.”

       “How do we manage such from inside the Shire?” asked Sam.

       “You can use the bankers which Ondoher used, and we can set up an arrangements for these lands to see to their management.  Part of the cost of the account which has fallen to me is for a management agent who visits each estate on a regular basis and checks the accounts for the place, orders repairs and improvements required or makes the determination whether improvements made by tenants have benefited the estate and thus need to be reimbursed to the tenants, accepts the rents due, and brings them back to Minas Tirith for addition to the account.  I would suggest you make a similar arrangement.”

       Aragorn examined the faces of Frodo and Sam.  Sam was still looking surprised, while Frodo was obviously thinking deeply.  “For now, you may simply think about what you now know, and next week we will do what we can to see to the management of your lands and funds.”

       Slowly Frodo nodded.

       Aragorn added, rather slyly, “However, I will add now that the number within Gondor who realize that your ennoblement is not merely an empty, symbolic gesture is in actuality relatively small.  Also, your ennoblement is hereditary, and so it passes to your heirs.

       Suddenly Frodo began to laugh, a laugh that started as a low chuckle and grew louder and more full as he lay there.  He was soon helpless with it, and Sam, who’d been surprised when he first heard it start, was laughing with him, falling back into the chair in which Frodo had sat reading much of the day, while Aragorn sat by them both, his own eyes shining with satisfaction.

       Merry and Pippin came through Sam’s room and peered in through the door.  “What is it?” Merry asked Aragorn, totally mystified.  The Man, grinning widely, just shook his head.

       Finally Frodo managed to gasp out, “He’s just managed to--to perpetrate the--most complicated practical joke on the realm of Gondor--and Sam--Sam and I--we’re his instruments!”  He shook his head in admiration.  “You--you did this on purpose, didn’t you, to confound--confound the very lords of the realm--most likely to question you?”

       Finally Aragorn laughed aloud.  “But of course!  Ah, Frodo, do you remember telling me while we were in Rivendell, about the same time you told me of your dream to open free schools in the Shire, that sometimes you thought the Shire needed a dragon loosed on it just to shake the worthies there out of their complacent surety that there will be no uncomfortable changes in their lives?  Do you realize that I’ve felt exactly the same way about many of the lords of Gondor?”

       Frodo looked at him, his eyes sparkling with delight.  “So, having no dragons to hand, instead you’ve decided to plague them with Hobbits?”

       “And why not?  You four will be like a breath of fresh air to the entire realm.”  He grew brusque.  “And now, my friend, it is best you rest tonight.  Gandalf will be along shortly.  He’s dealing with some of the worthies near the Pelargir who are wanting to issue claims for distress suffered by their tenants when we rode through their lands with the Army of the Dead.”

       Sam looked at him in surprise.  “If’n you hadn’t of done it, wouldn’t many of those lands of been burnt by the folk on the ships from Umbar?”

       “Exactly.”

       “And let me guess--if’n that as had happened, they’d of been puttin’ in claims for relief for the lands burnt, right?”

       “You have it, Sam.”

       Frodo again laughed.  “No wonder you’re willing to loose the Shire on Gondor, Aragorn.”

       “Of course!  And now, my friend, you will lie back and allow yourself to rest.”

       “You are devious, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

       “I come by it honestly--I was raised by Elves, and have traveled extensively throughout my adult life with Gandalf.”

       “That explains it, then.”   Frodo smiled as he relaxed back onto his pillows, and as Aragorn gently brushed back the hair from his brow. 

       At last Sam put out the flame in the lamp, and the rest went out, leaving Frodo sleeping in the starlight entering through the open window, as a gentle breeze evoked a quiet chiming from the tuned rods hanging in its casement.

A warning--sexual innuendos included herein.

29:  Assumption and Innuendo

       Angrapain looked out the window of the study, watching the two Hobbits walking toward the Houses of Healing, his eyes following them with an interest Wasnior could only characterize as predatory.  They’d been here in the house in the Sixth Circle for three days so far, and for three days they’d learned but little. 

       There’d been a death at one of the other houses not far North of the ramp to the level of the Citadel, and yesterday apparently the funeral had been held.  A bier had been borne by their house carrying the body of one dressed in the black and silver of the Guard of the Citadel, borne South apparently to the gate to the Fifth Circle, to one of the common cemeteries out on the Pelennor, or so was likely.  The Lord Steward Faramir had walked by what appeared to be the widow, and had later accompanied her back to her house.  The Perian Guardsmen had been one of those who took part in the guard of honor for the Man.

       A routine appeared to be emerging for those who lived in this Circle of the city.  Each morning shortly after dawn the King himself came down the ramp accompanied by at least one guard to visit the Houses of Healing, although what he did there they couldn’t tell.  He was usually there for an hour or two, then would return back up the ramp to the Citadel.  Usually while he was there the one called Frodo Baggins would take his walk that way, and would remain inside for a time, returning finally past the lane Northward.  Not long after noon the dark-haired Perian would do the same walk again, and then a third time in the evening.  Sometimes he walked alone, and sometimes others would walk with him.

       They’d learned the Prince of the Periannath was a Guardsman, complete with uniform and sword.  His service appeared to be in the morning hours, and around the hour of dawn he’d be heading up the ramp to the Citadel, and was among those who regularly accompanied the King back down it for his visits to the Houses of Healing.

       The one with the warm brown hair, dressed in a leather hauberk of greens, golds, and browns over mail, would go up the ramp with the Prince of the Periannath, and was often seen attending on young Eomer of Rohan throughout much of the day.  He and the Prince would usually walk together back down the ramp in the afternoon headed back North; and yesterday it had been learned that these two went to the weapons practice in the practice yards near the guards barracks at the North end of the Sixth Circle.  Belladon had gone out of boredom and had brought back the word that not only did they attend the practice, they appeared to be competent with weapons.  This was a surprise to all, and added to the certainty that these odd Periannath were likely to be formidable adversaries.

       The broader one had Beslor intrigued.  He did not wear a weapon, although they’d learned he owned one.  “I promise,” the one called Merry had said the preceding day as the two of them had stood near the ramp before Merry went to the weapons practice, “I’ll take care of it, Sam.  But until I can afford a new one of my own----”

       “Don’t you worry about it, Mr. Merry,” Sam had answered.  “And I know as you’ll most like take better care of it than I would myself.  Go on with you.”  He’d watched after, smiling, as the taller Perian had hung the sword he’d been carrying from his silver belt.  Then Sam had turned back to the boy in the outfit of a page of the Citadel who stood with him.  “Now, we’ll see as to gettin’ more of the different fruits as is available here in Gondor.  Anythin’ to tempt his appetite.”  None of them questioned as to which one he was.  Together Perian and boy had headed for the gate to the Fifth Circle.

       The blond Elf had attended on the Perian Frodo the preceding day.  The night of the feast he’d worn long silken robes and a carefully wrought circlet indicating his rank among his people, which was apparently high.  During the day he wore leggings, soft boots, and silver and green shirt and finely worked leather jerkin, a white knife at his belt and a bow and quiver on his back.  His blue eyes were clear and highly alert.  The Dwarf had walked with them, talking familiarly with the other two, until he gently laid his hand on Frodo Baggins’s shoulder and said something which made both Perian and Elf laugh before he headed down through the city himself.  No one had seen the Wizard the last two days--where he was and what he was doing they had no idea; but the idea that Mithrandir had supplanted Curunír as the White and as head to the White Council made them all wary of him.

       Today Frodo and the one called Sam were walking toward the Houses of Healing, Sam apparently keeping up a running commentary as they went.  “Anyways, Master, apparently old Strider has a few of them up there all in a tizzy, he does, as more is realizin’ as when they saw him last.  And now his brothers and Gimli and Lord Faramir is wagerin’ on when the herb master for the Houses will finally recognize him.  Not that Strider hasn’t been givin’ him hints, you know....”  The words became harder to understand as they paced further South toward the Houses of Healing, but they could hear again a clear laugh from the dark-haired Frodo.

       But when the return came, it was Frodo alone, and Angrapain gave a grunt of satisfaction and slipped out of the house, going quickly Northward himself as if on an errand.  Wasnior watched after him with concern, hoping that this planned encounter didn’t lead to problems.

*******

       Frodo had left Sam at the gardens to the Houses of Healing.  He intended to do his walk back to the barracks area, then return there and sit in the gardens for a time, just enjoying the green life there.  He was finding during the last two days he missed such life here in this city of stone. 

       He seemed to be doing better the last few days, in spite of the death of the former guardsman.  Pippin had attended the funeral as one of the guard of honor for the deceased, and Aragorn himself, with Frodo in attendance, had met the funeral party within the Rath Dinen at the large building which housed the remains of the Guards of the Citadel at the beginning of the Silent Street.  Mistress Berilien had been eased knowing that her husband was given full honors for his service to Gondor and that no one held his last service to Lord Denethor against him.  At the King’s assurance that she was welcome to remain in the house she and her husband had occupied for so long she smiled further.  “We had only a daughter, and she has married a younger son to one of the lords of Pinnath Gelin.  I’d never feel comfortable leaving my home so far behind.”

       Pippin had appeared easy enough about all of it when they were in the Rath Dinen.  But Frodo hadn’t been surprised when the cries of fear had come that night from the room Pippin shared with Merry, calling out for Beregond to see to the safety of Lord Faramir; and he’d risen and gone to sit by Pippin and ease him back to sleep.  Sam had followed after, then saw him back to bed himself once Pippin was calmed.  Again what Aragorn had said about the nightmares all were likely to have had proven true.

       Frodo was singing one of Bilbo’s walking songs as he made his way to the North end of the Circle when he began to feel tired.  There was a bit of low wall ahead he had found a good place to rest until the tiredness passed, and he made for it now, glad again for its presence as he sat down in the shade of a chestnut tree that grew in the garden of the house on the other side of the wall.  This house appeared to be empty, and in looking at it he saw something that set all his Hobbit instincts to the fore--morels growing in a shaded area where runoff from the level of the Citadel apparently had cut a small stream in the soil, a dip which a former householder had apparently lined with shards of white stone to limit the amount of precious topsoil being carried off during times of rain.  Well, if the house was empty, would anyone be concerned if Hobbits were to enter the yard and help themselves to the mushrooms growing there?  He rather suspected they wouldn’t.  Maybe when he was rested a bit, he’d go into that yard and for now forgo the rest of the walk to the barracks.  Sam would appreciate having the mushrooms for use in preparing dinner, he knew....

       “What is her name?”

       Frodo whipped around, surprised to find he wasn’t alone.  “I beg your pardon?”

       Standing nearby was one of the Men from Umbar--not the older, oily individual he’d spoken with at the feast and the other day, but a younger individual, taller than his fellow, slender, with a sensuous lower lip and slightly hooded eyes.  The Umbari gave a slow, suggestive smile.  “The look on your face--when I have seen such hunger it has always been when the one with that look is thinking of the woman who stirs his mind.  She is a woman of your people?”

       Taken aback, Frodo looked at the Man blankly.  “A woman of my people?”  The moment he said it he wished he’d said nothing, knowing he’d sounded totally foolish.  His face became paler.

       “Unless--unless your taste runs not to women, but to----”  The smile became even more suggestive, to the point of being lecherous.  “Perhaps the one who sat by you at the feast?  He appears to be most solicitous of you.”

       “What?”  Frodo didn’t understand what the Man meant at first; and then it hit him.  He felt as if he must be flushing completely, although all Angrapain could see was that spots of pink were coloring the Perian’s cheeks.  “Sam?  You would think that Sam and I would---?”

       “Or perhaps the taller one with the auburn curls?  He is quite slender, and most endearing....”

       Frodo heard the quiet approaching footsteps and recognized them, but didn’t turn away from his fascinated examination of this Man’s face.  He could see that the Umbari’s eyes were becoming brighter with each suggestion he made, that his cheeks were becoming flushed. 

       The Man continued, “I am told he is a prince of your people, after all.”

       The impropriety of the Man’s statements was suddenly forgotten as Frodo fastened on this last comment.  He found himself wanting so just to laugh out loud.  He searched the Man’s eyes, then asked, “You think that I would be attracted to one who is considered a prince?”

       The Umbari’s shrug was elegant and deliberately sensuous.  “Few things, my friend, are more--interesting--than the idea of knowing one intended to wield power.”

       Frodo’s lip twitched.  The manner in which the Man had said knowing had left no question as to his meaning, but Frodo found he could no longer feel insulted.  “The idea of Peregrin Took wielding power at his time of life I do not find--interesting.  Hilarious, yes; interesting, no.”

       This was not the response the Umbari had expected, and he automatically straightened, perplexed.  “Is he not a prince of your people?”

       Frodo gave a contained shake to his head.  “Didn’t you listen to what I told your companion at the feast, my lord?  We Hobbits don’t have princes.  Yes, my cousin Peregrin will be important one day, if his parents don’t skin him alive when we return home for what he’s done in leaving the Shire without permission.  He’s not of age as yet, you see.  But considering him a prince----”  He shook his head.  “He is our sweet Pippin, and is definitely endearing as you suggested; but I would no more consider him as a--lover--than I would a fish swimming in the Brandywine.  And the Thain does not wield power--he has a good deal of authority, yes; but no power as such.  Anyone who doesn’t care to do what the Thain feels ought to be done can and will tell him just where he can take his orders.”

       “The Thain is the ruler of your land?”

       “The ruler of our land, my lord, is standing behind you.”

       Angrapain turned around, looking down, expecting to see the fourth Perian, the one with the warm brown hair, standing there.  Instead he found himself looking at a Man’s legs encased in practice garb.  He followed the body upwards until he found himself looking into the keen grey eyes of the Lord King Elessar, who had paused on his way to the weapons practice beyond the barracks buildings with his companions to see just what kind of conversation this one from Umbar was having with Frodo Baggins.

       “Tell me, Frodo--does Pippin have one with whom he has an understanding in the Shire?” the King asked.

       “Pippin?  No, not as yet.  He’s not yet shown much of an interest in lasses in that fashion.  Oh, he’s kissed one or two, I think; but as one was Estella Bolger and that was on a dare and she’s not the least interested in him, I don’t think there’s much chance of anything coming of it, particularly as she is several years older than he.  Now, in Sam’s case it’s quite different, for there’s never been any question as to the one he’s been interested in in that way, not in all the years I’ve known him.”

       “Young Mistress Cotton, I understand.”

       “Young Miss Cotton, my Lord Aragorn.”

       “Forgive me--I’d forgotten there was a term to indicate an unmarried lady among the folk of the Shire.”

       “You are forgiven, my Lord.  Sam has told you of this?”

       “No, Merry told me as we entered the city.  And is there one for you?”

       Frodo gave a long evaluative stare.  Finally he said, “Well, I see that the others and Gandalf have at least remained discrete about that part of my affairs.”  He rose.  “If you will forgive me, my Lady Éowyn, Lord Éomer, Lord Faramir, Lord Hardorn, my Lord Aragorn.”  He turned back to Angrapain.  “You asked the name of the one of whom I thought with such hunger.  The name is morel, sir.”  He gave a bow and turned back toward the lane on which stood his house and walked away.

       All watched him go.  After a moment Aragorn smiled.  “Well, that was interesting.  And that he should think about morels is a good sign, I think, as it shows he is returning to normal Hobbit interests.”

       Éomer shook his head.  “This Morel is a woman among the Halflings?”

       Aragorn started to chuckle, and Hardorn actually gave a true laugh.  “No, a morel is a type of mushroom.  Such are greatly favored among the Periannath.”

       Angrapain’s face flushed.  The two Kings and those accompanying them continued on to the practice grounds, and he was left standing by the low wall, feeling very foolish.

Again, this chapter contains sexual innuendo.

30:  Mushrooms and Vengeance

       Wasnior looked up as Angrapain reentered the house, his usually sanguine expression one of fury.  “What is it?”

       Angrapain only glared at him.

       “I take it that the plan to learn from the Perian did not go well.”

       Angrapain growled, “Many years I have studied the hearts of Men, and always one can snare them through the beauty of a woman or youth--or even another Man.  But when I see the look of hunger on the face of the Perian Frodo Baggins--does he think of the one to raise his heart and delight his body and soul?  Ah, but no!  No, not for him the love of the body.  No, he is too fine for that.  No, for him it is the love of the stomach!”

       “Love of the stomach?  But he barely can eat!”

       Angrapain’s look was stony.  “He may barely be able to eat, my Lord Wasnior, but that does not mean he is unresponsive to food.  Does he dream of the light of Anor reflected back from the hair of the one who stands by him?  Or the light of Ithil caught in the eyes of a woman who enthralls him?  Oh, not he!  No, instead he dreams of--mushrooms!”

       “Mushrooms?”  Wasnior felt totally out of his depth.  “He dreams of mushrooms?”

       “Not only does he dream of mushrooms, but the King approves and is relieved!”

       “The King was there?”

       “He and other lords came down from the Citadel to practice at swords.  They paused to hear our talk.”

       “And he is not tempted by his companions?”

       “He said that he had as much desire for a fish as for the Ernil i Pheriannath.  What is more, that one is not a prince among their people, apparently.  Precisely what authority he might bear among his own people when he comes into his office I know not.”

       “But he is heir to an office?”

       “Yes, apparently the office of the Thain.  However, I was not told what this means, save that he may direct but not command.”

       Beslor, who sat nearby, his usual cup of mead at hand, suggested, “Perhaps, as long as the King has come down through the circle to practice at swords, we might go and watch and gauge what kind of swordsman he is.”

       Leaving Belladon to keep an eye on the disgruntled Angrapain, Wasnior, Dorath, and Beslor headed for the North end of the Circle to the barracks area.  They worked their way through the complex to the practice grounds, and found the King sitting on a bench watching the practice of Éomer King and a slender youth, both in practice garb and wearing helms.  The two were beyond practicing forms and were definitely sparring in earnest.  Éomer had the advantage in height and reach; but the youth was a more than canny opponent, constantly managing to slip inside his guard and keeping the Rohirric King on the defensive.  Finally Éomer managed to disarm the other, evoking an unusually high-pitched cry of frustration.  Both removed their helms, and those from Umbar were amazed to see that the youth was actually the Lady Éowyn, her jaw set as she removed her glove and rubbed her wrist.

       “Excellently done, my Lady,” called the King as Éomer retrieved her sword, “particularly as this is the first chance you’ve had to lift a weapon since the Battle of the Pelennor.  Come here, though, and let me ease that and assure myself that you have not injured yourself anew.”

       As Lord Faramir stood to face Lord Hardorn, the sons of Elrond entered the practice area together.  One of the twins examined the King’s practice garb with interest.  “And so, Estel,” he commented, “where did those come from?  They fit you well enough.”

       Aragorn looked up from his examination of the Princess’s wrist.  “Belveramir was certain he knew where was stored gear I could fit.  It appears that Lord Steward Ecthelion had a certain officer’s gear brought to him and caused it to be stored in case that one should ever return.  After his father’s death, Lord Denethor ordered it was to be burned; but Belveramir quietly removed the contents of the chests to others and replaced it with older gear discarded by the barracks of the Citadel Guardsmen, and burned that in sight of Denethor instead.”

       “Not many among Men have ever been as tall as you, Estel, not since Arvedui himself, although Adar has told us that Elendil was taller than many among Elf-kind.”

       “Obviously I am not as tall as was he.”

       “Shall you take a turn with me and I shall see how well you remember your lessons regarding fighting with knives?”

       “If you so desire.”  He completed his evaluation of the Lady Éowyn’s wrist.  “This does well, my Lady.  And you remain yet a formidable opponent.” 

       The two of them looked into one another’s eyes, and suddenly hers softened.  “Thank you, my Lord Aragorn.  That is high praise indeed, coming from such as you.”

       “Ah, but it is likely you will see me now soundly drubbed, for seldom have I ever been able to best my brothers, who after all have had almost three thousand years to hone their skill.”

       All turned their attention to the match between the new Steward and Lord Hardorn.  It was not as furious as had been that between Éomer and his sister, and was comprised by much careful circling and watching of one another’s eyes and hands; but when one sword touched the other both were shown skillful and able, and the exchange of blows could be quite rapid and then as rapidly stopped again.  The final exchange was as swift as had been its predecessors.  Faramir’s eyes were alight with the pleasure of practicing against a worthy opponent, while Lord Hardorn’s were narrowed in concentration.  Suddenly it was over, and both swords were lost. 

       The other of the dark-haired Elves, whose attention had been fixed throughout on the match, straightened.  “Well done, the both of you,” he called.  “Very well done indeed.  My Lord Faramir, I salute you, for I know few save our brother here can easily equal or best Hardorn.”

       “You have not the weight behind your blows your brother had,” commented the King, “but it is easy enough to see from whence came your skill.  He taught you the handling of a blade?”

       “Not all.  The swordmaster when we were both young was Gilarion, who had studied much under the tutelage of the Lord Captain Thorongil.  Our father insisted he teach us, for he said he wished us to learn from the best available.”  Lord Hardorn had scooped both swords from the ground and given each a swift examination before offering Lord Faramir’s weapon to him hilt first.  “But I will admit that my primary partner when we were younger was my brother.”  His expression was somewhat solemn.

       “Did you ever practice with your father?”

       “A few times.  He was excellent with a blade, but gave up practicing against me when I learned to take advantage of the fact that there was one move he preferred and tended to overuse.”

       The King’s lip twitched as he watched Faramir check his blade, then sheathed it.  “I see.  Those whose actions are too predictable are more easily opposed at times.”  He rose and unhooked the sword from his belt, handing it into the keeping of the other dark-haired Elf.  “If you will watch over Anduril, Elrohir, until Elladan has managed to disarm me.”

       “Do not take it for granted that this will be true, youngling, or you defeat yourself before you are begun.”  The Elf’s eyes were severe.

       Aragorn shrugged and went forward.  He drew the dagger given to him a few days previously by Éomer, and after sharing a bow with Elladan they began to circle.

       All watched in fascination.  Both Man and Elf were obviously well matched, and both appeared as able to fight with either hand.  Shifting of blade from one hand to the other was frequent and tended to be sudden.  The final flurry was quick and difficult to follow, but suddenly the Elf was disarmed.  Aragorn straightened and drew back.  “You were overconfident, muindor nín.”

       Elladan laughed with pleasure.  “Excellently done, Aragorn.”  The King retrieved the Elf’s knife and checked it, then returned it; then checked his own blade.  Then as he turned to retrieve his sword Elrohir pulled it away.  The Man’s eyes widened in question.

       Elrohir’s expression was steady.  “You failed to meet the specified conditions.”

       Aragorn’s eyes narrowed, then he pulled out his knife and held it out to Elladan.  “Take this, please.”  Once Elladan had accepted it, his own eyes amused, Aragorn turned again to the other twin.  “Now--he has disarmed me.”  He held his hand, and Elrohir surrendered the sheath to him.  He then turned back to Elladan and accepted the dagger once more.  “I advise,” he commented to no one in particular, “that all be careful what they speak to Elves, as sometimes they choose to be so literal in interpreting what is said to them.”

       All laughed.

       The three Umbarians looked to one another, rose and quietly slipped away.  Once they were on the main way of the Circle they exchanged looks.  Beslor shook his head.  “Never,” he said quietly, “have I seen such skill with a knife in my life.”

       The other two nodded their agreement, then returned to their house.

       Angrapain was still sullen when they returned.  Dorath looked at him, then at Belladon.  “He’s been like this the whole time?”

       “Yes, and has been drinking steadily.  He feels cheated.”  Angrapain ignored the others, taking another swallow from his cup.  Belladon sighed.  “How was the sparring?”

       “Alarming,” Dorath answered.  “Apparently the Lord Aragorn Elessar is Elven trained, and showed marked skill with daggers.”

       “They are all superb with blades,” Wasnior admitted sourly, “including the Lady Éowyn of Rohan.”

       Belladon’s eyes widened.  “A woman is a master with a blade?”

       “Yes,” Beslor affirmed.

       “I see.”  After a moment’s thought, Belladon rose.  “I am going down to the Dimmed Star in the Fifth Circle to purchase more mead.  I am pleased any here brew it, and that which they provide is excellent.”  And in moments he was on his way.

       The others went to the kitchen to speak with their servants about the evening meal, leaving Angrapain alone in the day room, contemplating his now empty beaker.  The Man seethed with quiet fury, for he felt worse than cheated--he felt shamed.

       He’d been--initiated--at the age of thirteen, and by his uncle, his mother’s brother.  He’d later killed the Man, and gladly; but he’d learned that men and women could be easily led by their desires, and he’d gone on to make a study of the subject, making himself extraordinarily useful to various individuals within Umbar.  Certainly Sauron had found his services satisfactory in bringing various individuals into situations where their reluctance to allow the powerful fathers and brothers of their wives to become aware of certain--details--had made them extraordinarily willing to do things which ordinarily they would have refused to do.

       Angrapain found a good deal of satisfaction in leading others to corruption, or in goading them to reveal details which they would have preferred to keep private.  The Perian Frodo Baggins was close to the King.  There was a strong sense of protectiveness in the attitude toward the small one shown by the King; and in Angrapain’s experience there were only a few reasons for such an attitude, the primary one being physical closeness.  He had determined in his own heart that this was the situation between the two of them.  However, he noted a sense of reticence and what he interpreted as ambivalence in the Perian which reminded him strongly of his own feelings toward his late uncle--strongly enjoying the physical sensations of such intimacy combined with hatred of the one who had corrupted him. 

       If he could only convince the Perian to admit the relationship he was certain was there, then he could share that information with those who were in positions to exploit that situation to the benefit of Umbar--and, of course, themselves and himself.  That had been his intent in approaching Frodo Baggins as the Perian took his regular exercise that day; but instead of him leading the Perian to reveal his secret desires, instead he’d revealed his own. 

       For he found both the one called Frodo and the one entitled the Ernil i Pheriannath both very attractive; Frodo not only due to his physical beauty and the sense of vulnerability to him, but also due to the assumed relationship with the new King of Gondor; the other due to both his obvious youth and innocence as well as the title and the power which he’d assumed went with it.  For Angrapain of Umbar, power was indeed an attribute he found--attractive.

       He was now certain that the Perian had seen his own desires and had rejected him.  Angrapain of Umbar was not one who accepted rejection easily.  And to learn that he’d apparently misread true hunger as the hunger he found within himself was most galling.

       Angrapain of Umbar, when he’d imbibed more than was good for him, did not react as do most to strong drink.  He did not become maudlin.  He did not stumble when he rose to walk.  He did not slur his speech markedly, or repeat himself excessively.  He did not become sleepy; nor did he become openly belligerent or irrational in his speech and actions.

       Instead, Angrapain of Umbar became frighteningly singleminded.  The repetition he did not speak occurred instead within his brain, and he would rehearse the perceived wrong toward himself over and over and over again in his thoughts until it had become a towering inferno of insult; and then he would plot revenge and go out to carry out that vengeance.  So it had been when he finally killed his uncle; so it was now.  The Perian had wronged him, forcing him to reveal his own desires; the Perian had deceived him with his attitudes; the Perian had shamed him before the new Lord King Aragorn Elessar himself.  The Perian, therefore, must pay.  The Perian would pay--Angrapain would see to it. 

       He went to the bedroom that he’d not yet been able to share with any other; he opened the small chest in which his clothes had been brought into the city; he withdrew a thin knife that he favored and slid it into his boot.  Then, very quietly, he slipped out of the house to lie in wait for the Perian.  The Perian would undoubtedly return to the low wall where they’d met before in his walks; he’d wait there.  It was the proper place for his vengeance, after all, the site of his embarrassment.

       The others had heard him go up the stairs to the sleeping rooms on the upper floor and enter his room.  They did not hear him creep down the stairs, or the door open and close quietly.

       The Guardsmen on duty noted this one leaving the house, but as their orders were not to interfere unless he tried to leave this level, they allowed him to go on his way.

*******

       Frodo rested for a time and accepted a light meal prepared for him by Mistress Loren, then determined to go back to the empty house to get some of the mushrooms he’d seen growing there.  He went into the kitchen and obtained a light metal bowl, paused at the hall tree to don his cloak from Lorien, and then went out,  and at the top of the lane turned northwards.

       The low wall was no deterrent to his goal, and soon he was kneeling in the area where the mushrooms grew in such abundance, and began to gather them.  He’d not take all of them, for he wanted some at least to continue to propagate.  He had half filled the bowl when he heard someone approaching from behind.  He turned and realized that the Umbari who’d spoken with him earlier was once again almost upon him, and he rose hastily, turning to face him.

       Frodo was annoyed, for he certainly didn’t wish to indulge in such conversation as this one seemed to find enjoyable.  After all, his sole intent was to obtain mushrooms for dinner, not to air what attractions others might hold for himself, much less what this Man found--interesting.  “You wished to speak to me, sir?” he asked, making it clear from his tone of voice that whatever the Man desired, he didn’t wish to waste his own time in pointless conversation on improper subjects.

       “I thought I might find you here,” said Angrapain quietly.

       “And so you have.”

       “You shamed me earlier.”

       “Shamed you?  How did I shame you?  It appeared to me that you were doing well at accomplishing that for yourself.”

       “You would not see how I was drawn to you.”

       “You--drawn to me?”  Frodo looked at the Man with shock.  “Drawn to me?  I was supposed to see such a thing?”  He took a step backward.

       Angrapain immediately stepped forward, a long pace which brought him even closer than he’d been before.  Frodo realized he could not afford to retreat further, as it would only draw the Man on.

       Angrapain said quietly, “You are very beautiful, you know--slender and delicate.  It would be a pleasure to show you the delights of the body----”

       Frodo realized the Man was drunk in spite of his sober bearing.  He would never say things such as this were he not.  He looked up at the Man and wondered if he could handle the situation.  He didn’t have Sting with him--never thought he could need it within Minas Tirith itself.  But, then, having Sting was not likely to have allowed him much of an advantage anyway, for he’d not had the nature that made learning to wield a sword properly easy or desirable.  In fact, he’d not managed to do a great deal of good with blades during his journeys, save in the barrow when he’d saved the others from the wight, and apparently in cutting Shelob’s web.

       However, Frodo did have one weapon which he’d not used during the quest, although he’d been tempted when facing the unknown Man who’d attached himself to their party in Bree.  Long ago, a few years after he’d gone to live with Bilbo in Hobbiton, he’d ended up spending much of one summer in Brandy Hall again, keeping Merry company.  Merry had fallen from a ladder which he’d climbed to aid Uncle Dinodas in replacing a shutter blown down in a storm, and he’d broken his leg.  He’d been bedfast for several weeks, and it appeared only Frodo’s presence served to keep him reluctantly lying down while the break knitted.

       Uncle Saradoc had taken on several tweens that year to help with the farm, including Tolman Smallburrow.  Tolman Smallburrow had been uncommonly large for a Hobbit, and had taken a marked delight in tormenting those smaller than himself.  Finally Frodo had begged his cousin Merimac to teach him some means of defense, and the older Hobbit had agreed.  Using the scarecrow from the grainfield as a target, Merimac had taught Frodo how to use his fists properly.  Frodo became very good at it very quickly--so good at it that Merimac had become concerned that his younger cousin might seriously hurt someone if he weren’t careful.  As a result Mac had made Frodo swear he would never strike anyone unless it were truly necessary to protect himself or someone else.  Having made that promise, Frodo had kept it faithfully.  Never, so far, had he ever needed to use more than one blow.  Well, he realized, here he just might need to use two.

       Angrapain took another step forward, and Frodo readied himself.  “You are, you realize, very beautiful, my Lord Frodo Baggins....”

       The first blow took the Man in the midriff, and he bent over in the shock of pain he felt.  The second caught him on the point of the chin, and he fell like a polled ox.

31:  Aftermath

       Cries of concern from the street indicated that the interchange had been seen by the King’s party as it passed on its way back to the ramp to the Citadel.  Suddenly there were six people there surrounding the downed Man, and Aragorn himself was kneeling by Frodo.  “Are you all right, tithen nín?” he was demanding.  “What are the two of you doing here?”

       “I came out to walk again--thought he’d gone back to his own place.  But he’d come out also, apparently.  Aragorn--his intentions--they are indecent!”

       “But what were you doing here?” asked the King, then noted the bowl and the mushrooms.  “Oh, I see.  Were you kneeling when he arrived?”

       “Yes,” Frodo admitted, the spots of pink on his cheeks, “facing that way.”

       “And his talk was much as it was earlier in the day when we came by last?”

       “Yes--he demanded to know why I did not see he was drawn to me----”  He realized he was shivering.  “I’m sorry, Aragorn.”

       One of the sons of Elrond knelt by the unconscious Man, and now looked up.  “He has been most efficiently knocked unconscious, Estel.  A single blow to the point of the chin.”

       “I’m sorry,” Frodo said again, “but I hit him twice.  I’ve never had to strike a Man before.  I had to make him lean over so I could----”

       “You struck him, Frodo?” Aragorn asked, amazed.

       “Well, yes, I did.  I couldn’t allow him to go on as he was, Aragorn.  I’m sorry--I promised not to strike more than once, but I had to this time.”

       “You promised whom?”

       “Mac.  My cousin Merimac.  He made me promise not to strike more than I had to, not to strike more than once unless I had to.”

       “Why did you have to make such a promise, Frodo?”

       “For fear I might injure someone seriously.”

       “You’ve had to strike people before?”

       “Yes, at home in the Shire.  Tolman Smallburrow, Ted Sandyman, my cousin Lotho--they’re all bullies, you see.  Sometimes I’ve had to stop them from hurting others.  I think the last time was in Westhall, actually--a Bracegirdle was chasing two little ones.”

       “Frodo!  Are you all right?”  Aragorn turned to see Pippin and Merry were both scrambling over the wall and running forward to join them.  “What happened?”

       “I had to hit a Man, Merry.”

       “It’s been years since you did that last, I think.”

       “Yes.”

       “He was making indecent proposals to you, Frodo?” the King asked.

       “Yes--but you can’t blame him too hard, Aragorn.  He was quite drunk, although he didn’t appear as drunk as he actually was.  There are some like that, you know.”

       Fury swept through the King.  He rose completely.  “Let’s get this one out of here,” he said.

       He started to lean over to assist in lifting Angrapain to carry him out of the yard, but Hardorn stopped him.  “No, cousin, this time I will do it.  You shouldn’t sully yourself with the likes of this.”  Hardorn leaned over, and with Elladan’s aid lifted the Man up and carried him out to the street while Merry and Pippin surrounded Frodo and drew him out, Pippin suddenly stopping as he realized why Frodo had entered the yard and looking sideways at Aragorn.  Aragorn pretended he didn’t notice that sideways glance.  It was always this way when they’d found mushrooms along the way, after all, and old Bilbo had been much the same in Rivendell.

       Once they reached the wall Frodo sank onto it in reaction while the others fussed about him.  Aragorn looked down at Pippin.  “Pippin, go to the ramp and have them fetch three Guardsmen here.”

       Pippin looked up, straightened, and saluted.  “Yes, my Lord King,” he said formally, and hurried off to do his Lord’s bidding.

       Aragorn felt Frodo’s pulse, then with a nod he turned to Angrapain.  The Man was still unconscious.  He felt the Umbari’s pulse and lifted an eyelid.  “Expertly delivered, Frodo.  Why didn’t you ever tell me you’d been so trained?”

       Frodo looked at him, his cheeks pale.  “Of what use is a proper punch in the outer world, Aragorn?”

       Examining the unconscious Man and recognizing no serious harm had been done, and remaining senseless was probably the best thing for the moment, the King smiled.  “Well, it was useful for precisely this purpose, Frodo--to keep such a fool as this from causing serious harm to others and to his people’s relationship with Gondor.  I doubt that Wasnior realizes this one has come out again.  But we cannot allow such insults to go unnoted.  Where did you place the first punch, since I take it the one to the jaw was the second one?”

       “To the gut, to make him bend over so I could do the second one.”

       “Let me see your hands.”

       As he allowed the Man to examine his right hand, Frodo said, “It’s set the missing finger throbbing again.”

       “Yes, I can imagine, particularly as the gap is now unprotected.”  He began gently massaging the place where the ring finger had been lost, and worked his way up the hand to the wrist.

       “Our Lord King!” announced one of the three approaching Guardsman.

       Aragorn gave an inclination of his head.  “I would have you carry this one to the prison behind the Citadel and see him incarcerated.  Do we have any guards there who speak Rohirric?”

       “Yes, my Lord, there are at least four who do so.”

       “Good.  I wish those who serve near his cell to speak only Rohirric while they are within hearing of him.  I wish him to feel completely cut off from communication save when he is addressed directly, and that I would see done by the warden of the prison.  He is to be thoroughly checked for weapons--he’ll undoubtedly have a boot knife and may have a variety of other weapons about him in pockets, hems, and sleeves.  Be certain to look for strangling cords.  Remove his belt and boots.”

       Pippin returned with Sam, and together they took positions by Frodo.

       The Guardsmen smiled at one another.  The spokesman for them saluted, his expression satisfied.  “I do not believe this will be difficult to perform, my Lord Elessar.”  The three bent over the Umbari and lifted him between them and headed up the ramp to the level of the Citadel.

       Gimli watched the three Guardsmen carry the unconscious Umbari past him, then continued on his approach to the party by the wall.  “Now, what is that all about?” he asked.  “One of those from Umbar causing problems?”

       “Yes, one of Wasnior’s companions made an indecent approach to Frodo.”

       The Dwarf bristled, and turning made as if to follow after the Guards as they carried their prisoner up the ramp.  Aragorn restrained him.  “Let it go, Gimli, for no real harm has been done.”

       “Did you knock him senseless?”

       “No--Frodo did that himself.  It appears Frodo has several talents he had not earlier made known to us.”

       Gimli looked down to the Ringbearer with added respect.  “So, it appears that you weren’t left totally without a form of defense there in the Shire, then.”

       Frodo shrugged, embarrassed.  “We Hobbits aren’t totally vulnerable, Gimli.  We are all good with thrown stones, and we have some excellent archers, particularly among the Tooks; and both wrestling and fisticuffs are enjoyed from time to time, although the latter isn’t usually considered quite respectable.”

       “Frodo’s always been good with his fists,” Merry smiled.  “He’s stopped many a bullying over the years.  And let Ted Sandyman see him approaching with his temper up, and he’ll back off quickly.”

       “I’ve not always been good with them, Merry--Mac had to teach me how, you know.”

       “Then what are you going to do with that one and his fellows?” demanded the Dwarf of Aragorn.

       “I will grant them their audience tomorrow morning.  And then they shall all be sent packing, I think.”

       “Good.  Legolas, Gandalf, and I have been greeting the deputations sent from Erebor and Dale.  They’d hoped to be here for your coronation, but were delayed by having to deal with the last of the orcs who held out against them.  It appears that even more lands have new rulers as the new age begins, for both Dain and Brand were lost in the final battles.  However, with the losses suffered among the goblins of the Misty Mountains, it is likely to remain relatively safe to travel throughout the valley of the Anduin for many years in the future.”

       “Who has come from Erebor?” asked Aragorn.

       Gimli smiled proudly.  “Among others, my father, Bofur, and Dorlin.”

       Frodo looked up with interest.  “Gloin has come here?”

       “Yes, as well as Bard, grandson of Bard the Bowman and new King of Dale.  There is also a small deputation from Mirkwood as well, and Legolas has remained with them, as his brother Tharen is one of their number.  And I am pleased to say that there is courtesy between my father and Bofur on one side and Thranduil’s sons on the other side.”

       Aragorn smiled widely.  “I rejoice that this is so.  There will be a feast of welcoming for them on the morrow, for there’s no time to prepare for such tonight.  Are the folk of the Dragon’s Claw treating them well?”

       “Yes, they were much refreshed when I left them to come up and tell you.  They will be following soon enough.  I’ve already sent word to Master Balstador and Mistress Gilmoreth as to how many of each kind will need housing tonight.”

       “Thank you, Gimli.  I think they should all be housed in the Citadel, for I’d not see any of them importuned by those from Umbar.”  Aragorn turned to Frodo where he still sat upon the wall.  “Would you wish, friends, to join us for dinner, Frodo, Merry?  It should be an interesting meal with so many come, and will serve to remove you from access by the Umbarians for a time.  And I believe the cooks have mushroom soup on the menu.”

       The Hobbits looked at one another, and at last all agreed.  “Good.  Shall we go up now, then, or would you prefer to come up with the party from Rhovanion?” Aragorn then asked.

       Sam decided this.  “We’ll need to smarten up some, beggin’ your pardon.  Best to come up with them, I think.  And that way we can let Lasgon and Mistress Loren know.”

       “Very good.  Merry, Pippin, you have your weapons in case any others seek to cause difficulties?  Well enough,  We will go ahead, then.”

       Once Aragorn and his party were finally on their way up the ramp, the four Hobbits looked to one another, and three of them scrambled one more time over the wall to examine Frodo’s find and fetch the bowl, making certain it was full before they turned back to their house.

*******

       Wasnior was sitting at a table in the day room for his house composing a report for Marcipor when the knock came.  One of the servants went to answer the door, then came back looking both excited and concerned.  “There is a Guard from the Citadel at the door, my Lord,” he said.

       Wasnior looked from Dorath to Beslor.  Belladon hadn’t returned as yet.  Had he run into difficulties down in the Fifth Circle?  Wasnior capped the ink, set the sheet of blotting paper over his writing and the ink bottle over that to assure the missive remain covered, and hastily repaired to the doorway.  The Guardsman was pulling aside as Belladon approached, a small mead barrel under one arm, his expression carefully schooled to reflect only polite curiosity, the Guardsman from the sixth gate who’d accompanied him remaining on the main street.  Wasnior also pulled back and to the side to allow Belladon to enter, and then stepped forward to face the one at the door.

       The Guard at the door was indeed dressed as a member of the Guard of the Citadel, and was apparently of strong Dúnedain ancestry, with his clear grey eyes, dark hair, and fine features as well as the height and carriage of his lineage.  Wasnior examined him briefly, then said, “I am Lord Wasnior.  You have a message?”

       The Guard gave a bow so perfunctory in nature as to approach being rude.  “The Lord King Elessar sends word that he grants you and the three remaining of your companions an audience tomorrow at the second hour.  He would have done so tonight, but embassies from Rhovanion have arrived but this afternoon, and he and his people have had to make haste to welcome them.  A detachment of the Guard will arrive about a half mark after the bell strikes the first hour to escort you and yours to the Hall of Kings.  And  you will do well to have your goods ready to be taken back to your ship afterward.  Our King has sent orders to make certain barrels of water and sufficient supplies to see you back to your own harbors be delivered there this evening.”

       “My three remaining companions?  What does this mean?”

       “One of your company has been made a guest of the Citadel this evening.  He made a most indecent approach to one of our Lord King’s guests, and has much to answer for.”  With another limited bow, the Guardsman turned and headed back to the ramp, exchanging salutes with the one who’d accompanied Belladon before each turned back to their proper places, which for the messenger appeared to be back to the Citadel.

       Belladon had remained just inside the passage, still carrying his barrel of mead.  As Wasnior approached him they exchanged looks of concern.  “Angrapain?” hazarded Belladon.  “What has the fool done?”

       Together they went to the circle of chairs at one end of the day room, Belladon abandoning his barrel on the table where Wasnior had been writing as they passed.  Dorath and Beslor looked up with concern.  “We finally get our audience?” asked Dorath.

       “Apparently,” Wasnior answered.  “Beslor, go up and make certain whether Angrapain is in the house.”

       “We never heard him go out,” Dorath protested as Beslor rose.

       “Means nothing if he decided to be quiet.  Even when drunk that one can be quiet when it suits him.

       Unhappily, Dorath nodded his agreement.  They listened to Beslor’s steps as he went up the stairs to the sleeping quarters, then the hurried rush down them.  They looked up as he reentered the day room, a scowl on his face.  “He’s gone, and it looks as if he’s taken that dagger he likes with him--he’s emptied his personal chest.”

       “He’d best not have done any harm to any of the Periannath,” growled Wasnior, “or he’ll find out what revenge means.  I don’t think that the Lord Elessar is going to accept any insult toward any of them.”

       “He was most upset by the Lord Frodo Baggins’s response to his earlier approach.  If he has thought to take vengeance for a perceived insult....”  Beslor didn’t bother to finish the thought.  All shuddered.  Belladon went to the barrel of mead and took it into the kitchen, bringing out again four beakers of the stuff.  All swallowed their shares quickly.

32:  Incarceration

       He began to come to as they hauled him into the prison and were approached by the Warden of the place.  “He’s to be stripped and searched, his belt and boots removed, and all pockets, sleeves, and hems to be searched for weapons and strangling cords,” one of those who’d brought him said, then added, “There’s more, but I am to speak it to you quietly, sir.”

       At a sign from the Warden, two of the guards of the prison took Angrapain and brought him to a cell apart from the rest and saw to it that he was stripped to his small clothes and all was checked thoroughly.  A strangling wire was indeed found inside his rolled belt, the knife in his boot, and a smaller but still lethal folding knife in his sleeve.  Once they were certain he had no more weapons they left his clothing on the stone bench which held the cot mattress for sleeping and abandoned him there.  Angrapain went to the metal chamberpot provided, vomited thoroughly into it, shakily poured water from the battered but clean pitcher that stood on a shelf inside the barred door into the more battered but clean metal cup and drank it down, then after dressing himself laid himself down and covered himself with the thin yet clean blanket and, covering his eyes with his forearm, tried to sleep.

       A meal was brought, the meat already cut into pieces, a wooden spoon his only utensil.  The cooking wasn’t inspired, but it was adequate, if not the fine cooking Angrapain preferred to insist on.  No one addressed him or answered his questions; an hour after the meal was brought the dishes were removed and a new water pitcher brought and placed on the shelf.  When he again tried to ask when he would be released and if Lord Wasnior had been notified, he’d been answered in what he suspected was Rohirric.  A cold, damp cloth was brought him to apply to his jaw; they then left him alone.

       He checked the doors, hinges, locks, and so on.  Nothing he could access anywhere; the walls were solid stone; the doors of heavy oak; the bars fairly recently renewed and firmly seated.  There was a drain into which he could pour the contents of the chamber pot, and plenty of water in the pitcher for rinsing the thing.  He could not claim mistreatment, and could not undo the door.

       Having nothing else he could do for himself, Angrapain finally again took to the cot and slept, uncertain what the morning would bring to him.

*******

       About an hour before dawn the Lord Elessar came to the prison.  The Warden was concerned when it was told to him the King had come here, for in the Warden’s experience personal visits by the ruler of the realm did not bode well for his charges.  In the forty-five years he’d served within the prison, the Warden had seen only nine visits by the Lord Steward, and in each case it had been shortly followed by the ordered execution of a particular prisoner or group of prisoners, and in seven such cases he personally had been certain that there had not been viable proof of a crime committed by the ones condemned. 

       Madog was proud that Gondor had some of the fairest laws in the known lands of Middle Earth, and that those held in his prison were held in clean and relatively humane conditions.  He knew that from time to time an innocent person might need to be imprisoned while the truth was found out regarding the charges laid at their feet or while anger cooled so that mobs and vengeful family members didn’t take the law into their own hands before all facts were known.  One Man had been accused of the rape of the daughter of a well-respected merchant; had he not been quickly placed within the prison he would have undoubtedly been captured and slain by the merchant’s friends and older sons.  Only later did it come out the girl had not been raped at all, but had told the lie to hide the fact she’d been behaving unchastely with the youth she fancied and so had become with child.  It was in the knowledge that such situations did happen that the rules had long been in place that the prison of the Citadel was to be a healthful and bearable place, and that any imprisoned within it were to be treated with dignity.

       So it had been for almost all of the forty-five years the Warden had served here, save for the last five years under Lord Denethor, when more and more questionable arrests had been made; when eight of the nine visits to the prison had been made.  Was this new King, for all his talk of fairness, dignity, and proper justice, no better than Denethor as he declined under the weight of fears for the realm?  Certainly the orders that this prisoner was to be carefully searched for hidden weapons and strangling cords had appeared arbitrary--until such things were found.  The rule that only Rohirric was to be spoken around this prisoner also seemed arbitrary, save that he was from Umbar, and if folk spoke only in a language he wouldn’t be likely to know around him they couldn’t inadvertently give him information to the detriment of the realm; and so the Warden had confirmed the order.

       The King was led into the office of the Warden, and the guard gave a deep bow and backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.  The King appeared to be watching this with amusement before he turned again to the Warden, his grey eyes examining him with interest.  “Your name?” the Lord Elessar asked.

       “Madog son of Margond, my Lord.  Won’t you sit, my Lord King?”

       “Thank you.”  The tall Northerner folded himself onto the extra chair.  “I wish to speak privately to the prisoner I sent you yesterday, but also to the ones accused of spying on Gondor and imprisoned during Lord Denethor’s tenure.  I will be calling for them to be brought before me later today to judge their cases, to free or to condemn them as is right.”

       “And what do you think to learn of them now?”

       “In part, the order in which to call them and what witnesses should be called to speak for and against them.  From the report you have sent me, most are accused of having spied on the realm for the agents of Mordor.”

       “Yes.”

       “The one I sent here yesterday is Umbari, and came with the embassy sent from that land.  There are a few reasons why we believe they were sent--to learn of the disposition of their fleet which was sent against us and which I captured and used to bring defenders from the Southlands; to find out what has become of their spies who have not reported to them since the battle; to learn what they can of the new government of the land that they might figure how to exploit the situation to Umbar’s benefit; to set up a new spy network within the city; to gauge my knowledge and abilities and commitment to the realm.”

       “Such is indeed likely.  Why was this one sent here?  For suspicion of spying?”

       “No.  He was arrested for making indecent proposals to one who found such offensive.”

       “And who was this?”

       “The Ringbearer.”

       Madog found himself angry.  He’d seen the Ringbearer at the coronation and a few times as he walked the last few days along the main way in the Sixth Circle; and he’d seen him by the King’s side at the funeral of Halargil, whom Madog had known for many years.  His gravity, his extreme courtesy, the quiet gentleness one could see in him--all had marked him as one well worthy of respect.  He’d seen the others of the King’s companions hovering about him protectively.  Several of his guards had begged leave to go with the Army of the West to fight before the Black Gate, and had brought back the stories of the finding of the Ringbearer and his esquire by the great Eagles and Mithrandir, the long watch lest they die, the ennoblement upon the Field of Cormallen.  Three of his Men, one of them his own son, told of how they’d been near being overwhelmed by enemies when at last the Ring came to the Fire, and the ones threatening them had suddenly stopped, bereft as they now were of direction.

       “You overheard this?”

       “The first time, yes I did.”

       “Who knocked him unconscious?”

       “The Ringbearer.  And a masterful job he did of it.”

       “He reeked of drink when they brought him here.”

       “Frodo said that he believed the Man was drunk when he approached him the second time.  However, he found the Man’s words highly offensive and his manner threatening, and so he struck him twice to stop his advances.  Certainly what I heard him say the first time was offensive in the extreme, although Frodo handled it well.  I’d hoped that in light of the correction Frodo gave him and the shame of being overheard as he was that he’d stop the affair.  That he’d return to his quarters and drink himself into a state where he’d approach Frodo again and this time threaten him physically didn’t cross my mind.  Did he vomit after he regained consciousness?”

       “Yes, he did, and didn’t pour it out until after we brought food to him, though he ate little enough of what was brought to him.  There is no question he had drunk heavily before being brought here.”

       “Good enough.  I’ll start with the proposed spies.  Have a bowl of porridge and sauce of apples and apple juice taken to the Man as soon as possible, and I’ll speak with him in about a quarter mark.  He ought to be sufficiently sober to answer me properly.  I’ll want a responsible guard to stand as witness to what is asked and the responses given.”

       Madog looked keenly into the King’s eyes.  He’d suspected that the Man would wish to question the prisoners alone as Denethor had done; but this was untrue?  His respect for the new King, which had tended to be higher after the respect shown to Halargil and Berilieth, was raised again that he wanted witnesses to what passed between himself and the prisoners.  “I will set a steady Man beside you, and will join you myself as well when I can, my Lord King.”

       The King smiled, and suddenly Madog went still with memory, for the smile brought to mind one he hadn’t seen for many, many years.  “That will be satisfactory,” the King commented.  “The reports I’ve received of your care for your charges are not exaggerated, then.”

       “Thank you, my lord,” Madog answered automatically.  Then he asked, “Did the Lord Captain Thorongil indeed come from the North?  And are you his son?”

       “I beg your pardon?”  But the keen grey eyes were searching his own, and again in a familiar way.  The smile returned, an expression of familiar humor in his eyes.  “Madog--you were a guard then.  It has been a long time, hasn’t it?  And you have enough Dúnedain heritage yourself to still be in service to the realm?”

       “But yes, my Lord.  Then----”

       “Yes, I was Thorongil.  I am almost full Dúnedain.  But I ask you tell no others, for I prefer each find out for himself.”

       Madog started to laugh.  “Quite the joke on the late Lord Steward, then.”

       The King’s face grew solemn.  “No, for he divined my identity when I served alongside him so long ago, and again when he realized I was returning at Boromir’s side.  Faramir had already realized from his father’s arguments with Mithrandir who I had been to the realm.”

       “Did Boromir know?”

       “I don’t believe so, for I never spoke of it with him.  It was good to see him now an adult, the one I saw so briefly as a newborn.  A worthy Man.”

       “Who saw his body placed in the grey boat?”

       “Legolas, Gimli, and I did that.  We were separated on Amon Hen, each seeking after Frodo, the Ringbearer, after he made his determination to go alone to Mordor as he saw that the Ring was seeking to corrupt us as well as himself.  Boromir went after Merry and Pippin, Frodo’s kinsmen, when they ran off without thought searching and calling for him.  Legolas and Gimli went off in a different direction, and Sam and I headed up the hill to seek for signs of him there.  Saruman’s Uruk-hai found Merry and Pippin and sought to take them prisoner; Boromir did his best to protect them.  He had at least seven arrows in him when I found him, and five of the wounds at least were mortal.  They’d already taken Merry and Pippin and run off to the West by the time I realized Frodo had indeed been to the seat of Seeing and had come down again.  Only Sam realized what Frodo was likely to do; he left off following me and turned back to the boats, and thus was the only one who accompanied him Eastward across the lake and on to Mordor.”

       “My son’s friend Damrod is one of Lord Faramir’s Men; he told us of the Captain’s sight of the funeral boat as it drifted down the river.”

       “He killed better than a score single-handedly, Boromir did.  The Hobbits appear to have killed at least three between them--the wounds were different, and they showed signs in two cases of having been hit with stones.”  Aragorn sighed and straightened.  “I must question the prisoners now that I be ready to question them officially in the Hall of Kings two hours after dawn.”

       Madog smiled.  “Yes, my Lord.”  They both rose and Madog went to the door and opened it.  His lieutenant sat at his desk, checking over the orders for meals for the prisoners.  “Ruvegil, please go with our Lord King to the cells of the prisoners.  Start with....”

*******

       The door grated open, and Angrapain turned his head, seeking to hide away from the lamplight that shone from the hallway.  Why did they continue to plague him?  First a breakfast he didn’t want, and now what?  A voice spoke with disgust, “You will sit up now for the King.”

       Angrapain turned with fury on the guard.  “What do I care for your King?”

       But behind the Man stood a taller figure, his face impassive.  This one looked down.  “You will do what he says, and you will do it now.”

       Reluctantly Angrapain sat up, seeking to guard his eyes from the light by covering them with his forearm.  “What do you want?”

       “Pour a cup of water and set it on the shelf near to my hand, and let me have the stool.”  A stool was pushed into the cell and the King sat on it, and the guard stepped inside as another guard outside the cell pushed the door closed and locked it; the guard filled the cup from the pitcher on the shelf and set it on the corner of the shelf nearest the King’s shoulder.  “Now, sir, you will speak.  How many spies were you and your fellows to seek out during your stay?”  Only after he’d answered the questions posed him was Angrapain finally allowed to have the cup of water.  He’d done his best to lie; but he found it was difficult to do so successfully to the King, who several times shook his head and asked again, insisting on a proper answer.  Now and then the King would suddenly shift the focus of his questions, and the answer which Angrapain gave would surprise him even as he spoke it, for he’d certainly never intended to let others know what he’d just said. 

       The questioning didn’t go on long, but when it was over the King looked down on him grimly.  “I see,” he said.  “Well, my friend, you will shortly be brought before me officially.  We will see then what you have to say.  Know this, the offense you have given the Ringbearer and myself will not go over well with the people of Gondor.”  The tall Man rose, and the guard knocked a coded rap on the door, at which the guard outside turned to unlock and open it, allowing the two to leave.  As he sat, his head on his knees, Angrapain listened to the lock click once more, and groaned.  What had he revealed?  Wasnior and Marcipor were going to have his head!

33:  Embassies from Rhovanion

       “So, you’re too fine to fight in the Dark Lord’s forces, are you?  Think snagas like you can just sneak off and hide behind rocks till all else are facing the Tarks out there, and you’ll remain safe and untouched, do you?  You filthy maggots!”

       The lash had curled around Sam’s leg, and he could hear the barely contained cry of pain.  Then the slave driver was addressing him.  “And you, no better than him, are you?”

       “You can’t hurt him!  I won’t let you hurt him!”

       “Then have a double helping, his and your own!” 

       Again the lash reached out, and he felt the sting of it on his own legs.

       “Go ahead and hurt me!  Go ahead!  But I won’t let you hurt him!”

       “Master!  Master!  I’m all right, Master.  See?  It’s but a dream, Master.  Frodo!  Can you hear me?”

       Merry came in, his face pale and his hair tousled.  “What is it?”

       “Nightmare.  I think it’s of when we was found inside Mordor and they thought as we was a couple orcs tryin’ to run away.  None of ’em saw our feet, or they’d of knowed we wasn’t orcs.  Made us march with ’em, whipping us when we was goin’ too slow.  He was awful weak and exhausted anyways--hit him about twice as much as me, they did.”

       Gandalf looked in from the doorway where he stood with Pippin.  He pushed by Merry and knelt by Frodo, felt the hand Sam was chafing.  “His hand is terribly cold, and I can feel the muscles spasming.”  He looked at Pippin.  “I need to send for Aragorn.”

       “I’ll fetch him myself,” Pippin said, his fists clenched.

       “No, send the boy, as that’s what he’s here for.  Do you have any of the mushroom soup left you were brewing this evening?  Go and get him a mug of it after you’ve sent off Lasgon.”

       “All right, Gandalf.”

       Within a short time Pippin was back with some of the warmed soup.  Frodo was now sitting up, and Gandalf had wrapped one of the extra blankets around him.  Frodo’s face was very pale except for the pink spots of color in his cheeks.  “I’m all right, I tell you!” he said insistently.

       “With the muscles of your hand spasming that way, Frodo?  I think not,” Gandalf said.

       “It’s nothing!”

       Gandalf sighed, then turned and took the mug from Pippin.  “Here, sip at this a bit.”

       Frodo made to take it, but his right hand slipped, and had Gandalf not held it firmly it would have splattered over much of the bed.  He gave a cry of pain as some of the soup fell on his hand, and he drew away, clutching at his right hand with his left, bringing his hands to his mouth and sucking at the place where the soup had landed.

       “I don’t think it was hot enough to burn him,” Pippin whispered to Gandalf.

       The Wizard dipped his finger in the mug.  “No, it’s warm, but not that hot.  But as cold as his hand is, it could feel burning hot by comparison.”

       Merry had gone around the bed and now was sitting beside Frodo there, his arm around his cousin’s shoulders.  “It’s what we came for, Frodo, to be with you when the bad times come.”

       “I’m all right,” Frodo protested again, but his heart wasn’t in it.  Sam was laying another folded blanket behind him for him to lean back against and repositioning the pillows.  Gandalf held the mug gently to Frodo’s lips, but he turned his head away.  “I’m not a bairn to be fed by others!”  he insisted.  “Leave me be!”  Then he clutched again at the maimed hand and gave a muffled cry as once again the muscles clenched.  “It hurts!” he whispered.  The color had fled his face, and it was contorted with pain.  Sweat broke out on his forehead, and he leaned back, biting at his lip.

       “Here, dear Master, let me rub it for you now.”  Sam sat himself sideways near Frodo’s hips, reached and took the hand between his own, warming it between his own palms, gently beginning to rub and massage it.

*******

       Belveramir woke as the knock came at his chamber door.  “Yes?” he called out.

       The door opened, and one of the two guards from the door to the Royal Wing looked in.  “It’s the page assigned to the Hobbits,” the Man said.  “Gandalf calls for the King--says the Ringbearer is in a bad way.”

       Sighing, the valet sat up and reached for a loose chamber robe to pull over his sleeping robe.  The guard had a lamp ready for him to carry as he came out of the room and headed down the passage to the Royal Chambers themselves.  He entered through the drawing room and knocked loudly at the inner door to the King’s own chamber, then opened the door and slid the lighted lamp onto the table just inside.  “My Lord,” he called gently, “Lord Mithrandir calls for you to come.  The Ringbearer is apparently in pain.”  He then pulled back into the outer room.

       He could hear the activity inside, and when the door opened again he entered the room.  Aragorn had pulled off his sleeping robe and flung it over the foot of the rumpled bed, stood clad only in drawers, pulling the trousers he’d worn earlier in the day from the stand where Belveramir had draped them.  Belveramir brought a shirt out of the dressing room, smiling to recognize this as one of those which had been stored away for so many years among the effects of the Lord Captain Thorongil.  Aragorn barely paid much attention as the valet held it for him, thrust his hands through the sleeves and quickly set to fastening the laces.

       Once trousers were donned and fastened, he sat and allowed Belveramir to assist him into stockings and the low boots he’d just accepted that day.  Belveramir indicated he was ready, and the King arose, taking his sword belt and fastening it on, sliding a dagger automatically into it, then adding his pipe from the table where the lamp lay.  He went out and grabbed up the red healer’s satchel which hung inside the door, quickly noted that the knot was intact, and headed for the doorway.

       As he reached the bottom of the stair to the upper levels one of his Elven brothers came down to join him, a sword at his belt.  “I didn’t call for you, Elrohir,” he said.

       “This way your personal guard can remain undisturbed, Estel.  Frodo is having a bad night, then?”

       “Apparently.”  Together they pushed through the doors.  “I’m going down to the house on the Sixth Level,” he announced to those on duty.  “I take Elrohir as personal guard so no one else need be disturbed.  From there it is likely I shall go to the prison area, so if one can be sent there in about two hours’ time to take over for my brother, I would appreciate it.”

       “Yes, Lord Cousin,” answered one of them.

       “Thank you, Baerdion,” Aragorn responded as he nodded to Lasgon who stood waiting there, and together Man, Elf, and boy hurried through the Citadel to a side door where one of the regular Guards of the Citadel saluted them and let them out into the night.

       A dog in one of the houses near the ramp barked as they hurried by, but all else was still.  Gimli stood at the door to the house, and opened it with a sigh of relief to admit them.  “He seems to be in a lot of pain, Aragorn,” he said as he pushed by them to lead the way to the day room.  “His hand is throbbing, and his mood is touchy as that of a wasp.  He just ordered Merry and Pippin out of there.” 

       The two younger Hobbits sat near each other, Pippin nursing the contents of a mug, Merry looking up from his concern for his cousin to give Aragorn a wan smile.  Aragorn gave them a quick nod which he hoped was reassuring, and lengthened his stride as he hurried through Sam’s chamber, turning only long enough to request Lasgon see to heating up some water and bringing it to him in Master Frodo’s room.

       An hour and a half later they finally had Frodo soothed back to sleep, then saw Sam similarly tucked up.  Gandalf had come out and shooed the other two Hobbits back to bed, and now sat with Gimli, each drinking from a flagon of ale and with lit pipe in hand, on the bench on the balcony of the house. 

       Gandalf looked up at them.  “He’s better?”

       “Yes, and the pain is relieved for now.  I’ve not seen him so despondent since before we left Ithilien.”

       A whisper of fabric, and Merry emerged wearing a robe over his nightshirt, his pipe in hand.  “Pippin’s asleep again, so I thought it would be safe to come out myself,” he murmured softly.  “Frodo was very much on his dignity tonight.”

       “I noticed,” Aragorn commented dryly.

       “It drives him crazy to be dependent on others.  If he thought Sam and Gandalf would listen to him he’d have ordered them out as well.”

       Gandalf sighed.  “He tried.”

       The Elf, settled upwind of the four pipes which were now lit, gave a small laugh.  “Master of the house he is, apparently.  There’s a light bruise there on his knuckles which appears to have sparked tonight’s episode.”

       Aragorn nodded.  “Probably from striking the Umbari on the chin.  Well, I’ll finish this pipe and go off to the prison.  I’d intended to question the suspected spies early before the day’s audiences.  Then I will get a light morning meal and need to dress properly to officially welcome our guests from Rhovanion and deal with the spying questions and those from Umbar.  I’m not allowing them to remain longer.”

       “Are you going to offer them the treaty the Council worked up the other day?” the Wizard asked.

       “Yes.  Imrahil and Faramir have done an excellent job at getting it written up and readying it for presentation.”

       Gimli grunted, “What about this perverted sot who’s been bothering Frodo?  Is he going home untouched?”

       “I will make that determination after I’ve questioned him.  Although the fact he was knocked senseless by a Perian little over half his height must be wonderfully troubling to the fool.  However, I might just order the lash if I find him giving me difficulty.  I certainly wish I’d known of this talent of Frodo’s long ago, though.”

       Merry, drawing deeply on his pipe, let out a sigh.  “I don’t think any of us saw it as being any good outside the Shire.  I mean, it’s hard to impress someone with your fists when he towers over you and you can’t reach high enough to do much good.”

       “He did well enough with this one, I must say,” Aragorn sighed as he finished the last of his pipeweed and sat with the pipe held between his two hands.  “One blow to the gut to get him to bend over, and the second to the chin to stun him.  It was masterfully done.”  He knocked the ashes out against the wall to the balcony and  stood up and stretched.  “I must go now.  Merry, if you are to be in any condition to attend on your lord later this morning, you’d best get at least another hour’s sleep.  Go on with you.”  He turned to the Wizard.  “Thank you, Gandalf, for sending for me.”

       “He’s most disgruntled I did, but I truly feel he needed you.”

       Aragorn crept into Sam’s room and looked down on him and saw him sleeping; peeped into Frodo’s and saw his face calm in the pale starlight, then crept out, looked into the room Merry and Pippin shared as Merry was slipping back into bed and smiled, noting Pippin was indeed deeply asleep, then slipped up the stairs to the room where Lasgon slept and looked in.  The boy woke immediately and sat up.  “Do you need me, my Lord?” he asked, his sleepy face already becoming alert.

       “No, just making certain all is well with you.  You did well tonight, Lasgon.”

       The boy smiled as he lay back down.  “Thank you, Lord Elessar,” he murmured, and yawned.

       “Sleep well, child.” Aragorn said softly, and he went back downstairs.  Elrohir stood by the door, and now the two of them went back out into the night and up the ramp.

*******

       Not long after dawn Frodo awoke, his hand and wrist aching but no longer spasming.  The ache was similar to what he’d known when younger when he’d climbed a tree for the first time in a season, but confined to the lower right arm instead of throughout his body.  He rubbed at it gently, then sat up.  He turned and stood up, then had to reach out to the bed to steady himself.  Grumbling to himself, he let the giddiness pass, and went into the privy, then came out to dress himself.

       This afternoon a tailor was coming to measure them all for new clothes, and he intended to have proper buttons for braces added to his trousers so far and have a suit or two of Shire clothing made for himself.  He intended to look once more as a Hobbit should and show the folk of Gondor that there was more than one way of looking elegant.

       Sam came in, stretching and yawning.  “How are you doing today, Mr. Frodo?  Feeling better?”

       “Yes, much better than last night.”  He took a deep breath.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t more gracious, though.  Seems to me I was downright rude.”

       “You was in a good deal of pain, Mr. Frodo.”

       “Still fails to excuse me, Sam.”

       “That’s not for me to say, Master.  Mistress Loren just looked in to say as she was making omelets for breakfast, if you’d care for one.”

       Frodo ate an omelet and slice of toast, and drank a cup of juice.  He thanked the housekeeper for the meal and went to prepare for the journey up to the seventh level.  Suddenly, however, he found himself hurrying for the privy, where he lost all he’d eaten.  He hoped that the others hadn’t noticed, but had no surety they hadn’t.  His shirt was now splashed, and he made his way into his room, removed it slowly and carefully donned another, pulling a surcoat over it, then sank onto the bed, feeling tired and weakened.  He’d not had his morning draught--was that why he was nauseated this morning?  He rinsed out his mouth and spat it into his basin, finally drank some water and hoped he’d be able to keep it down.  Finally he left the room through Sam’s chamber, to find Sam coming that way looking concerned. 

       “I didn’t know as where you’d gone, Mr. Frodo.  Are you all right?”

       “Just decided to wear a different shirt is all, Sam.  The other had a bit of a spot on it.”

       “Did it? Didn’t notice any when I hung it on the chair for you last night.”

       “I spilled at breakfast, Sam.”

       “You did?  I didn’t see.  Well, you look fine enough in that.  Are you ready, Mr. Frodo?”

       Gimli, who’d eaten two omelets himself, stood waiting at the door for them.  “I’ll just go up with you, and make certain none of the others from Umbar has a chance to get rude, Frodo.  Then I’ll probably spend a good deal of the day with my father.”

       “Thank you, Gimli.”

       He had to stop halfway up and take a few deep breaths, but then he forced himself on.  By the time they came to the stairs to the citadel Frodo was exhausted, although he did his best not to show it.  He walked through the vestibule slowly and into the Hall of Kings, led by a page who brought them to a place not far from the Steward’s black chair.  Two low chairs waited for him and Sam, and he was glad to be able to sit in one.  On a low, narrow table between the two chairs sat a carafe and two goblets of water, and on a small plate a cluster of grapes and small triangles of lightly buttered bread.  He found himself profoundly grateful for Aragorn’s thoughtfulness as he carefully pulled a single grape from the bunch and popped it into his mouth and slowly chewed it.

       One of the sons of Elrond came up behind him and set a mug containing his draught beside him, and Frodo looked up and quietly thanked him, took it, and sipped at it, afraid to drink it too quickly lest he lose it.

       The room began to fill with folk, and Prince Imrahil sat in an elaborately carved chair opposite them.  At last Lord Faramir emerged from behind the throne with Lord Halladan and they each moved to stand before their chairs.  Frodo and Sam rose as the King entered, dressed in the black robe he’d worn at his coronation feast, but with the Winged Crown on his head and Anduril at his side, a white mantle clasped with the Elessar brooch over his shoulders.

       The Chief Herald tapped his staff upon the floor of the chamber.  “His Majesty, the Lord King Aragorn Elessar of Gondor and Arnor, offers audience to those who come before his presence this day.”  Aragorn paused on the dais between his two Stewards as this was announced, then turned and strode up the steps to stand before the throne, lifting his sword from its hangers and laying its sheath across his knees as he sat down.

       Frodo sat down in his chair with a grunt of relief, and Sam shot him a considering look.  Four chairs, each heavily carved, were now brought in and set upon the dais between the chairs of the Stewards.  The Herald tapped his staff.  “His Majesty, Éomer King of Rohan and his sister the Lady Éowyn, the White Lady of the Mark.”  The two entered from the Vestibule, Éomer resplendent in burgundy and gold, his crown with its horse heads upon his brow; the Lady in a gown of white with sleeves lined with wine color, a girdle of wine-colored velvet about her waist.  Éomer stood before one of the central chairs while his sister stood beside it to his left.

       “His Majesty, the Lord King Bard son of Brand, grandson of Bard the Bowman, King of Dale in Rhovanion.  Lord Blyn, Seneschal of Dale.  Lady Rhiannon, niece to King Brand, Lord Blyn’s wife.”  These three walked majestically from the Vestibule, their heads high, dressed in dark blues and golds.  Bard stopped before the chair to Éomer’s right while Lord Blyn and Lady Rhiannon stood right and left of him.

       “The Lord Prince Tharen Thranduilion of Eryn Lasgalen in Rhovanion, representing his father Thranduil, King of the great Forest of Green Leaves, and his brother the Lord Prince Legolas, the King’s Companion.”

       Frodo watched the coming of the two Elves, Tharen with his waist-length hair so dark a brown as to appear almost black, the complicated braids on either side fastened with beads of silver set with peridots, his woven silver circlet a mate to that worn by his golden-haired brother, both wearing soft golds and golden greens subtly embroidered with sprays of leaves.  Tharen stopped before the chair furthest to the right, Legolas standing to his right.

       “Lord Gloin of Erebor, representing Thorin Stronghelm son of Dain Ironfoot, now King of the realm below the Lonely Mountain.  His son Gimli, the King’s Companion.”  Gloin’s white hair, beard, and mustaches were all carefully braided, the braids finished with great patterned beads of worked gold.  He walked to the chair to the left of the line and stood there before it, Gimli standing proudly on his left.

       Aragorn rose as the four before the chairs turned as one to face him, and he bowed deeply.  “I rejoice to welcome each of you to Gondor, and to give you honor this day.  My Lord Bard, I grieve to hear of the death of your father, for he was a gracious man and worthy of all respect.  Lord Gloin, I am sorry that King Thorin could not accompany you, and that King Thranduil could not come here either at this time, Lord Tharen.  Alas, Lord Gloin, King Bard, so many of the greatest lords of Middle Earth have perished in the last battles against the forces of Sauron; and although I must rejoice at your presence here, I must yet grieve at the loss of those such as Dain Ironfoot and Brand son of Bard the Bowman.  Always have your people withstood the forces sent by Sauron from the orc strongholds in Dol Guldur and the Misty Mountains, remaining true to all who have sought to remain the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

       “Alas that we could not send troops to aid yours, but as you have seen, the peoples of Gondor and Arnor have also fought heavily and with much loss of life; it will be many years before we can rid Minas Tirith of the scars of war wrought here by the forces of orcs, trolls, wargs, Men, and mumakil brought against this city alone under the command of Sauron’s Nazgul.  Here fell many from throughout Gondor, Arnor, and Rohan.  Our croplands that have ever supported the needs of Minas Tirith have been trampled and burned and heavily scarred.  But we rejoice that Sauron is at last thrown down and this time cannot rise again.”

       Tharen of Mirkwood raised his head proudly.  “My brother has told us much of what you have been through, Aragorn Arathornrion, of the desperate journey you and the Ringbearer and your companions made from the lands of the Periannath to Imladris and then to Amon Hen, and then the separate journeys through many dangers first to fight here and then before the Black Gate itself.  That so much remains considering the might thrown against this land is a matter of much wonder, and great is our joy that this is so.  And my father sends his great thanks, honor, and respect to the Ringbearer, the chosen heir to Bilbo Elvellon, Frodo son of Drogo, and to his companion the renowned Samwise son of Hamfast.”

       All who stood on the dais turned to where Frodo and Sam sat and bowed deeply.  Frodo and Sam rose and bowed in return, Sam flushing furiously and Frodo pale as niphredil.  When the bows were done, Frodo sank back into his chair, and Sam reached out to place his hand on Frodo’s forearm, realizing with concern that it was trembling.  Sam turned, caught the eye of Aragorn’s foster brother and signaled him to Frodo’s side with a brief jerk of his head.  The Peredhel gave a gentle nod, came quietly forward and knelt by Frodo’s chair and placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, surreptitiously checking Frodo’s pulse.

       The other lords on the dais also added their greetings and words of thanks that the wars with Sauron were at last finished.  Gloin commented, “We know that there is likely to continue to be strife in this world, for such it is with those of us who are mortal; but now at last the great evil of our times is finally at an end, and for that we are profoundly grateful.”

       Frodo only half heard the rest of what was said by Gloin or what was said by King Bard, much less the final words by Aragorn.  He heard the soft, almost whispered song of the invocation made by the Elf who knelt beside him, felt the gentle touch on his shoulder, felt the warmth begin where his fingers lay and spread throughout his body slowly, at last felt the nausea he’d suffered since he’d lost his breakfast recede, felt the trembling stop.  At last the Elf finished, then straightened, gave an encouraging pat to his shoulder, and Frodo turned to smile at him.  Elrohir, he thought.  He took back up the mug containing the draught and finished it, then set it down and took his glass of water and drank that as well.  He finally turned his attention back to the doings of the audience, grateful to feel better.

34:  Audience with Umbar

       Wasnior, Belladon, Beslor, and Dorath stood with their guard of four in the Vestibule, listening to all that was spoken within the Hall of Kings.  What they heard was disturbing--it appeared that the forces of Sauron had attacked far more than Gondor, and that he’d been successfully opposed on all fronts.  Although there were new kings now in Erebor and Dale, it appeared that the Dwarves of Erebor and the Elves of Mirkwood were now in alliance--a thing long believed impossible.  Certainly the three embassies had apparently traveled here together from Rhovanion and appeared to be somewhat more than merely tolerant of one another.

       The probability that their own embassy would be welcomed with such courtesy was very small, they knew, particularly if Angrapain had been offensive or had injured one of the Periannath.  At last there was a sign from the Herald to the leader of the four Guardsmen, and they were brought to the doorway to the hall.

       “Lord Wasnior of Belden in Umbar, aide to Lord Marcipor, ruler of that land.  His companions, Lord Belladon, Lord Dorath, and Lord Beslor.”  The four of them were escorted into the hall and up to a position just before the dais. 

       “Lord King Elessar, we bear you greetings and congratulations from Umbar on your accession to the throne of Gondor.”  Wasnior led the bow to the tall Man seated on the throne above them, and noted that on one side of the steps to the throne stood the Guardsman who’d visited their house the previous evening, and on the other stood the Ernil i Pheriannath in his Guardsman’s uniform.  Certainly the expression in the eyes of either was anything but friendly.

       “We thank you, Lord Wasnior.  You have waited for this day with more patience than I’d expected from you, although it appears not all within your party were equally gracious about it.”

       Wasnior reddened.  “I beg your pardon for the trespasses of our fellow, my Lord.  Lord Angrapain meant no offense, I am certain....”

       “He meant no offense, you think?  Is it considered polite in Umbar for such as Angrapain to approach individuals they do not know and make suggestive remarks about whom they might or might not be physically attracted to?  Is it considered polite to indicate that an individual might be more strongly attracted to another of their own sex, or by one who bears power and authority over others?  Such is not considered polite here, in Rohan, in Arnor, in Dale, or in any of the lands of Dwarves, Elves, Hobbits, or Men I have visited throughout the rest of Middle Earth, Lord Wasnior.  Yet this was done by your Lord Angrapain.”

       “If this is why he was arrested, my Lord....”

       “We will discuss the reasons for that move in a few moments.  First, we would ask why Umbar has sent you and your fellows here to Gondor and Minas Tirith.”

       “My Lord--to offer you the congratulations due you on having been accepted as King of Gondor.”

       “You did?  Did you bring patent letters authorizing you to treat with the government of Gondor?”

       Realizing where this was going to lead, but still trying to keep up appearances, Wasnior bowed, “No, such were not sent with us, my Lord.”

       “I see.  Did you bring a letter of congratulation properly sealed and signed from Lord Marcipor and his Council?”

       Wasnior’s heart sank considerably.  “No, such was not given into our hands, my Lord.”

       “Did you bring to Gondor letters of condolence on the death of the Lord Steward Denethor, or for the death of his beloved son, heir and Captain General of the forces of Gondor, the Lord Boromir?”

       “No, we did not.”

       “Did you know that these two were dead?”

       “We had assurance that both were dead.”

       “From whom?”

       It took some moments to get the answer past his teeth:  “From Mordor, my Lord.”

       “Did you bring gifts of acknowledgment of my accession?”

       Almost whispering, Wasnior answered, “No, my Lord.”

       The King examined him closely, then straightened.  “Lord Elphir of Dol Amroth, will you please come forward to speak on this matter?”

       Elphir stepped forth from his place by his father.  “Yes, my Lord Elessar?  And what did you wish me to speak to specifically?”

       “On the arrival of this party, what did they say their purpose was for coming to Gondor and specifically to Minas Tirith?”

       “They did not say.”

       “Did they indicate they wished to speak to the King?”

       “No, my Lord.  When I told them that we had just welcomed our Lord back to the city after our victory in the East, they expressed surprise, for they had heard that Lord Faramir had been injured, and that the army to march East had been led by my father and our Northern allies.  When I told them that instead we welcomed the return of the King and that it was your coronation feast to which they were bidden, the faces of all, including the five lords and two servants, were all clearly surprised and expressed shock to learn this could be so.  I heard one mutter, ‘Since when does Gondor have a King?’  Indeed, My Lord Elessar, they had no idea that there had been such a change within Gondor.”

       “Is there any other who can testify on this matter?”

       “There are those who served as guard of honor for them on their arrival.  This included several from the guard of Dol Amroth, from the Guard of the Citadel, and at least three of the Northern Dúnedain who serve in your personal guard, my Lord King.”

       The King looked to the Man who stood on guard at the side of the steps to the Throne.  “My Lord Hardorn, can you as head of my personal guard, tell me the name of any of those of our folk who accompanied Lord Elphir to the entrance to the city to welcome the party from Umbar?”

       The Man straightened.  “Yes, my Lord King.  Baerdion of Whitcastles was one, Elorgil of Fornost, and Berevrion of Annúminas.”

       “Elorgil is within the room now, and has heard what Lord Elphir has said.  I would prefer it to be one who has not had the chance to hear his story.”

       “Berevrion is on duty at the bottom of the ramp from the Sixth Circle, my Lord; and Baerdion has been off duty for just over an hour and was to review the equipment for those who keep guard on the living quarters at the second hour.  He ought to be in the armory with Captain Gilmoros.”

       The King looked the other way, at the Perian who stood there.  “Guardsman Peregrin, do you know the way to the armory?”

       “Yes, my Lord King.”

       “Go there and fetch Guardsman Baerdion, please, and do not tell him the reason why he is summoned.”

       “Yes, my Lord King.”  He sheathed his sword, gave a salute to the King, and turned toward the doors behind the throne, hurrying off to the armory.  Not a quarter mark later those doors could be heard opening again, and he came back into view, followed by one dressed in grey and silver, one Wasnior recognized as one of those who had accompanied Lord Elphir to the gate.  He appeared confused by the King’s question, but his story was the same as that given by Lord Elphir.  Lord Elphir had also sent for one of his own people who had accompanied him at the same time who waited outside the Citadel, and his story was the same again.

       The King looked critically down at Wasnior.  “So, my Lord, it appears you have not be strictly honest in your story, for it is obvious you had no idea any had come to claim the throne of Gondor until the moment Lord Elphir told this to you.  Will you start again to explain why you were sent to Minas Tirith?”

       Wasnior looked up into the eyes of the Man seated so high above all, the Winged Crown on his head, his great sword across his knee, and he did something unthinkable--he told the truth.  “We were sent, my Lord, to learn what had happened here in the realm of Gondor and throughout the rest of Middle Earth, and how it was that Mordor and its might were defeated.  And we were to find out what had happened to our fleet.”

       For a long minute the King of Gondor looked down on him, his eyes continuing to examine Wasnior’s face.  At last he gave a contained nod.  “I see that this is indeed the truth, and I thank you for it.  Perhaps there is a seed of honor in you if one seeks deeply enough, Lord Wasnior.  Had you spoken this honestly to Lord Elphir at the gate to the city, your reception would have been far warmer, or so you would have found.  Instead, you sought to seek for the truth in secret, through sly questioning and approaching those thought to have an understanding of my mind, and through the seeking of your spies within the city.  You will find, Lord Wasnior, that when dealing with the government of Gondor and Arnor from this day onward, it is best to be honestly inquisitive and open in your questions.

       “Your fleet came, with the acquiescence of Lord Marcipor and your Council, on the orders of Mordor, up the River Anduin, timed to fall on our troops from the rear when they were already exhausted and much tried, and so defeat them through overwhelming already stressed Men with fresh troops confident of their abilities and eager to join an already prolonged fight.  As they came up the river they were practicing by firing arrows and balls of flaming naphtha by catapult upon the towns and housesteads and farms you passed, and at such troops as you saw.”

       He paused and looked meaningfully at Wasnior, who replied miserably, “Even so, my Lord.”

       “You were to draw near to the wharves of the Pelargir and fire them also if you could; and a small number of your ships were to actually make landfall there to engage and slay any troops they might find, keeping them from going up the River to the relief of the siege.”

       Wasnior glared at the Man on the throne.  “We were at war with Gondor.  Such is an effective strategy.”

       “It is true such can be an effective strategy.  But your people did not succeed at their goal.”

       “No, for by foul means you brought against our ships those who ought to have left the bounds of Arda an age past, and our forces were so destroyed.”

       “By foul means?  By what foul means?  Their King had sworn a mighty oath to come to the aid of Isildur against the forces of Mordor, and he and his people broke that oath, so binding themselves to remain in Middle Earth past their deaths until at last they could redeem themselves by coming to the aid of his heir.  I am Isildur’s heir, from father to son through many, many generations, and am descended also from Meneldil through Ondoher and his daughter Fíriel, who married Arvedui, last King of Arnor.  To protect the armies fighting against Mordor, we had to defeat those sailing your fleet, and so I went through the Paths of the Dead and called on the Oathbreakers to do for me what they would not do for Isildur.  They are at last at peace, for they have done what they were meant to do.  If it is foul to free the unquiet soul from the bounds of Arda, I would like to have you explain how this is so.”

       The King of Gondor straightened on his throne, looking down on the four from Umbar.  “We have been reviewing the atrocities practiced by your people against our land.  Some forty years past your people had repeatedly sent ships to harry the coastlines of Gondor and to strike at her ports near the Mouths of the Sea.  You also prepared an armada intent on coming up the River Anduin much as your forces did this time, burning, pillaging, destroying and taking slaves as you came, its final intent to assault the heartland and capitol of the realm.  However, that armada was burnt in its berths by the strategy of Prince Adrahil and the Captain Thorongil.  Since then your ships have continued to attack our coastal towns and settlements and peoples, and at least two hundred souls have disappeared from our shores into your slaveships in the last five years alone.  Your ships have continued to assault our merchant vessels and to again take those of their crews and passengers you failed to slay as slaves.  Your smaller ships have brought spies repeatedly into Gondor’s lands, spies and those who have been instructed to destroy our wharves, assassinate those lords and officials they could reach, burn our crops, steal our cattle, fire our timber forests.  Shepherds and those who watch after cattle have been stolen from their watches; children set to scare birds from newly sown fields have disappeared.

       “This you have done ever since Castamir the Usurper fled Minas Tirith; and you wonder why the people of Gondor greet you with suspicion?

       “This time your fleet was taken by the forces I brought with me, and you have lost it.  We will not return a single ship.  The battle was almost lost here because so many of our troops remained in the Southlands, seeking to protect the people, lands, cities, harbors, and merchant centers of the Southern fiefdoms; we needed them here to protect the capitol and to force the armies sent by Sauron the Deceiver to return to his land.  I will not apologize for taking your fleet.”

       “Your actions led to the deaths of hundreds of our Men....”  He realized it was not a politic thing to have said the moment he said it.

       “Hundreds of your Men, you say?  Three towns and one city were lost, with a total loss of lives nearing five hundred, not to mention the destruction of stores of foods and trade goods and manufacturies.  And had your armada reached its goal, your Men would have sought to slay many times their own numbers.  Plus close to four hundred slaves, a full half of them from Gondor, were freed by our assault on your ships.  No, we do not recognize the validity of any claim you may seek to visit on Gondor for the losses you have suffered in this action against our land and people.

       “Plus, had you succeeded, all of the peoples of Gondor would have suffered, and thousands upon thousands not only in Gondor but in Rohan, Dunlend, Rhovanion, and throughout Eriador would also have been slain outright and more enslaved to suffer horrid fates at the hands of Sauron’s forces and minions.  Men, Elves, Dwarves, Ents, Hobbits, Eagles--all would have suffered.  No, my friend, we have far greater claims to lay at the door of Umbar than Umbar has ever had to lay at the door of Gondor.”

       “You will not return our ships?”

       “I have just told you that we will not.”

       “But our livelihood has ever come from the Sea....”

       “Were any of the ships I took fishing vessels, or trading ships?”

       Wasnior stood silent, recognizing the reasoning of the King was unassailable.  Finally he asked, “What of Angrapain?”

       “What of him?  He is accused of approaching an innocent being and asking him highly suggestive and inappropriate questions, and suggesting that he might be drawn to attractions which are not spoken of in polite society, much less to such as the one approached.  His behavior and speech has been highly offensive, and his motives for doing so even more questionable.  His case will be shortly tried, and you will witness that trial.  You will also witness the examination of several identified as spies for Umbar, Mordor, Rhun, Harad, and Dunlend.”

       Wasnior felt his face flush, then go pale.

       The King continued, “We do not owe to the people of Umbar an explanation of how Sauron was defeated.  Yet we will tell you some of it.  Five hundred years ago a creature found Sauron’s Ring of Power in the River Anduin where Isildur was slain three thousand years past.  It was taken by one who became quickly enslaved to It into the darkness under the Misty Mountains.  Its slave lost It seventy-eight years past, and It was found by one who’d been taken by orcs into those caverns and who was seeking to escape.  This one had no idea what he had found, only that It made him invisible when he put It on his finger. 

       “He succeeded in his escape, and in time returned to his own people.  The Ring could not fully destroy his integrity before he managed, with help, to pass the Ring to another.  Just over a year past the Ring was finally tested and Its nature laid bare, and the one now bearing It was advised to take It to Imladris where counsel would be sought as to how to deal with the thing.  Pursued by all Nine of the Nazgul, he fled his own land.

       “There was but one thing to be done with the foul thing--to seek Its destruction, and he volunteered to carry It to Mordor to see It brought to Orodruin.  Had he not succeeded in bringing It to that place, I would not sit here before you now.  By the grace of Eru he was relieved of the burden and the Ring destroyed, and he and his companion rescued from death.

       “That is what has happened.  Even your own land has benefited from the destruction of Sauron’s power, if you will seize the chance now placed before you.  No longer do you need to practice evil to earn the favor of the Dark Lord, and further deaths for his benefit will be totally without effect, for he cannot rise again, now that the Ring is no more.  Too much of himself did he pour into the thing.”

       “How did you come to be King?”

       “I am Isildur’s Heir, Lord Wasnior.  Long and long have my people fought the long fight against the forces of destruction in the North, and long and long have some ever come to Gondor to fight in her forces alongside our kinsmen here.  All my life I have been prepared for this moment, should Mordor fall.  Well, Mordor has fallen, and I directed the final assault to give the Ringbearer time to reach the Sammath Naur.  The time has come for the end of the division of the two realms, and for all to come together in mutual respect and honor.  No longer is there a king with no kingdom residing in Arnor, or a kingdom with no king here in Gondor.”

       “How did Curunír fall?”

       “From lust for the Ring.”

       “Is he yet living?”

       “Yes.  He has imprisoned himself within Orthanc, and is guarded by the Ents of Fangorn Forest.”

       “How did Mithrandir come to take the role of the White?”

       “You will have to ask him that, Lord Wasnior.”

       Beslor shook himself.  “And we are to believe that those two--” he pointed to the right to where Frodo and Sam sat, “--went through Mordor to the Mountain of Fire itself to destroy the Ring?”

       “Yes, my Lord, those two did exactly that.  They crossed the Anduin alone, managed to make it through the Emyn Muil, crossed the Dead Marshes led by a fell guide, stood before the Black Gate, realized they must seek another way to enter Mordor, and suffered betrayal, capture, unspeakable tortures, beatings, and the horrors of crossing the Plain of Gorgoroth with insufficient food and water, all with the terror of being seen by our enemies, all with the Ring Itself growing stronger and more demanding and destructive every step of the way and with the Eye searching ever more desperately for them.  As I told Lord Wasnior, the quest was fulfilled by the grace of Eru, and they were brought out of the destruction of the Mountain beyond all hope.  They did what I could not have done, for the Ring would have taken me long ere I made it to Orodruin.  Elrond of Rivendell, Galadriel and Celeborn of Lothlorien, and Mithrandir all refused to take It, although all four know sufficient of the wielding of power to perhaps have mastered It some ere It mastered them.  I wonder if Saruman realizes yet how quickly It would have devoured him, had he managed to bring It into his hands as he’d purposed?”

       The four from Umbar looked at one another, all four uncertain.

       Dorath looked over at the two Periannath seated to the side.  “How could two such as they make such a journey?”

       The Perian Frodo looked at him, and Dorath could see the weariness in his face.  “Do not ask that, Master.  It is enough to know that we did, and that it has left me wounded beyond knowing.”  The Perian’s voice was low, yet carried throughout the hall in spite of that.

       Bard of Dale rose.  “My grandfather told me tales of your kinsman Bilbo, Lord Frodo, and ever he spoke of his courage and wisdom and his great humor and kindness.  He and my father would have rejoiced to have known you as well.  I salute you in his memory and the remembrance of Bilbo’s visit to our lands.  And I rejoice that you have shown the same honor and courage.”

       Frodo’s mouth twisted.  “I thank you, but question whether your compliments are deserved.”

       The King Elessar said quietly, “My Lord Bard, you will learn that the quest cost Lords Frodo and Samwise much, and in Lord Frodo’s case much of his sense of worth.  The effects of carrying the Enemy’s Ring have been shown to have been most destructive.  It has been painful seeing how deeply into Frodo’s soul It ripped and tore.”

       Gloin looked at Frodo with compassion.  “I grieve, Frodo Baggins, that you have had to suffer so since I saw you in the autumn of the year in Rivendell.  You did not deserve such to happen to  you.”

       “Thank you, Gloin.  May your beard ever grow.”  Frodo rose and bowed deeply, then sank rather heavily back into his chair.  Aragorn exchanged glances with his foster brother.

       The King rose.  “We will take a recess for a quarter mark.  If the rest will return here at that time.”  All rose, bowing or curtseying deeply as he descended from his throne.  Pausing by the chairs in which the Pheriannath sat, he smiled and spoke softly to them, and led them out.

       A quarter mark later all returned to their places.  The Perian Guardsman led in Frodo and Sam and saw them seated.  The carafe of water had been refreshed while they were gone, and a plate of pieces of fruit and thin slices of ham and cheeses and squares of flat breads had replaced the dish on which grapes had originally lain.  The visitors from Rhovanion stood before their chairs, as did Éomer of Rohan, and finally the King himself returned.  The King’s expression was impossible to read; the Lord Frodo Baggins was quite solemn; Lord Samwise’s eyes were concerned but expressed a feeling of helplessness.  The broader Perian reached to touch Frodo’s shoulder; Frodo looked over, for a moment obviously annoyed and then contrite, and shook his head.  Samwise gave a sigh and sat back, watching his friend with even more concern and frustration.

       The King took his seat on his throne, his great sword across his knees, and looked down toward the Herald.  “Let the first suspected spy be brought, and have Ruvegil stand beside her.”

       A woman, pale but composed, was brought in.  She’d obviously been allowed to don a clean dress and to brush her hair before being brought before the King.  Wasnior heard a stifled grunt from Belladon as she was brought to stand between where the four from Umbar now stood and the King.  Beside her were two Men, one of them a Guard of the Citadel, the other in a brown leather harness which seemed to be a requirement of jailers everywhere.

       The King examined her.  “Your name?”

       “Anitra of Rhun, my Lord.”  Her voice was accented.

       “What charge has been laid upon you?”

       “I’m accused of spying for Rhun and Umbar.”

       “Is this true?  Have you spied for other lands?”

       She took a deep breath.  Finally she said softly, “Yes, my Lord, I have.”

       “Who sent you here?”

       “My man brought me here six years back, and put me to work in an inn in the Third Circle.  Had me talk to the soldiers who came there to drink, learn where they were patrolling, how many there were in their troops.  Then he’d pass on what I told him to a bookseller also in the Third Circle.

       “Why were you arrested?”

       “An officer thought my questions were suspicious.  He followed my man, saw him pass the list to the bookseller, saw that one pass the list to an agent from Umbar.  He arrested the bookseller and my man, but my man took poison and killed himself before they got him to the prison.  Then they came to arrest me.”

       And so the questions continued.  All listened in fascination as she described how she’d been taken from her family in Rhun as a girl of thirteen and brought to Umbar and sold to a woman there, sold when her mistress died to slavers who kept a tavern near the Pelargir where their merchandise must work and sell themselves, how they’d found a young Man who’d wished to become important and convinced him to come to Minas Tirith and bring her with him and set her up in a tavern to work for him and learn the information they wished to learn and pass it on for them....  Her voice was flat as she spoke, and she explained how she was beaten if she didn’t bring home sufficient information, so she had begun to make up reports she gave him to satisfy him.  “He never knew the difference.”

       The prison guard spoke of how this matched what she’d said in the prison, and of the slaver’s brand which had been found on her consistent with the brands used by the slavers of Umbar.  The officer who’d arrested her verified the story she’d told of her arrest, the arrest of the Man to whom she had given her report and the bookseller, and how the Man had taken poison.  He also spoke of the raid on the tavern near the Pelargir and the finding there of twenty women, girls, and youths all with the brand of Umbarian slavers on them, all forced to sell themselves and apparently being trained to gather information for their masters, two of whom were definitely from Umbar themselves. 

       The King asked Anitra if she had seen any within the room previously.  She identified having seen Prince Imrahil and his sons as well as other lords of the realm within the city, and then paused as she turned toward the four from Umbar.  “Of those four, the second from the right.  I know him, for he was one of those who frequented the tavern near the Pelargir.” 

       Belladon went very pale at having been so identified.

       She went on to identify one patterer she’d often served in the tavern but whom she’d never questioned.  At last, apparently satisfied, the King had her removed to the lesser audience chamber.

       The next to be questioned was the bookseller.  He’d traveled widely seeking merchandise, and had stopped in a tavern just outside the Pelargir where it had been rumored entertainment for the evening could be found.  He’d been shocked when suddenly the door to his room had burst open and he was apparently being arrested; he’d been bound and a scarf tied about his eyes and a hood pulled over his head to keep him from seeing where he was taken.  He’d been brought to a building somewhere and made to sit in a chair to which he’d been bound, and the blindfold was removed.  There he was questioned long and hard, and then he’d been removed to a cell.  Then after a time a Man had come to speak to him, and explained he’d been mistaken for another, but that this one would assist to have him freed if he would agree to pass on information given to him by certain others once he returned to Minas Tirith.  He was then to give to the ones who brought information to him sums of money given him by those who came to collect the information.  Again he identified Belladon as the one who’d made this offer, although he described three others, one apparently from Gondor itself, who also came regularly to retrieve the reports given to him.  He also described five who gave information to him, one of them being Anitra’s man.

       The officer who’d made the arrest of bookseller and Anitra was recalled and asked more about the tavern near the Pelargir, and he described it in detail, including the cellar area below the main floor, accessible easily from the outside because the place had been built on the slope of a hill, which had been made to look like a prison building, complete with barred cells.  His description of this place and one room within it apparently used for interrogations matched the bookseller’s description of the place to which he was taken exactly.

       And so it continued.  Two of those who had been arrested as spies knew nothing and appeared to have been identified as such by neighbors who were angry with them.  One denied he was a spy but was identified by the bookseller as one who regularly passed information to him.  This was one who served as a barber whose clients included many soldiers as well as those who served the garrisons in Osgiliath and even a few minor lords during their visits within the city.  Three others proved to be among those who’d been giving reports to the bookseller, and the descriptions of how two had been brought into the act of gathering information showed each had been elaborately blackmailed, while the last had been recruited by one he’d met in a lesser inn in Lebennin after he’d repeatedly complained about the boredom he experienced.

       Another who met with agents from Dunlend was the servant of a lord from Anorien.  When several raids in a row occurred just after his patrols passed specific sites the lord had begun to suspect one of his own people had been giving information to the enemy; he’d given different reports to various of his troopers and servants, and set traps to see which report would be acted on.  The report given to this servant had been acted upon, and he’d finally admitted under questioning he was resentful of having been passed over by another for promotion.

       Three more there were who’d been spying for Rhun and Harad, one of the latter from Anfalas.  One who’d served Rhun was yet defiant, having offered himself as a spy after his older brother had been killed in Ithilien due to a major lapse in judgment made by his commanding officer.

       The King had the two shown not to have spied released, and ordered that the neighbors who’d denounced them were to be taken into custody and remain the night in the prison, to be questioned the next day after they’d had a chance to worry and think on their actions for a time.  Those who’d denounced them would, he indicated, be forced to compensate them for what they’d suffered.

       As for the rest, he had them all brought again before him.  The bookseller would be taken South to Lebennin to serve two years on one of the realm’s farmlands, and then released to open a book shop elsewhere.  The contents of his home and shop would be stored for him and brought to him wherever he chose to settle; but never again would he be allowed entrance to Minas Tirith.  The servant from Anorien was ordered to be hung at dawn.  The rest were sent to one form of servitude or another either in either Gondor or Arnor, three of them set to help rebuild farms and villages upon the Pelennor.  The one whose brother had died was to accompany Lord Halladan back North when he went, and to assist for five years in the labors in rebuilding Annúminas and Fornost, after which he might settle in Arnor but might not again reenter the realm of Gondor.  The barber’s possessions were all forfeit to the crown and he would be resettled in a small village outside Dol Amroth under the supervision of Prince Imrahil and his sons.  Anitra was given a year’s servitude in Arnor on the estate of Lord Halladan and would be allowed to settle freely where she wished afterward, although she would not be allowed to return to Gondor.  She blessed the King Elessar for his mercy and discernment.

       The judgments were all approved by the company for their appropriate natures.

       Once the last of the accused spies was led out the King called for Belladon of Umbar to stand forth before him.  The questioning was specific and relentless, and soon his part in the slaving of Umbar, the purchase and adaptation and running of the tavern outside the Pelargir, and the acquisition of slaves to run the place and to aid in recruiting spies had been laid bare.  He found himself naming six who’d been taken as the bookseller had, two of whom had killed themselves afterwards either out of shame or to keep from fulfilling their oaths to spy for Umbar--or both.  The King gave orders the other four were to be located and brought to the capitol within a month’s time for questioning and judgment.

       At last the King indicated that Belladon was to be taken under guard to the lesser audience chamber for a time and searched for weapons that he not do himself or others an injury, and Wasnior didn’t dare protest.  And then he ordered Angrapain of Umbar brought before him.  Wasnior found himself groaning.

35

       Angrapain groaned as once again his sleep was disturbed.  He rolled over and glared at the two guards who entered the cell.  “Now what?” he demanded.

       The Warden for the prison entered after them.  “He’s not cleaned himself or combed his hair as instructed?” he asked.  He himself had come to the cell a half a mark previously with a basin of warm water, a comb, and cleaning cloths and explained Angrapain was to shortly be taken before the King and should prepare himself.  All could see that none of these items had been utilized.  “So be it,” the Warden sighed.  “I will be accompanying you, then.  Stand up.”

       “But I can’t go looking this way----”

       “You were given time and means.  It is too late to change that now.”  At the Warden’s signal the two Guardsmen pulled the Umbari to a sitting position and indicated he should don the newly returned boots immediately.  Then he was made to stand and his hands bound before him, and he was led out of the cell and around the Citadel to the main doorway.  As he entered the vestibule he could see into an open office of some sort, and saw one of the two servants who’d accompanied them talking with a Guard and to a young lord of the realm.  What this was about, however, he was not given time to ascertain.  Instead he was brought just inside the door, surrounded by four Men, while the King finished sentencing the spies who’d just appeared before him.  The prisoners were led out past the throne and toward the side door out of the Citadel proper, and now the Guardsmen and Warden straightened in anticipation of the call which would now come.  Angrapain lifted his bound hands, vainly attempting to brush his hair into some semblance of order, and then was led further into the room.

       The Lord Steward Faramir now announced, “Now comes before you, my Lord, the case of Angrapain of Umbar, who has been accused of making indecent comments and attempting to take indecent liberties with a temporary resident of the city of Minas Tirith.”

       The King held up his hand toward the advancing guards, and they stopped, while the growing murmurs of comment on each side also hushed.  He looked down at Frodo, and said, “Lord Frodo, would you prefer to remain or leave?”

       After a moment’s thought, Frodo answered, “I suppose I ought to remain, my Lord King.”  The tone of the title was quite deliberate, as if reproving the King for addressing him as he had.

       The Lord Elessar’s face remained impassive as he ordered, “Bring the prisoner forward.”

       Angrapain looked up at the Man seated above him and tried to appear aggrieved, but failed miserably.  The truth was that he was finally beginning to appreciate he was in serious difficulties of his own making, and uncertain he’d find a way of getting out of them this time.

       The King spent some time looking at him, then turned to the prison Warden.  “Why has this Man been brought here with his face still dirty and his hair uncombed?  Did I not order he should be given the chance to prepare himself?”

       Madog gave a bow.  “My Lord Elessar, we followed the orders you gave, but he refused to use water, soap or comb, although they’d been there in his cell for over half a mark before we came to bring him here.”

       The guard to Angrapain’s left added, “He speaks correctly, my Lord King.  When we arrived, a basin of water, clean cloths, and a comb were there, but he remained on his cot and was rude when we entered to call him forth.”

       Again the King fixed his attention on the Umbari.  “So, you lack the pride to prepare yourself to stand before this court with some dignity?”

       “They would not allow me time after they roused me the last time to do so.”

       “Did they not tell you when they brought you what you needed?”

       After several moments of silence, Angrapain said sullenly, “Yes.”

       “Then do not blame others for your own lack of action.  Why are you here before this court?”

       “Because my words offended the Perian Frodo Baggins.”

       “What did you say unto him?”

       “I asked him if he thought of the woman who stirred his mind.”

       “Was that all?”

       After some moments, finally Angrapain answered, “No.  When he did not answer that I asked if his interest was in--his companions.”

       “After we came upon you and heard part of what you said to him and saw his confusion that you would seek to discuss such things with him, a stranger to you, you returned to speak with him again.  Why?”

       “I felt shamed by his answer to me the first time,”

       “You felt shamed that he told you he thought of food at the moment and not women?”

       Angrapain flushed.  “He laughed at me, there behind his eyes.”

       “I did not hear him laugh.  I saw him stand with considerable dignity and tell you that at the moment you came on him he was thinking of mushrooms.”

       “Why should he think of such things?”

       The King answered this time with a shrug.  “Why did you approach him the second time?” he asked again.

       “I didn’t approach him.  He came to me.  I was waiting for him to return to the low wall.  I knew he would return there, that he would return to face me again.”

       “Did he see you and address you?”

       “No--I was hidden behind the tree.  But he came back, came over the wall, went further into the yard.”

       “You had hidden yourself--obviously you did not intend him to see you.  Why did you think he would return there?”

       “He stopped there before.  He would return to me there.”

       “Did he approach you there behind the tree?”

       “No.  He passed me.”

       “Did he appear to realize you were there?”

       “No, he went more toward the house.”

       “Was he standing and waiting for you when you finally approached him?”

       “No, he was kneeling down.”

       “Was he facing you?”

       “No, he was facing away from me.  He was intent on----”

       “He was intent on gathering food, was he not?”

       After a pause, the Man finally said, “Yes, he was.  Why did he not face me until I approached him?”

       “Because he did not return there for your sake.  Because he went there because he had seen there something of more interest to a Hobbit.”  The King straightened and looked down on the two seated Periannath.  “Frodo, will you attempt to explain to this fool?  You do not need to identify specifically what drew you there.”

       Frodo stood rather carefully.  “I went there in search of mushrooms.”

       “But it is difficult----”

       The spots of pink could be seen in his cheeks.  “You were there the other night at the feast, sir, when our Lord Aragorn explained to your Lord Wasnior that my people are primarily farmers.  We have learned that we as Hobbits must, in the normal course of things, eat more often and more at a time than Men, Elves, or Dwarves.  As our King has characterized us, we are the children of Yavanna.  We are as automatically drawn to natural sources of foodstuffs as an Elf is to something of great natural beauty such as a tree in the fullness of its grace or a Dwarf to a vein of precious metal or a Man to the side of a beautiful woman--or most Men we have known and seen.  There were several sources of food in that garden, sir, and I had to examine them.  Even if my ability to eat fully is still--damaged--as a result of my quest, yet as a Hobbit I still must look to such things first.”

       “Are Periannath not drawn to one another, male to female, as is true for all others?  How do your numbers flourish, then?”

       Frodo went totally white.  “We also must find wives and husbands; but for us the urge to seek first the mate is not as strong as it is among Men--although we rejoice in large families and many children.  And if it had been given me to marry, you may be certain that I would have done so.”

       “Then why have you not?”

       “Have you not divined it, sir?  Because of the Ring!  It would have gladly seen me as you are, and I would not have it.”  The Perian looked up at the King.  “If I might be excused, Aragorn, please?”

       The King exchanged looks with the one of his Elven brothers who stood behind the Periannath, and he came forward to escort Frodo away around the throne, back to the private quarters of the Citadel.

       All had heard the bitterness in the voice of the Ringbearer, and many could see the pain reflected in the faces of the Lord Samwise and the Ernil i Pheriannath.  Éomer said quietly, “Sir Merry, you are excused to attend upon your kinsman.”

       The King said, equally quietly, “Sir Peregrin.”

       The Perian Guardsman looked up at his King, “I beg your pardon, Aragorn, but he does not want us at this moment.  I doubt he even wishes Sam with him now.  It is best only your brother or Gandalf is by him at the moment.  You cannot begin to understand what it cost him to say what he just did.”

       The King’s other Elven brother said, “I have summoned Mithrandir, and he will go to him.”

       The King bowed his head.  “Thank you, Elladan.”  He finally took a deep breath and straightened, then looked at Angrapain once more.  “You have not understood from the first, have you?  Seventeen and a half years he bore Sauron’s Ring, and he has fought Its influence all that time.  But once It awoke fully, It did Its best to destroy him utterly. 

       “Sauron knew not of Hobbits when he led Celebrimbor to create the Rings of Power, or if he did he saw that they had no great leaders or lords among them and thought them little better than the beasts of the field and forest.  He never suggested that Celebrimbor create Rings for them.  And because no thought was taken for them, and because they are not given to ambition or great lusts as are Men, or to the desire of treasures as is true of Dwarves, or the desire to cause and know as is true for Elves, only those of Hobbit-kind in the end were fit to carry Sauron’s own Ring to Its destruction.

       “Four of their kind carried It; the first, even with It still asleep, It finally twisted utterly; the second was beginning to be taken by It at last after sixty-one years; the third It robbed of much even when but restless in Its waking, and in the last year It has almost scoured him out.  And the fourth, by the grace of the Creator, did not bear It long enough for It to do great damage.

       “Be grateful, sir, that It did not come to you.”

       “You would not have taken It?”

       “He offered It to me, as Isildur’s Heir.  I would not touch It lest It destroy me utterly.  Perhaps I could have mastered It--for a time--ere It mastered me.  Even had I managed to cast Sauron out of Arda, It would have consumed me in the end, making me over into a pale copy of Sauron himself.  And as Frodo himself has said, I would not have that.

       “Now we are left with the question of what to do with you.  I would have you tell this company as you told me this morning in the prison why it was you approached Frodo Baggins to begin with.”

       “I was--attracted to him.  And we hoped to learn from him that which would give us power over you.”

       “He could not give you that knowledge.  He has not been told the object of my desires.”

       “You do not desire him?”

       The King laughed.  “Ah--the Ring would have loved that, had it come to be!  No.”

       “And we wished to find out what has become of our fleet.”

       “We will not return a ship of your fleet--your people have been told this.  And we will not allow Umbar to hold any power or authority over our land and people.  Why did you return to him again?”

       “Again, I felt shamed.  I thought to avenge myself on him.”

       “Avenge yourself for having had your desires ignored?”

       “Yes.”

       The King sighed.  “Enough has been said.”  He stretched.  “Bring Belladon before me again.”

       The Perian Guard went out again, and led back those who had taken Belladon, who brought him to stand beside Angrapain.  The King looked from one to the other.  “Hear now my judgment against you.  Of old slavery has been forbidden within Gondor and Arnor, and such will be rigidly enforced during the time of my rule, at least.  All who were brought to Gondor by your people who have been enslaved have been freed, and any brought into our realm from this day who were enslaved are declared free from the time they cross our borders.

       “Those who do wrong, however, shall be forced to serve for a period of time dictated by the evil they have done.  The wages for their service, however, shall be saved for them and given them when their time of servitude is over, that they might be ready to begin life anew afterwards.  In some rare cases the punishment shall be death, as it has been ordered this morning for the servant who betrayed his lord and his people, but I do not wish to need to order such often.

       “Now, Angrapain, what would be the judgment against you in your land for approaching another and insisting on seeking to twist him to your appetites?”

       After several minutes Angrapain said, his voice tight, “No one would seek to bring any judgment against me in Umbar.”

       “And if one should come upon you and force you against your will?”

       “I would behead him with my sword.”

       “Would that be legal to do?”

       “No one would question my right to do so.”

       “Then shall I have Frodo Baggins behead you with his sword?”

       “He does not carry a sword.”

       “He yet possesses one, and one of ancient lineage and honor.  No, even if you had indeed sought to force him he would not do so, for such is not his nature.  Therefore it is up to me to speak your doom.  Ordinarily I would have you gelded for your behavior, but I do not believe that in this case it would do any good.  No, first you will return to the prison where you will be branded on forehead and hand with a D glyph to indicate you have been a degenerate.  And after you have recovered, you will go North where you shall serve alongside a midwife of my acquaintance in Arnor.  You shall remain by her side for five years and go from one place to another alongside her, assisting her in accordance with her needs.  If you are seen anywhere but in her presence, you will be hung summarily.  At the end of the fifth year you will be accompanied back through Arnor and Gondor to have the report of your service reviewed.  If you have served satisfactorily you will be allowed to return to your own land.  However, you will not be allowed to reenter Gondor, Arnor, or Rhovanion or you will be taken again, returned here, and executed.  Do you understand?”

       Angrapain turned completely white, and asked, “You would do this to one from a different land?”

       “Didn’t you realize that this behavior would be unacceptable in this land, and that seeking knowledge to use against the rulers of our nation in such a manner punished?”  Angrapain looked away.  The King of Gondor continued to examine him.  Finally he added, “Had you left off after your first advance, then you would simply have been sent home and refused readmission to Gondor ever again.  But the second approach was what earned you this punishment.  And it would have been the same no matter whom you were to have advanced upon, although certainly the fact you chose to focus on the Ringbearer brought it about more quickly.” 

       He looked then at the other Umbari prisoner.  “Belladon of Umbar, I now pronounce your doom.  You are found guilty of practicing slavery within Gondor where it is not lawful, and of kidnapping, unlawful imprisonment, and suborning the will of citizens of Gondor in order to convince them to serve as spies for Umbar, to present false information to our officials, to convince lords and officers of the realm to change their actions and rulings to assist Umbar to achieve its aims for our lands and peoples.

       “You, too, will be taken to the prison for the Citadel, and you will be branded on forehead and hand with an S glyph to indicate you are a slaver and a spymaster.  When you have healed you will then be sent to the marble quarries where stone for the needs for the city of Minas Tirith is obtained.  You will serve there for a period of five years.  Then you, too, will be brought back to the capitol to have your work record reviewed.  If it is satisfactory, you will be released to your own people.  After that, if you are ever again found inside the borders of the lands claimed by Gondor, Arnor, or Rhovanion you will be retaken, returned to the city, and executed summarily.  Do you understand?”

       Belladon looked at him, his face blank with shock.  “Yes, Lord Elessar,” he finally said.

       “So be it then,” the King said with finality. 

       He gave a sign to the Guards surrounding the pair, and they were marched out of the Hall as the Lord Steward Faramir announced, “So has judged the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Lord of Arnor.”

       At that moment a lord entered from the vestibule and leaned to speak quietly to the Herald, who asked a question and finally nodded.  He straightened and stepped forward, tapping his staff on the floor.  “My Lord King, Lord Erchirion wishes to speak with you.”

       The King rose and descended the stair to stand near the chair of the Lord Steward Faramir and waited for Prince Imrahil’s second son to make his way to the front of the room.  He quietly discussed something with the two of them, then at a gesture left the room again while King and Steward spoke quietly for a moment, then the King ascended again to the throne and resumed his seat as Faramir crossed to speak briefly with his uncle, then returned to his own place and again sat. 

       The Lord Aragorn Elessar rubbed his eyes briefly, then gestured to the guards surrounding the three remaining Umbarian Lords to bring them forward slightly.  “It appears, my lords,” he said with a note of fatalism in his voice, “that faithlessness is widespread in your party.  One of your two servants has come to report on what he has overheard you say, not that it is anything we had not already divined.  He wished to see all or most of you imprisoned and himself rewarded with your confiscated possessions, and riches with which to purchase himself an estate in Umbar on his return.

       “His information is petty at best, and as I said, we had already divined all of it or had learned more here this day than he had to report.  Also, his willingness to betray you grates upon me as it has those who have dealt already with him.  We have no reward to give to him, not that his faithlessness has endeared him to our people here.  We do not receive him to our land, but must restore him to you to do with as you see best.  The one thing that I demand is that if he has earned death for his actions, you are not to carry out sentence here within our borders.  If you do, I will know and will have your ship stopped ere it leaves our waters and you will be returned here, and you will be charged with murder.  Do you understand?”

       Wasnior, Dorath, and Beslor looked at one another with alarm.  Finally Wasnior said, “So it shall be done, Lord Elessar.”

       The King nodded.  “We have prepared a treaty for the consideration of the government of Umbar.  Its details are rather simple....”

       The three remaining lords from Umbar had no choice but to agree to carry to Lord Marcipor and his Council what was presented them, a treaty which left those of Umbar with no right to do anything against any ship or individual or business enterprise from Gondor, Arnor, or their allies of any race; restricted the size of their ships on the rivers and along the coastlines of Gondor to those crewed by no more than twenty, none of whom could be slaves; gave Gondor and Arnor full right to exclude from trading missions and parties, embassies, and deputations any whom they chose; restricted Umbari ships from approaching any nearer than five bowflights of any vessel from Gondor, Arnor, or any of their allies of any race; allowed vessels from Gondor and Arnor free passage through Umbar’s coastal waters and safe harbor in case of need; and many similar articles.

        At last the King said, “You will now be returned to your guesthouse, where a cart awaits you already to carry your luggage.  You will be then escorted back to your ship, which will cast off immediately and return to your own land, escorted by one of our ships.  I do not wish to see any from your government here any sooner than five months from this day.  Your people had best carefully examine the treaty offered you.  If you have any amendments you wish made, you may proffer them after that time.  Do you understand?”

       Through gritted teeth, Wasnior answered, “We understand, Lord King.”  The three gave perfunctory bows, turned and left the Citadel with what little dignity they had left to them.  None of them spoke any more than was necessary until they were aboard their ship again and it had entered the current of the River.

       Dorath looked aft at the receding view of the White City.  “I think,” he said thoughtfully, “we came off better than we might have done.”

       Reluctantly, Wasnior agreed.

36:  Finding Harmony

       Not long after the Umbarians left the Citadel the audience was dismissed, and at last Aragorn descended from the throne and retreated to the small robing room where the chest for the Winged Crown was kept and saw it back into its place, then after exchanging polite comments with his guests he finally was free to return to the Royal Wing accompanied by the other three Hobbits.  Gandalf sat on a narrow chair set before the room which had been prepared originally for Frodo and Sam.  “He sent me from the room first, and shortly afterward Elrohir also came out.  I think he’s known nausea again.”

       Aragorn sighed.  “And just before another feast.  It is almost too much for a Hobbit to have to bear.”  He looked closely at Gandalf.  “Did you know of the Ring’s influence on his ability to love a woman of his people?”

       Reluctantly Gandalf nodded.  “However, this was of such a nature I didn’t feel free to discuss it with others, not even you or Sam.  I am sorry.”

       “You were right.  But for him--I did not realize.  I had an idea, but no true knowledge.”

       Merry said quietly, “I’d suspected something was wrong and wondered if the Ring could be involved, once we knew what It was.  Before the Party Frodo always was admiring the prettier lasses and was always dancing.  Very soon after it was as if he didn’t notice a lass was a lass rather than another lad, and he’s danced less and less each year since.”  Sam added his agreement. 

       Aragorn sighed.  “Sam, will you go in with me?”

       Sam shook his head.  “No, for I’ve seen too much of it over the years, and he won’t thank me for comin’ in now.  No, Strider, probably the only one as he’ll even let go in the room right now would be you.”

       Aragorn looked at the door as if trying to will it to open of itself, then took a deep breath, opened it himself, and went inside, closing the door behind him.  The curtains had been drawn closed and no lamps were lit.  Frodo, wrapped in a blanket, sat in one of the armchairs, the wash basin lying on the floor at his feet.  There was the odor of vomit in the air--Gandalf had been right about the nausea.  His face was so pale, but he didn’t look up.

       The Man approached slowly and knelt by the Hobbit’s chair, reached to gently place his arms around Frodo.  He could see the soft reflection from tears on Frodo’s face.  “Oh, my small brother,” he murmured as he embraced him.  “Oh, my small brother.  Have you been ill all day?”

       “Yes.”

       “I am here, Frodo.  I am here for you for as long you need me.”

       “At times I just feel empty, Aragorn.  Just empty.”

       “I can imagine.”

       “I couldn’t see a beautiful lass as one without wanting to....”  He went quiet.  Finally he whispered, “Most of the time I couldn’t see them as beautiful at all.  I hate It so, Aragorn.  I hate It so.”  He took a long, shuddering breath. “When I hate It so, why----”

       At last the Man asked, “Why what, tithen nín?”

       “Why do I still want It?”

       Aragorn was careful not to stiffen or to pull away, only leaned his head against Frodo’s chest.  “Having It there during the worst times at least helped you realize you were still alive, Frodo.  On those days when you feel emptiest, it must be so hard to find something to help you realize that.”

       “I suppose so.  I’ve lost so much.  And I hate it when the nausea returns.  I start to feel like a Hobbit again, and will start to eat again, and then....”

       “Have you managed to keep anything down today?”

       The answer was only the smallest of shakes to the head.

       “I told you the other day, Frodo--you are free to use the Elessar stone.”

       “But it’s yours.”

       “Oh, Frodo--you do not need to feel guilty about everything.  Or does it help you realize you are alive when you feel the guilt, as the Ring used to assure you that you were alive when you still possessed It?  I’ve told you, and I truly meant it--you may freely touch on the power of the Elessar while you are near enough to do so.  I will never withhold it from you.”

       Frodo could tell there was no reproach in these words.  “I am not worthy.”

       “Then perhaps you need it the most, small brother.  The Elessar is a stone of healing and renewal.  Certainly you of all people have need of that.  It will never be withheld from you.”

       Aragorn felt the softest of touches on the power of the Elessar stone, felt as the touch finally became more open and certain, then slowly added his own will to that used by Frodo, gently letting his own healing gift augment the filling of self with meaning Frodo took from the stone.  And the stone delighted, he realized, to Frodo’s touch.

       He didn’t try to direct the healing offered, just let it go where it was needed.  Finally he murmured against the Hobbit’s chest, “If the stone had not come to me, small brother, it could have been meant for you to wear.  You use it well, and it is glad of you.”

       He felt Frodo take a deeper breath, and was himself glad.  At last, as the heartbeat steadied and the breathing deepened and the turmoil in the stomach eased, he straightened.  He rose and went to the door and opened it slightly.  “Please ask Iorvas to bring me a clean basin and a ewer of warm water,” he asked Pippin.  He then returned and picked up the basin from near Frodo’s feet, and took it into the privy where he emptied it, seeing there was only fruit and bread reflected there.  After rinsing it, he took it back to the door to exchange with Iorvas for the fresh basin the footman brought to him.  “I thank you, my friend,” he said, taking it.  “Please put water on to heat, and steep one of the bags of herbs I have prepared in the kitchen in a mug of it once it has boiled.  Let it steep for perhaps the count of three hundred, then remove the bag and after adding a generous spoon of honey bring it to me.  Then if you could toast some bread and spread it with crushed strawberries, I would be most grateful.”

       “Very gladly, my Lord,” the footman said, and he hurried away.

       There was a small kitchen with cooking hearth and small ovens in each of the living wings, and the Lord Aragorn had come to examine the one here two days after the coronation, and had given orders as to particular items he wished to be kept stocked here at all times.  After a visit to the herbalist in the Houses of Healing he’d brought back twists and glass vials of various herbs, some of which were specific to healing while others were used primarily in cooking, while several were good for both.  Each had been carefully labeled, and the preceding day he’d made up a number of cloth packets he’d put into a ceramic jar, using a chain stitch to hold the end of each small bag closed.  He’d explained to both Iorvas and Belveramir that these were for special soothing draughts for his friends among the Pheriannath when they visited him within the Citadel.  He’d also examined the gardens area two days past and indicated one area he wished cleared as he intended to plant an herb garden there. 

       “Very good,” the head gardener had said.  “If you would tell me what herbs you wish planted here....”

       “I will be planting it myself, and tending it primarily myself during those times I am within the Citadel, Master Garnthor.  This will be one place where I will make myself practically useful, for I, too, need an outlet of work for my hands as well as for my mind and will.”

       Iorvas found their new master to be a most unusual and interesting Man, he thought as he watched the brew steep.  When he’d counted a full three hundred he removed the bag to a small dish he kept, stirred in the honey, and took the draught and the toasted bread and berries to the room and approached the door.  Mithrandir still sat by it, but his face was now relieved and smiling as he watched Iorvas bringing the mug and plate.  The Wizard rapped upon the door for him, then opened it to allow footman to hand the tray to the King, and closed it after.

       Frodo allowed Aragorn to wash his hands, face, and feet, and to sponge off his surcoat.  He drank the tea brought to him, and ate the toast slowly, fearful he might lose it.  Finally he commented, “It appears that each time I become upset the nausea returns.”

       Aragorn shrugged.  “Such is not unusual when upset is deep, Frodo.  However, in your case it doesn’t appear to require such extremes as are usual.  Would you like to go out into the gardens with me?”

       When at last he’d finished the tea and toast, Frodo rose and followed Aragorn out into the hallway and down the hallway toward the end of the wing to the receiving room.  The doors to the garden were open, and Frodo paused as they exited the building, looking about.

       Sam was kneeling near a bed of flowers, a weeding tool lent him by one of the regular gardeners in his hand.  He paused in his work and looked up at Frodo.  “Hello, Master.  Would you like to help with deadheading the violas?”

       Frodo gave a small smile.  “Gladly.”  He knelt down opposite Sam and began pinching off spent blossoms while Sam continued his weeding.

       Aragorn lifted a pair of pruning scissors from the basket which had been set near the Hobbit, and turned to a nearby rose bush and began examining it, finally removing a couple of branches.  After a time he slipped off to the small kitchen where he surprised Iorvas by preparing a small tray for Frodo.

       Gandalf had brought a low chair out for Frodo to sit on when his knees began hurting him, and Aragorn brought the tray to him there.  Just sitting among the flowers seemed enough to ease him, and in time he sat back with another cup of tea, feasting his eyes on flowers and breathing in the healing scents of the great garden.

       After a short time Iorvas came to inform them a late luncheon would soon be served, and Aragorn asked it be brought to them in the garden.  Frodo didn’t eat a great deal more, but was looking decidedly better once he’d finished the small meal he accepted; and indicated he felt they needed to return to the house in the Sixth Circle in order to meet with the tailor.  Aragorn accompanied them back down to their house, then returned to the Citadel where his brothers and his Elven guests were now exploring the gardens.

       Legolas’s face was solemn.  “He does best with you, Aragorn.”

       The King nodded as he accepted a goblet of wine brought him by Iorvas.  Gandalf asked, “Did he again touch the Elessar?”

       “Yes.  He touched it often before I let him know I was aware, and since has touched it only when I’ve assured him it is acceptable.  He appears to find the sense of guilt comforting somehow.  When I suggested that the sense of guilt may reassure him he is indeed alive, he didn’t disagree.”

       Gandalf and Elrond’s sons exchanged looks of surprise.  “He needs to feel strong emotion to feel alive?” Elladan asked.

       “Apparently.  He says that the Ring left him feeling terribly emptied.”

       Legolas’s brother Tharen commented, “I can well imagine.”

       Aragorn asked, “Gandalf, could you make certain he is with me in the Houses of Healing before dawn tomorrow?”

       “Why do you wish him there?”

       “I believe his presence will help me deal with the execution.  That and being in the Houses of Healing should assist me to withstand the temptation to fall into sadness.”

       “When will they do the branding?”

       “At much the same time.”

       “Neither Umbari is likely to react well.”

       “I don’t expect them to do so.  But I want them to have every reason to remember what they have done and to know that they are not to repeat their actions. Now, tell me, my Lord Prince Tharen, what changes have been seen so far in Mirkwood?”

*******

       Galador looked up at the knock on the door to his office.  “Enter!”

       Faralion opened the door and came in.  “And how do you today, Master Galador?”

       The realm’s Master of Protocol glared at the representation of the table.  “I have worked again and again and again trying to decide who shall sit where, and can get nowhere with it.  How does one decide where to seat so many Elves, Dwarves, and Men from regions most here have never heard of before?  Not to mention the Pheriannath?”  He spilled a handful of the tiles across his desk.  “What colors do I use to show all these?”

       “Have you yet asked the King which he wishes to have sit by him?”

       “I have been afraid to approach him.”

       “Why?”

       “I offended him.”

       “When was this?”

       “The--the next morning after the coronation.  I was trying to serve him as his scribe, was bringing to him messages entrusted to me by various lords.  Several he examined, but with the fourth he became impatient.  I tried--tried to impress upon him that this was sent to him by a lord of the realm, and he--he reproved me.”

       “Which lord sent it?”

       “Lord Gilvarion of Anfalas.”

       “Gilvarion?  He who mortgaged his holdings in order to provide himself with clothing appropriate to wear within the court?  Whose servant has more money than he and was his tutor when he was a boy?  Were he to apply himself to managing his holdings properly as he does to pursuing patronage in Minas Tirith, he might make something yet of his lands, for they are rich enough.  But he set as steward of his holdings his stepbrother, who has more interest in drinking and gambling than he does in husbanding the earth.  The fool will not listen to the experience of those who farm the lands, and seeks to raise cattle there rather than to raise the rice for which their land has ever been renowned.  The cattle do poorly, for the soil is too wet most of the year.  But he would rather raise what he thinks of as noble animals than crops.”

       Galador looked at the minstrel with surprise.  “You know so much?”

       Faralion shrugged.  “A year and a half past, as part of my journeyman period, my master allowed me to accept a commission from them to write an ode.  I went to their keep and learned within a day that Gilvarion and his brother have not the intelligence between them to find the privy without three torches and seven servants to point the way--save they have wasted their fortune in the past eight years and have but two left between them, both of whom remain with them only in hopes they will perhaps one day listen to reason and see the fortunes of the house restored.”

       “Did you write the ode?”

       “No--they had not the wherewithal to pay even my fees at the time.  Although I did write the Call of the Fool based on what I saw in their holdings.”

       “A most humorous piece.”

       “Yes, and it helped make my reputation.  But please do not repeat their names to others as the ones who inspired the song, for I would not willingly embarrass Lord Gilvarion before the realm.  For all his foolishness, the young lord is yet an amiable and most earnest person.”

       The Master of Protocol sighed, and purposely turned away from the inlaid slate.  “Did you attend the audience?”

       “Yes, and I did not see you there.”

       “I doubt our Lord King wishes to see my face.  He does not consult me as to where to see people placed during audiences within the Hall of Kings.”

       “As you know little or nothing of those who come from Rhovanion and the Northern Kingdom, would you know better than he how to show appropriate honor there?”

       Galador shrugged.  “I suppose not.  How did he set things?”

       As Faralion described the four chairs set between the two chairs of the Stewards and the three others, two set for the Ringbearers on the one side and one for Imrahil on the other, Galador listened earnestly.  “And the Lord Prince Tharen is brother to Prince Legolas, while Lord Gloin is father to Lord Gimli, both of whom are among the King’s companions?”  He turned to the slate, and taking up a handful of tiles of peridot green for the Elves he set them into the table to the right of the King--then moved them further over to set into place four of lapis representing the four from the court of Dale there; the green and gold tiles representing Rohan he set across from the King on the inner curve of the table, then set several of silver representing the Dwarves to the left of the King....

       In less than a quarter mark he had the seating settled and was marking in the names of those whose identities were not well known to the heralds and servitors.  King Éomer would sit directly opposite the King with his sister to his left and Lord Faramir and the sons of Elrond to her left; the Pheriannath to Éomer’s right where the King could watch to see that the Ringbearer himself was properly served, with Mithrandir beyond them.  Prince Imrahil to the right of the four from Dale with the Elves of Mirkwood beyond him so that they might speak with one they would see as a kinsman during the meal; Lords Elphir and Erchirion between the Dwarves from Erebor and the lords of the King’s kinship representing the court of Arnor.  Finally satisfied he signaled the chief herald, who examined the board with interest, congratulated him on the ordering, and saw it taken to its place.

       Finally bringing out the tray of wine and goblets, Galador filled two goblets and offered one to his guest, sipping with greater contentment than he’d shown earlier.  “I haven’t seen you for several days within the Citadel,” he commented to Faralion, setting his goblet before him.

       “Until today there have been no more public audiences.  I have been staying in our guild hall in the Third Circle and composing a work based on the music I’ve heard from the Pheriannath.  They have been staying in the house assigned for them in the Sixth Circle?”

       “Yes.  The King chose a house fairly far from theirs for those from Umbar, but the one from Umbar still managed to cause offense to them.”

       “Perhaps in the coming days I will be able to visit with them and learn more of their music.  They are a people given to love of songs and dance I know now from the tales they told me and the songs they’ve sung for me.”

       “What was the disposition of the case against the one from Umbar who offended the Pheriannath?”

       Faralion described the audience, the description of the tavern used by the Umbarians to turn Men of Gondor to spying, the judgments given and sentences imposed. 

       Galador was impressed.  “And Wasnior and those remaining of their fellows made no protest?”

       “None.”

       “Who plays for the dinner tonight?”

        They were deep in conversation regarding the entertainment offered following the meal when they were interrupted by another knock at the door.  Galador rose and opened it, stopping with great surprise to find the King standing there, accompanied by King Bard of Dale and King Éomer of Rohan.  “I beg your pardon, Master Galador,” the Lord Elessar said, “but I’d wished to see how you had planned to seat people for the feast tonight.  Master Faralion, it is a pleasure.”

       In minutes the King had been led through to the place where the great slate representation of the table now hung.  “So,” he said, “this is how it is done, is it?  I’d wondered.  Very ingenious.”  He examined the inlay and the placements of the colored tiles to indicate different houses. 

        Galador cleared his throat diffidently, and heartened by the King’s polite attention, explained, “I had thought, my Lord King, that since this day we welcome one new King and a representative in Lord Gloin of another, you might wish to have them by your side, and so I placed the Lord Éomer King here opposite you with the Ringbearer here...” going on to describe where each group had been assigned.

       The King examined it, then nodded.  “For tonight this is well, although there will be times when I will wish to arrange the seating myself, and there may well come such times soon--or so is my great hope.  Shall we return to your office, Master Galador?”

       Faralion surrendered his chair to the King, and Master Galador offered refreshment from his personal wine store to the three new rulers of realms of the Free Peoples, who accepted them most graciously.  At last the King Elessar explained, “As you now know, I was raised in Imladris among the Elves of Lord Elrond’s household.  Elven courtesy and protocol tend to differ from ours.  Most of the time I will defer to the common usage offered in Gondor; but when proper occasions arise I will insist on using Elven courtesies.  When those times occur, I will attempt to give you full warning, and I will most likely come here to settle the seating myself.  At certain feasts I shall be in the hall when the guests are brought in, and will rise to give them honor.  So it is done among Elves.  I will do this tonight, since our guests of most honor are from the North and are more accustomed to such usage.  As for our own folk--they will come to accept it well enough, you will find.

       “There was only one choice you made I would have done differently, but the seating you arranged will be more easily appreciated by those of Gondor and so I let it stand.  I do ask that from now on you notify me when the seating is complete that I might review and approve it myself.  I know that Lord Denethor did not require such approval--but I am not Lord Denethor.  Particularly when those who attend are from the North or from other lands where I have sojourned and you have not I can advise you as to how best to avoid offense and communicate proper respect, as you can advise me regarding those who are from within Gondor where your longer experience stands us all in such good stead.”

       He sipped from his glass as Galador thanked him for the compliment given.  When Galador was finished, he nodded.  “There is one more thing, Master Galador--I apologize if you felt offended by me the other day; but I will admit I was trying to meet a very busy schedule and to inconvenience as few as possible in the doing.  And, I have little patience for empty flattery from minor houses such as that of the Lord Gilvarion--indeed, I have little patience for empty flattery from anyone.  Let the lords come to meet and know me first, and then I can judge whether their praise is but flattery or sincere.  In truth, Lord Gilvarion’s note, once I had time to actually read it and reflect on it, appeared to reflect a polite enough individual.  But even so, at the time you were seeking to bring it to my attention I had far too many things to think of to desire to read yet another of the type of missives you had shared with me that day.  Your evaluations of those who sent them was invaluable; but I think we need to set up a regular time each week during which to read such things and speak of those who are known to be seeking an audience with me that I am properly prepared.  Is this agreeable with you, sir?”

       “But of course, my Lord King.”

       “Very good.  Master Faralion--have you any idea of what kind of musicians the guild has appointed to play for the feast tonight?”

       A short time later the King gave his thanks to both for their patience with him, and he and his guests, all murmuring again their thanks for the wine shared with them, withdrew about their business.  Galador was left with a bemused look on his face.  “Never would the Lord Denethor have thought to have been seen coming here to consult with me!”

        As Faralion finally left Galador’s office, he too felt bemused.  Never would he expect to see a great lord such as their King bringing his personal guests to meet his Master of Protocol.

        As he crossed the Court of Gathering, headed for the ramp down to the lower city, his attention was drawn by the sound of singing.  He turned and saw a number of individuals gathered toward the end of the keel of rock, looking Eastward across the river toward the walls of what had been Mordor.  Caught in the spell of the singing of Elves, Faralion found his feet carrying him that way.  A mixed party stood there--Men, Elves, Dwarves, and two Pheriannath.

       The sons of Elrond were there alongside the Elves who had come from Mirkwood and Legolas, the King’s companion, and together they were singing a song of joy and delight, of trees growing and flowers blooming and waters running in gladness beneath the light of Sun, Moon, and Stars.  And then another voice joined them, deeper, mortal--the voice of their new King, adding a richness to what was already there; then was added another voice, still mortal but a warm tenor, that of the Lord Steward Faramir, singing of the ordering of the peoples and the wonder of that which was beyond the reach of mortals.  Then were added in rich voices of the Dwarves, adding in the deeper tones of Earth and Stone to those already being sung, singing not words but tones and syllables to support the warmth of the voices of Men and the ethereal beauty of the voices of the Elves.  Then was added still another voice, sweet and delightful, as the Ernil i Pheriannath joined his own voice with those of the rest, his song adding in the delight of richness of life, ale drunk and crops grown, and folk dancing at the sowing and feasting at the harvest.

       Then Faralion had joined them and was weaving his own singing into the harmony, joining with King and Steward, adding in the delight of waking each morning to find life continuing and the waiting for the time of release at the end and the promise of what was to come.  Then the Lady Éowyn added her singing as well, the watching of Men going forth and the welcoming of them home again after.

        Many in the lower circles of the city, hearing that song, looked up and saw the party there; and many within the Citadel or crossing the Court of Gathering, looked on the singers with awe.  And the last of the grief and fear which had so shadowed the lives of those who had lived ever in the shadow of the Ephel Duath and the clouds of Mordor seemed to fall away from the hearts of those who dwelt in the White City of Gondor.

       And one standing on the balcony of his house in the Sixth Circle heard the singing from above, and found himself adding to it as he, too, looked on the mountains he had crossed to the cleansing of the shadows beyond them.  Sam, standing on a stool so that the tailor and his apprentices could measure him, smiled as he heard his beloved Master singing in thanksgiving for the fall of Mordor and the destruction of the burden he’d carried so long.

37

       Slightly better than an hour before dawn Angrapain was awakened by a guard and a healer.  “What do you folk have,” he complained, “against a Man getting a full night’s sleep?”

       The Guard grunted.  “You are to sit up and drink the draught he has brought.”

       “Whatever for?” Angrapain asked.

       “The first part of your sentence will be carried out in an hour.  If you wish for it to be bearable, I suggest you drink the draught.”

       The Umbari gave the guard an amazed look.  “Lord Wasnior would never allow your people to brand me,” he insisted.

       “Never allow?” asked the guard.  “How does he intend to oppose it when his ship is already halfway to the Pelargir?”

       Angrapain’s expression became uncomprehending.  “But they would never agree to such a thing!”

       “Considering how our Lord King Elessar managed to show exactly how ill prepared your delegation was to deal with the presence of a King within Gondor and Arnor and how Lord Wasnior’s lies were exposed, I suspect the three who have left our capitol will be ill-disposed to argue for further leniency for one who has embarrassed them and another who has been caught slaving within our borders.  I again suggest you drink the draught brought to you.” 

       Angrapain drank the draught, then sat back upon the cot, his knees drawn up before him, watching the door anxiously as the two who’d brought his draught left to visit another cell. 

       Shortly later he heard a cell door open, and rose to peer out through the bars on his own cell.  He saw a Man being led toward the entrance to the prison, four guards walking about him in formation. 

       The Warden of the prison followed them out of the cell, stopping to watch after them near the door to Angrapain’s cell.  The Umbari asked, “Where do they take him?”

       “Out of the prison and down through the city.  He is to be hung before the city walls at dawn.”

       Angrapain watched after with surprise.  “What did he do?”

       “He is the former servant who betrayed his people and lord.”

       The Umbari found himself feeling light-headed, and retreated to his cot.

       A time later the door to his cell opened and the healer entered, checking his pulse and eyes.  “He’s about ready now.  He will feel the pain, but will not fight it overmuch and do himself a permanent injury.”

       Angrapain was led to a square outside the prison where a portable forge had been brought; he was made to sit in a chair and bound in with leather straps.  They gave him a cloth steeped in bitter herbs to bite upon, and only when it was firmly in place between his teeth did the healer give the signal he was ready.

       “Angrapain of Umbar,” the Warden said, “you are to be branded for approaching a visitor to this city with indecent proposals in hopes of learning information detrimental to the rule of Gondor.”

       Finally the iron was brought out and it was applied to him.  He was grateful when he passed out from the pain, and awoke in a dormitory of sorts where the healer who’d attended him earlier was applying ointments to his burns.  In the bed next to him lay Belladon, awake but seriously dazed, his burns also being dressed.  The healer checked his eyes and felt for fever.  “You will recover quickly enough, you will find,” he said.  “But it will probably be at least a few more weeks before any goes North to Arnor to take you to your work assignment.”  He was given a small amount of poppy juice in wine and allowed to sleep.  For the next few days he and Belladon were kept under observation and the dressings over their burns changed frequently, and then they were returned to their cells to await the word that they were ready to be taken to where they must labor.

*******

       The feast of welcoming for the guests from Rhovanion was successful.  Frodo was apparently was able to stomach what he was served well enough, and the rest ate heartily.  Again the King led the dancing, partnered with Lady Rhiannon.  Tonight Lord Faramir danced several times with Éowyn, while Éomer and Aragorn each danced with her once.  Frodo resisted the urging to join the dancing.  “No,” he answered, “When my endurance improves, but not yet.”

       Frodo did speak with several lords from Rohan, Southern Gondor, and two who’d come from the lands of the Dunlendings, and endured a good deal of flattery from a group of ladies from the Ringlo Vale.  He was sufficiently tired he wished he could leave about an hour after the meal was finished, but stubbornly remained until the end.

       He awoke in the night as a nightmare of being sought by the Eye began, and lay breathing deeply and forcing himself to think on other things, finally let himself drift off again, dreaming this time of sitting in the garden of Bag End, he on the ground and Sam on the garden bench with his pipe in his mouth and his favorite ale mug beside him, the two of them talking.  Then he realized the great spider Shelob was creeping up behind Sam and was ready to bite the gardener as he himself had been bitten.  He tried to warn Sam, but now he was paralyzed as he’d been when first bitten, and he could do nothing to warn Sam of the danger creeping from behind him. 

       He forced himself awake.  Finally after lying there for over an hour, unable to sleep without the nightmares threatening to start again, he rose and dressed, deciding to go out and walk for a time.  However, as he tried to slip out through Sam’s room, the gardener woke up. 

       “You havin’ another bad night, Master?” Sam asked, sitting up.

       “Just can’t seem to sleep without one of the nightmares starting is all,” Frodo admitted.  “Thought I’d just go out and walk a bit and see if I can get my mind into a different train of thought so I could sleep without them.”

       “Good idea,” Sam replied.  “I’ll come with you so as to keep you company.”

       “You don’t need to do that, Sam.  The ones from Umbar aren’t going to bother me any, now that most have left and the rest are safely in the prison.”

       Sam, however, insisted; and feeling disgruntled, Frodo went out into the day room to wait.  

       The front door opened softly, and Legolas entered accompanied by his brother.  “You are awake, Frodo?” asked the golden-haired Elf.  “Nightmares again?”

       “I thought I’d go out and walk them out,” Frodo said, shrugging.  “However, Sam is insisting I not go out on my own.”

       Legolas went forward and knocked on Sam’s door, and on the Elf’s assurance he and his brother would keep Frodo company Sam agreed to return to his bed.

       It was so quiet in the city at night.  Even the dog who lived in the house near the ramp didn’t appear to hear them as they walked by, and they walked down to the gardens of the Houses of Healing, let the porter there know they planned only to sit there for a time and talk and breathe in the green scents, and found a place where Frodo felt comfortable and sat to talk for a time.

       “The usual places where the great spiders tend to breed and build their webs are showing no signs of new activity,” Tharen said.  “Since the Ring went into the fire we’ve seen only eight of the beasts, two of which we’ve killed and the rest have simply retreated more deeply into the forest, acting more like common spiders.  None of the webs have we found on the Elf paths or roads through the forest.

       “Dol Guldur has shown little signs of occupation, and our adar has determined to cast it down completely.  We have seen but little orc activity near it, and no wolf activity at all.  The few bats we have seen appear to be just common ones, for there is a wholesome feel to them as they pursue insects.”

       “Does one still fall asleep if one accidentally touches the water of the one stream?” Frodo asked.

       “Yes, but its spell tends to last only a day now instead of holding one for days on end as it did when Bilbo and the Dwarves traveled there.”

       “It appears that the evil from the Enemy is diminishing.”

       “Yes.”  Tharen smiled.  “We have great reason to be glad you accomplished your quest to come to the Sammath Naur.”  His smile faded.  “It is only too bad that the Gollum creature was lost in the destruction of It.”

       “I’d hoped to help him find himself again,” Frodo said quietly.  “I thought if he could find himself, perhaps there would be--there would be hope I could find myself as well.”

       “His actions saved you, and perhaps saved himself as well, Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said, quietly joining them.

       “But he died!”

       “Do you think death is the end?” the Wizard asked.  “Far from it, Frodo.  But the final disposition of Sméagol is not your concern.  And you were not lost.”

       “I don’t feel that way, Gandalf.”

       “Feelings can be deceiving, beloved friend.”  He smiled.  “Aragorn hopes you will attend on him in the Houses of Healing ere dawn, Frodo.”

       “He’s coming down before daybreak?  Why?”

       “He has his reasons, and they are valid ones.  He has learned that when he is active and focused on assisting others, he can better deal with--certain experiences; and having by him those he cares most for also helps.”

       Frodo shrugged.  “If he finds it desirable, I’ll gladly go with him.  However, I shall probably wish to sleep much of the day away.”

       “The nightmares don’t trouble you as much in daylight?”

       “They don’t appear to be as common during naps as when I am trying to have a proper sleep.”

       “Do you feel you could rest now?”

       “Perhaps.  I’m willing to try.”  Frodo looked up.  “If I were home in the Shire tonight, I’d have taken my blanket roll and the rug up to the top of the Hill to sleep under the stars.”

       “Not as practical here, I suppose,” Gandalf commented as Frodo arose.  “Well, I’ll see you back to your bed, then.”

       Frodo thanked Thranduil’s sons, and walked back to the house, slipped quietly through to his room, and laid himself down still clad.  After all, it wasn’t that long before dawn.

*******

       “Who allowed him out of the Hall?”

       “He came out one of the doors on the North side.  We couldn’t watch them all, Rory.”

       “Frodo!  It’s all right, Frodo.  You’re not alone, dearling.”  Aunt Esme’s voice.

       A pressure of an ear against his chest.  Aunt Gilda, listening....

       “Mr. Frodo?  Lord Strider’s come, and wishes to know if we’ll go with him to the Houses of Healing.  Says as it will ease him through the mornin’.”

       Frodo opened his eyes, saw Sam leaning over him, the gardener’s hand lying on his chest, smiling gently.  “Good morning, Sam.”  He turned his eyes to the window and noted how dark it was still.  “He’s certainly intent on getting an early start.”

       “You didn’t bother to undress afore you laid you down again?  Not quite proper, that, but then you was just gettin’ up early again after all.”

       “Yes.  Gandalf told me Aragorn wished me to attend on him this morning.  Does he have a cup of tea?”

       “Yes, he does.  And he has your mornin’ draught with him.”

       “I’d almost prefer he’d have forgotten it.”  Frodo sat up and stretched, then rose and went to the privy.  By the time he made the day room he was feeling decidedly better and fully awake.

       “Restless night, Frodo?” Aragorn asked.  He looked tired himself.

       Frodo shrugged.  “Some problems with the nightmares trying to return, but I knew what they were and would just wake up.  Better than crying out and waking the whole household.”

       “Not as restful for you, perhaps.”  He handed Frodo the mug he’d brought with him.  Frodo accepted it and drank it quickly, and then the cup of water Sam had brought for afterwards.

       “I’m glad as Legolas and his brother took you with them,” Sam commented.  “The two of ‘em are quite a sight together, the one gold and the other dark as they are.  But no question, once you see the eyes, as they’re brothers indeed.  Would you like some breakfast, Mr. Frodo?”

       “I think just some fruit and juice.”

       “If you’re certain,” Sam said, obviously feeling Frodo ought to be able to eat more than that.

       “Have you eaten yet, Sam?” Aragorn asked.

       “Yes, I have.  I’ll walk over to the Houses of Healing with you.  I’m helpin’ with the gardens there, not long after dawn.”

       “I’d like to have you with me, also.”

       “How about you, Strider?”

       “It would probably be better if I ate later.”

       Sam looked at him with concern.  “Don’t tell me as there’s somethin’ wrong with your stomach, too?”

       The Man looked away.  “No, or at least not yet.  We’ll see how the morning goes.”

       “You anticipating problems this morning?” asked Frodo.

       Gandalf and Pippin came in, the Hobbit yawning as he straightened his tabard.  He smiled and gave a slight bow as he saw his King sat in the kitchen.  “Morning, Lord Aragorn,” he said.  “Where will I find you when I come to take my service?”

       “I’ll be in the Houses of Healing, Pippin.  And why, after addressing me as Aragorn before the court yesterday, are you using a title at this moment?”

       Pippin shrugged as he grabbed out one of the winter’s stores of apples from the bowl of fruit kept on the table.  “Sam was giving me quite the talking to afterwards about showing proper respect, you being the King now and all.”

       Aragorn gave a short laugh.  “Perhaps I ought to make Sam Master of Protocol alongside Galador.”

       “You couldn’t do that--it would destroy the Man,” Pippin insisted around a bite of apple.  “To have to share his office would wipe out his ability to know himself.  I doubt he knows much else to do with himself but to worry about making certain of your lineage and seating at feasts and so on.”

       Aragorn sighed.  “I suppose you are right.  Too bad, really.”  He looked out the window with some anxiety.  “I must leave now, or I’ll be between here and the Houses when sunup comes, and I’d rather not be there in the middle.”  He finished his tea and set the cup on the table with an air of finality, rising and heading for the door, Frodo and Sam following after with looks of question aimed at one another.

       Frodo had to hurry to try to keep up until a wordless exclamation of concern from Sam made the Man turn, and then, immediately contrite he turned to check Frodo’s comfort.  “I’m sorry, Frodo--I’m a bit distracted, I suppose, and quite forgot you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”  Certain Frodo had caught his breath he turned again and led the way, somewhat more sedately, on to the Houses, arriving still some minutes before the Sun would rise.  The porter at the door smiled to admit them, and they found their way to the room where a small boy who’d broken his leg lay.

       The child had been lying with his head turned away, facing out into the lightening dawn.  He turned at the opening of the door, his face breaking into a relieved smile to see the King’s arrival.  “Lord Aragorn!” he exclaimed.  “It’s been throbbing so.  Can you help it?”

       Aragorn smiled and knelt by the bed, laying his hand over the carefully splinted leg with its roll of bandages holding it.  After a moment of silent contemplation he began to carefully unwrap the leg.  He checked the alignment of the splints, retied the main bandages holding them in place, and closing his eyes began to sing over the break, allowing his fingers to feel deep....

       The Sun rose to the East and shone in through the windows, and Frodo lifted his face to her light gladly--then turned to Aragorn’s profile when suddenly the song he’d been singing stopped, and he realized his friend was biting his lip.  Even the boy’s eyes were fixed on the King’s face and saw the grimace of pain there.  Then Aragorn dropped his gaze and sat for a moment or two shaking his head, then purposefully returned to his singing as if in defiance of something.  Frodo couldn’t for the life of him understand what had happened to the Man, although it was plain this was something he’d anticipated.

       Then the song stopped again, but this time Frodo felt whatever it was that Aragorn did at the same time.  A pause and twist in the fabric of their shared experience; a feeling of intense pain on his forehead, and Frodo was clapping his hands to it.

       “Frodo!  What’s wrong, Master?”  He could barely hear Sam’s question through the pain he felt.

       “My forehead--it’s like a burn!”  And then the pain dimmed and he felt as if he’d lost consciousness, although he obviously hadn’t; then the pressure there was relieved and he felt a new pain on his hand.

       “Frodo!  Frodo, look at me, small brother.  It’s not you, Frodo.  It’s not you.  Let it go if you can.”

       Aragorn knelt before him, held his wrists, was pouring his own concern into Frodo.  The Hobbit looked into a face almost as bloodless as his own, saw the pain he felt reflected there.  The Man looked at Sam.  “He’ll upset the boy even more if he remains here until he understands.  Take him out into the passage; tell the healers to take him to an examination room where he can rest for a time.  I had no idea he’d feel it, too!”

       Sam drew Frodo out of the room.  One of the healers was coming up the passage carrying a basin of steaming water and a packet of herbs and paused in concern to see Frodo’s expression.  “Lord Strider said as I ought to get him out of there, and as he ought to be taken to another room where he can rest for a time.” 

       The Man listened to Sam’s explanation, then called behind himself.  An elderly woman came forward, and at the Man’s direction nodded.  “Come with me, then,” she said.  “He’s feeling something he ought not to be feeling, the King indicated?  I don’t truly understand, but know where he can rest.  Come.”

       They were led down a side passage to a room where there was a low cot, and Sam helped Frodo onto it, covered him with the blanket provided.

       “Can you tell me the symptoms?” the woman was saying as Sam saw that his Master was lying down and warm.

       “Just clapped his hands to his forehead like he was in great pain, talking about it being like a burn.  Don’t know what it was all about, not for him or for Lord Strider--both of ’em seemed equally upset about somethin’.”

       “Mistress Ioreth,” a page said, poking his head into the small room.  “The King calls for your aid in reapplying the bandage about the splints.”

       The woman looked surprised, but nodded her understanding.  “Can you wait with these for a time?”

       “No, Mistress, for I’m sent to summon Lord Mithrandir and the King’s brothers.”

       The woman sighed.  “I see,” she said quietly.  She turned back to Sam.  “I’ll see to it another comes to be by you until this is all sorted out,” she said.  “I must go.”  She and the boy left the room, and for a time the two Hobbits remained by themselves. 

       For Frodo the pain began to subside, and at last he sat up and shook his head.  “I’ve felt nothing like that without the Ring's intervention for years, Sam.  Is there a red place on my forehead?”

       Examining it closely, Sam shook his head.  “No, Master--nothin’ there to be seen.  What did you feel?”

       Frodo looked at him in perplexity.  “I don’t know if I can explain properly, Sam.  As if something burning hot were touching my forehead.”

       “Have you ever felt this type of feeling before?” Gandalf asked from the doorway.

       Frodo looked up at the wizard.  “Not precisely like this, of course.  I seemed to know when Suso Sandyman fell into the bonfire pile a few years ago and was burned so badly.  And when Tolman Smallburrow hurt the Appledore girl--I felt her cry out in pain.  Has someone been hurt today?”

       “Yes, but I’ll let Aragorn explain when he’s free to join us.”

       Sam suddenly looked up at Gandalf, his face full of understanding.  “Those Men as was to be punished this mornin’--it’s them, isn’t it?”

       “Punished today?  Which?  You mean the ones Aragorn tried yesterday?”  Frodo’s face was shocked.

       “Yes.  One was to be hung and the other two branded--branded on their foreheads and their hands.”

       Someone was approaching from behind Gandalf, and the Wizard turned to speak to whoever it was, and they could hear murmured references to the King’s gift and branding.  Something was given to Gandalf, and the other one retreated back toward the main passage.

       “What happened to me, Gandalf?” Frodo demanded.

       “All in due time, Frodo.  All in due time.  Let it suffice to know that what you experienced was indeed from outside yourself.”  Gandalf entered the room with a goblet in hand.  “Aragorn asked this be brought to you.”

       Suspicious, Frodo asked, “What is it?”

       “Apparently only a goblet of wine.  But he thought it might help soothe your stomach as well as your attitude.”

       “Sam says that two of the Men were to be branded?”

       “Yes, the two from Umbar.  Angrapain was to be branded with a D on his forehead and hand in order to allow all to see he was a degenerate.  The other, Belladon, was to be similarly branded with an S as spymaster and slaver.”

       Frodo looked horrified.  “How barbaric!”

       “It seems barbaric, but is far less so than what either could have expected in Umbar.  Angrapain could have expected to be gelded without benefit of any draughts for pain, then would have been drawn and quartered and finally beheaded, while Belladon would have been slowly tortured to death by his fellow lords--if he weren’t hung up in chains.  At least here when death is ordered it is quick and as merciful as can be managed.”

       Frodo’s face was paler than usual when Aragorn walked into the chamber, his own face white as the linens upon the cot.  Frodo looked up at the King with a glare of fury.  “You felt what happened to them?”

       “Yes, and to all three of them, while you appear to have felt only the branding of one of them--I must suppose Angrapain.”

       “And you knew you should feel it, but ordered it anyway?”

       “Would you rather I slapped them on the wrist and let them go to do it again, Frodo Baggins?”  Aragorn’s own voice was as angry as that of the Hobbit, although his anger was more contained.  “For that would be what Angrapain would have done--he’d have gone out and found some other young-looking lord or lord’s son--or perhaps a naive young daughter, and probably one not much better than a child--and would have approached that one, cozening and coaxing, and then reaching out to caress and finally forcing.  I’ve seen it so many times in so many lands.”

       “Tolman Smallburrow never did it again, once all were warned he was a beast!”

       “You truly think so, Frodo?  How do you know he hasn’t done it since you left the Shire?”

       Frodo opened his mouth, but stared at the Man opposite him, seeing for once the true age of him on his face, seeing the disillusionment, the idealism stripped away by grim experience.

       Aragorn continued.  “Once a person’s desires have come to be tied not to love but simply to pleasure for its own sake, and particularly when they are tied to the pain and humiliation of the one used, that is all they can respond to from that day.  They must take by force for they can find the fulfillment of their desires no other way.  To change, they must go through very, very careful talks with others and the administration of pain each and every time they become aroused by the thought of inducing pain; and even then the desire they have learned to respond to will reassert itself.  Morgoth and Sauron--such pleased them so deeply, for it was the only way they, too, could find release.”

       Finally Frodo asked softly, “You have seen such, Aragorn?”

       He was answered with a slight nod.  “Yes, I have seen it, again and again, in every land I have sojourned within.  Within the Shire perhaps you are a close enough people for the warnings to be passed once one of these beasts has been identified; but even there I suspect that the smaller and more remote villages may become a refuge for such in the end, there where the warnings hadn’t quite reached.  Some I’ve seen in Southern Eriador, in Dunlend, in Rhun, one in Rohan and two here in Gondor, and three in the upper valley of the Anduin--it is hard to understand how they seem to get by with it year after year until finally we catch them and then begin trying to count the victims.  If we were to go to Umbar, I’m certain we would find many there throughout their lands who have suffered under the hands of Angrapain. 

       “As for Belladon--my spies there had warned us of him as a slaver, tying the disappearance of well over forty to him in their land alone, and who knows how many in other lands?  Among the four hundred we freed from the black ships at least thirty spoke the name of Belladon as the one who had chained them to the oars.”

       “I am sorry, Aragorn.”

       Aragorn knelt and looked Frodo in the eye.  “I am sorry to have loosed my anger at you, small brother.  It is no easy matter for one who has the King’s Gift to order tortures or death, although there are some cases where each is needful.  That you would share it....”

       “The King’s Gift?”

       “You know some such as Sam here who automatically know what is best to grow here or there, who know what the land will support with gladness?  And who, when faced with a land mistreated by those who did not honor it will know what should be done to heal it?”

       “Well, of course.  Uncle Paladin is that way also, and Sam’s father, and Farmer Cotton and my Uncle Fortumbald--even my cousin Folco.”

       “This is the common gift among the Elves, and is referred to as the Land Sense.  In the descendants of Elros Tar-Minyatar, however, its manifestation has changed somewhat.  We can feel those who are in our lands, and as we allow it to develop our awareness grows to cover further and further from our physical selves, often to the point we can appreciate specifically what is happening to individuals we’ve not yet met.  Those pains which are a normal part of the rhythms of life--births and deaths and illnesses and minor accidents cause no more than a ripple in the pleasures I also feel--joy, love of one for another, laughter shared, contentment strengthened.  But those which are unnatural I can and do feel, and strongly at that.  You have known such over the course of your life?”

       Reluctantly Frodo nodded.  “It was part of what led me to feel uncomfortable in Brandy Hall--being surrounded by so many others, so many emotions that I couldn’t touch.”

       “I’d not realized the King’s Gift could be shared with Hobbits, but perhaps ought to have done so.  I suspect what you felt was the branding of Angrapain.  After all you had little if anything to do with Belladon or the servant from Anorien.”

       “But you felt all three?”

       “Yes.”

       “Then why do you order such things?”

       “Because I feel what they do, which in the long run is far more painful for it affects so many.  More rapes, more threats, more disappearances of wives, husbands, and children, more deaths from betrayals, more murders....”  He sighed.  “The servant’s pain is already over; and the soldiers of Anorien already have driven back those who made incursions into those lands and slew farmers and their families.  Being branded as they are, if Angrapain or Belladon approach those they would tend to victimize they will be easily recognized and avoided; and if either seeks to leave his place of assignment he will be easily identified as one needing to be arrested before either attempts to harm others.  Let Belladon learn what true work is, and a hint of what his victims have suffered.  At least when he is done he will have wages from his work to aid him in his return to his own land.”

       “And if they seek to hurt or slay others there?”

       “It is more likely that they themselves will be slain.”  The Man’s expression was bleak.  “You will learn, Frodo, that there is little honor to be found among those who have lived ever serving Sauron.  It was a surprise to find Wasnior was willing to speak the truth--a pleasant surprise.”

       “Why did you wish Sam and me to be with you this morning?”

       “To help me bear with the execution and the brandings.  I did not expect you to feel it, too.”

       Frodo gently reached out and touched the side of Aragorn’s face.  “I’m sorry you have had to bear with such things.”

       “It has been common enough in my heritage that Adar and my brothers have sought always both the strengthen it and to aid me to deal with it effectively.”

       “But why would you wish it strengthened?”

       “That I be more responsible in the leadership I offer; that I not order punishments improper for the crimes committed; that I truly care for my people and be willing to spend myself protecting them.  Why did you learn to use your ability to strike a proper blow?”

       The Hobbit considered.  “That I, too, might protect those who need protecting, I suppose.”

       Sam looked at the both of them.  “You both tend to feel what others feel?  Odd sort of gift to have, although I see as it could be useful.”

       Frodo looked away, shaking his head.  “I’d thought the--the sharing of pains inflicted would be over once the Ring was gone.  I think it was why it was worse for me today, for I wasn’t--prepared for it this time.”

       “Hopefully the sharing of joys will be strengthened for you to help you compensate,” Aragorn said quietly.

       “Perhaps.”  But Frodo didn’t appear to be too hopeful.

       Why does this have to start all over again? he wondered in his heart.

       It has ever been a part of your experience, Iorhael, the voice answered him.

       I’d really rather not feel it at all.

       Do you really?  Would you really rather not feel when those around you are full of joy and pleasure?  Does that not help you rejoice that you, too, live still in Arda?

       But what deep joy have I truly known since It was torn from me?  To feel the pains more strongly than the pleasures--a poor exchange, I think.

       The voice didn’t appear to have an answer to that.

38

       Over the remainder of that day Aragorn held more public audiences as well as private councils with Gandalf, Prince Imrahil, Lord Faramir, and the other high lords of Gondor, and called on several who knew Beregond of the Guard of the Citadel to speak with him regarding the case of the Guard who had risked all for the life of his beloved Lord Captain Faramir.  Called were Captain Gilmaros, Beregond’s brother Iorlas, several of his comrades from his company, the brother of one of the servants who had been slain by Beregond when he sought to keep those who brought fire out of the House of the Stewards, the Guard who had served alongside Halargil that night, and finally Peregrin Took.  The King, Bard, Éomer, and Prince Imrahil, with Gandalf as mostly silent witness, discussed and debated extensively the information and testimony given them, and at last Aragorn was left to consider it in his heart. 

       He came down that evening to the house in the Sixth Level and begged Frodo to walk out with him, and considering the Man’s solemn demeanor Frodo agreed, if Sam might go with them as well.  And so the three walked back and forth the full length of the main way of the circle, then up to the level of the Citadel where they walked around and about.  Aragorn did not speak of the decision he would grant on the morrow, only told them that he was to make the final determination regarding Beregond and a few others the following day, before many of the guests to the realm must leave to return to their own lands in two days time.  But they found themselves discussing the nature of faithfulness as well as what comprised honor and duty.  They sat together on a bench in the garden behind the Citadel and continued talking, and finally going silent until at last Frodo began singing the song Sam had sung when searching for him in the Tower of Cirith Ungol.

       Sam sat with his eyes fixed on his Master until Frodo was done.  “You remember it,” he said at last.

       “It was what brought me back out of the darkness into which I was falling at the time,” Frodo answered.  “I think I was very, very close to giving over completely and letting go, certain that all was lost.  To hear those words and see in my heart the star of Eärendil shining upon me was all that gave me strength at the moment to hang on, even if it was but by my fingernails.  And then, then there was that orc, the one with the whip, and he was standing over me after he struck me--and then there was you instead.  But the words are inscribed, it seems, on my heart.”

       In the dim starlight, Aragorn could see that Sam was smiling through his tears. 

       Aragorn sighed.  “In two days the Rohirrim and their Lord and Lady must return to Rohan, and my brothers and a few of my kinsmen from the North will return to Eriador to begin putting all into proper array for Halladan’s return in a few months.  There is much to hammer out to put both realms into order to work one with the other in the future; and I look yet for the sign that all is in readiness for the realization of my own hope for which I’ve waited oh, so long.”

       “What hope is that, Strider?” asked Sam.

       The Man shrugged.  “Long ago, when I was but newly come to manhood, I saw one treasure which I realized I wished to hold above all others.  The price was high--very high--just to consider it.  Never did I think to win it.

       “Then when I was newly returned from Rhun and Harad and many labors, I found that perhaps it might indeed be entrusted to me; but again although I might at least contemplate it, I must win it fairly.  And so I have worked all these years, even when exhaustion and the terror of the Enemy have threatened to plunge me into despair, with that light in view, at times my only hope, my only reason for continuing to strive against the enemies of the Free Peoples and those who would gladly see us all dead or enslaved.  I have fought, again and again, and now wait for the time of my hope’s fruition.

       “I only wish that my naneth had remained by me to see the day won as it has been, to see her hope fulfilled at last.  But she died untimely for our folk.  With her beside me, however, the waiting for my own hope to be fulfilled would be easier, at least.”

       He reached to place a hand on the shoulder of each of the Hobbits.  “At least I have you two here, for a time, and that makes things more bearable.  We have each sacrificed so much of ourselves for the needs of Middle Earth and the peace of Arda.  Your presence is aiding now in the recovery from the long fight, I find.”

       “It must be a mighty hope to keep you goin’ this long,” Sam commented.

       “Oh, a mighty hope indeed, and one which has proven terribly costly, so much so I have sacrificed most of my independence at the last.  But once I can hold it as my own, it will be full worthy of that cost.  I only hope that it doesn’t leave those who entrust it to me totally bereft.  For I’m not the only one who has paid and will continue to pay for ages yet.”

       About them the night singers chirped, squeaked, and whistled; a great white owl flew from its nesting place in a niche of the Tower of Ecthelion out over the city in search of skittering mice or rats or perhaps even a squirrel suffering a sleepless night; a breeze rustled the roses and the leaves of the flowering plum trees which in the daytime shadowed the bench.  There in the starlight they sat, and it seemed to shine down most strongly on the three of them.  Sam breathed in the scents of the flowers that were about them and the odor of the rich soil which rejoiced to lie now beneath Sun, Moon, stars, and the honest clouds of weather after years of unnatural glooms and fumes.  He looked up at the stars overhead and smiled.  Not a single star this time, but an entire field of heaven full of them, and he was certain he could hear their song, a song of content.  And far toward the horizon they could see the light of Eärendil, the sign of promised hope that would indeed be fulfilled.

*******

       Faramir was doing his best to don his formal armor when he heard the knock at the door to his private chamber.  “Enter,” he called, expecting Damrod to come in with the epaulettes he’d gone to fetch from the armorer.  He was surprised when the one who entered was not the Ranger but instead Pippin in full uniform.

       “Guardsman Peregrin Took, sir, sent to attend on you by the Lord King Elessar.”

       “Our Lord King has sent you to attend on me today?”

       “He said it was only fitting I should serve you today, my Lord Faramir.  May I help you with your grieves?”

       By the time Damrod returned almost all was in place.  Damrod helped with the last of the arming, then brought out the formal black mantle and helped drape his Lord Captain with its folds.  Once Faramir finally took his sword from the stand where it hung and fastened its hangers upon his sword belt he looked fully as regal as Aragorn himself.

       “You look fine, Captain,” Damrod assured him.

       “I’m glad, although I don’t understand why our Lord Elessar has requested this dress this day.”

       Damrod shrugged.  “He’s a canny one, and is proving a worthy Lord, I find.”

       “I’ll say this,” Pippin said with certainty, “if anyone has reason to indicate a thing should be done in any specific way, it’s Aragorn.  He always seems to know what he’s doing.”

       A few minutes later Damrod and Pippin were following Faramir from the Steward’s quarters to the Hall of Kings where one of the heralds was watching for them, leading them out and around and to the Council Chamber.  “The King has asked you wait here unseen until you are called, my Lord.  The day’s audience will be a long one, I fear, although I believe he shall call you early before him.”

       A half mark afterwards the call came, and the three made their way through the vestibule to the entrance to the Hall of Kings.  “Faramir son of Denethor of this city and the House of Húrin, Lord Steward of Gondor,” the Herald announced.

       The King rose from where he sat upon his throne and stood, fastening his sword to his belt, as he watched Faramir’s stately progress from the rear of the Hall.  When at last Faramir stood before the dais, the King slowly paced down its steps.  He, too, was dressed in formal armor today, and he wore also a black formal mantle edged with silver instead of the white one he seemed to favor.  Even if he hadn’t stood on the lowest step of the dais he’d still stand over the Lord facing him, but his eyes were proud as he looked on his Steward.  Beside him on one side stood Gandalf and Frodo, and on the other Éomer King and the Lady Éowyn beside him.

       Three of the highest Lords of the realm, including Prince Imrahil and Lord Halladan, now came forward to stand, one on either side and one behind Faramir.  Imrahil looked at their King and said formally, “My Lord Elessar, we bring before you this day our Lord Steward, and beloved kinsman.  Much he gave in the fight against the Enemy, keeping many heartened when despair would have taken them and helping them order their ranks and hearts when terror sought to overwhelm them.”

       “So it has been told to me by many witnesses, including Mithrandir.  Great honor and respect to we hold for you, Faramir son of Denethor; and in token of this we wish to offer you one more honor, one which we believe you deserve before any other.  Kneel, Faramir son of Denethor.”

       Uncertain still what was to come, Faramir did as was asked of him.  Húrin of the Keys came forward from the area behind the throne, carrying something on a black velvet cushion.  He held it out to Frodo, who took it solemnly, then smiled brilliantly at the kneeling Man as he held it out to Aragorn.  Aragorn held it briefly to Gandalf, who placed his own hand on it for a moment, then turned to his Steward.

       “Once again is the nation of Gondor nearly complete, the only one of its original lands no longer part of it the land of Umbar.  The land of Ithilien is now once again part of the realm, and a mighty land it will be in time.  A lord it will need, one who knows and loves it and will seek to see it restored, both its wild places maintained and its gardens replanted and its fields once again ripening in the fullness of its bounty.  I therefore name you Faramir, Prince of Ithilien.”  So saying, he lifted the circlet he held, set with moonstones about its circumfrence and with a great one in its central boss, and gently placed it on Faramir’s brow. 

       “Rise now, my Lord Prince.”  Aragorn then turned to Damrod.  “Remove his black mantle.”  Once this was done, Mablung came forward, his face alight with pride, carrying a silken mantle of glimmering white and silver, and gave it into the hands of Prince Imrahil, who with the help of Damrod saw this settled about Faramir’s shoulders and fastened with a great brooch in the shape of the crescent moon.  The others stepped back, and Aragorn examined his new Prince from toe to head, and gave a great smile as he looked into Faramir’s eyes.  “Let me first greet you as a Prince of the Realm,” he said, and reaching out he embraced Faramir, who, with tears in his eyes, embraced him in return.

       At last he let him go, and turned him about.  “My lords and ladies and citizens of Gondor and Arnor and guests of the realm, I present the Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor.”

       The cries of acclamation made fair to lift the roof of the chamber.

       At last all was quiet once more as the King lifted his hand.  He then looked at Éomer, who stood still on his right.  The young King of Rohan looked at Faramir, who’d turned once more to face his Lord.  “My Lord Prince, I have been asked a boon by my sister, and I now grant it, that you may pay court to her, our White Lady whom all in our land love.  And I see you are indeed full worthy of her caring.”  Again there was a cheer, and if those from Rohan were a bit louder and given to adding whistles of appreciation along with their acclamations, none sought to reprove them.

       There followed a number of others to be honored by the King for special bravery or service to the realm, from within the regular forces, the Guard of the Citadel, the forces of the Southern fiefdoms, the ones who came from fields and fishing villages, those who fought from among the Men of the City.  Many received the King’s commendations that day, until at last the call came for Peregrin Took son of Paladin to come forward.  Many looked as surprised as the Ernil i Pheriannath himself to hear this.

       “Peregrin Took, you have come from far to the North, here to Gondor, one who barely knew of the existence of this land before you left your home to accompany your kinsman on his dark quest.  The tale of how your quick action and thought as you were carried and driven through Rohan by the forces of Isengard and Mordor is known to us, and then how your courage in the face of the enemy at the Black Gate saved at least three others beside yourself when you slew a troll intent on biting the throat out of your comrade is now known throughout the realm.  Your commanding officer therefore has asked that in spite of the fact you are newly come to Gondor and have been part of the Guard of the Citadel for only a few months, that you be named a Captain of the Guard; and at this time I grant that rank.”

       Once again the cheers boomed within the Hall of Kings.

       Meriadoc Brandybuck son of Saradoc was then called forward.  Aragorn smiled down on him, laying his hand on Merry’s head, then stepped aside in deference to Éomer.  “Merry,” the young King said proudly, “we have already named you a knight of Rohan and Holdwine of the Mark.  To mark this, we present you this day with a new sword to replace that which was destroyed when you and my sister together struck down the Witch King of Angmar.”

       Éowyn came forward, taking from the folds of her skirt a fine sword which she knelt to fasten to Merry's silver swordbelt.  She kissed his forehead and rose, leaving Merry facing his sworn Lord.  King and Knight saluted one another, and then Éomer sank to his knees to embrace the Hobbit.  One last time cheers and whistles filled the hall.

       Now there was but one more to call, and Beregond of the Guard came forward dressed in unrelieved black, backed by his lieutenant and captain.  All saw how proudly he stood before the King, whose face was filled with a stern compassion.  When the King pronounced what appeared to be the sentence of exile all joined in a murmur of sympathy, until the King announced Beregond’s new rank as Captain of the White Company, the Guard to the Prince of Ithilien.  Faramir, who alone with Captain Gilmaros knew the King’s decision, rose from his black chair with pleasure and honor. accepting the white and silver mantle which Húrin brought forward at this time to mark the Man’s new rank; Faramir himself settled the mantle about Beregond’s shoulders and embraced him, his own eyes shining again with tears of joy, after which he stepped back and Beregond knelt before his King.

       “My Lord King Elessar, your justice and mercy are already becoming the stuff of legend, but for what you have given me....”  Words failed him.

       Aragorn set his hands on Beregond’s shoulders and raised him, smiling fully.  “If you must leave this city, I know you will never leave the service of our realm, and we shall never lose the greatness of your honor and loyalty.  And this one rejoices to receive the service you were willing to sacrifice for his safety and hope of recovery.”  He embraced the Man and then turned him toward Faramir, who came to stand by his shoulder. 

       This time they did not cheer; but the bows given to Beregond spoke as strongly as the loudest call; and suddenly all were applauding as the new Captain of the White Company, accompanied by his Lord, walked proudly through the Hall of Kings, stopping to embrace his brother and son who waited near the door, and then through the vestibule and out onto the steps where the white mantle and glad smiles seemed to tell their own tale.  There waited the Men who had been of his company, and the calls not given within were made outside, and a gladsome crowd walked around the Court of the White Tree and across the Court of Gathering, then went down the ramp to a celebration in the dining hall for the barracks.

39

       That night was held a farewell feast for those of Rohan who would be returning to their homes the next day, and for Elladan and Elrohir as well as those of the Grey Company who would go North now to prepare the way for the return of the rest of their number with Halladan as Steward in a couple months’ time.

       Éomer, Éowyn, and their folk, save for Lord Elfhelm and a few others who would remain as honor guard for the remains of King Théoden, were due to set off for the return to Rohan, intending to set things in order there before returning for the late King’s body.  Éomer had agreed to allow Merry to remain in Minas Tirith, realizing that for now it was difficult for Merry to be forced to be apart from his kinsmen and Sam, and that Frodo still needed his cousin beside him for his own recovery.

       Dressed now in formal Hobbit attire just finished by the tailor, Frodo went up early to the Citadel accompanied by Sam and Gimli.  Sam was more self-conscious, it appeared, in the rich waistcoat and vest over Hobbit trousers and shirt he’d just accepted than in the shirts and surcoats of Gondorian design he’d worn earlier during their stay.  Gimli shook his head.  “Samwise Gamgee, if you don’t stop looking as if you’d been sneaking into your father’s chamber and using his hammer and chisels....”  He left the threat unfinished.

       “It just feels too fine for me!” the gardener insisted for at least the twelfth time.

       “Too fine for you?” the Dwarf sputtered.  “Just you remember you’re now a Lord of all the Free Peoples, and we expect you to look fine!”

       Frodo smiled at Sam’s expression.  “At least I now feel a bit more like a Hobbit,” he said.  “And I don’t worry now about perhaps my trousers falling down, now I have a decent pair of braces on again.”

       “That tailor fellow wasn’t too keen on making them up, but he did a fine job of it in spite of hisself, didn’t he?” commented Sam, checking the lie of his own braces.

       “Yes, he did.  And you, Sam, look marvelous.  Just right to catch the eye of Rosie when we get home again.”

       Sam flushed, but smiled; and Frodo found himself grinning along with Gimli.  Frodo had appeared to strengthen in the last few days, and today felt lighter of heart after a night of actually sleeping well.  As for the day’s joys--they increased his feelings of well-being.

       Aragorn met them as they were admitted to the Royal Quarters, dressed in a robe of maroon brocade.  He examined them with pleasure.  “You both look wonderful.  Master Brendir must have had his whole workshop busy on outfits just for you.  Sam, those shades of green and rich brown become you most splendidly.  Wear that home, and your young lady must look on you with favor.  Frodo, that shade of blue brings out the blue of your eyes.  You look....”  His eyes were suddenly full of memory, but he was smiling.  “I won’t tell you how wonderful you look, for fear of turning your head.”

       Frodo smiled.  “So, you now have another robe, even if it is plain.  I must say I’d never have dreamed the rough-looking Man who invaded our parlor at the Prancing Pony would prove to be such a peacock, and such a well-favored one!”

       Aragorn laughed.  “Now,” he said, “you must come to the kitchens with me.  I have performed a miracle--I have managed to teach the banquet chef to prepare a dish I learned to love when I was among the d’Bouti clan in Rhun.  I was going through the pantries to see what items I might wish for the kitchen in this wing and discovered they had a store of a spice the Rhunim call curry.  I haven’t seen it for years, but I certainly recognized the scent and taste.  I’ve taught him how to make curried rice and lamb, and he’s making it for the dinner tonight.  Frodo, you’ll love it, although you shouldn’t eat much of it.  So, we’re going to go to the kitchens....”

       Sam followed after, watching as the King, having wrapped a towel about Frodo’s finery, was leading the Ringbearer from cook to cook, giving him tastes of what the rest would be served.  The strong spices used in the preparation of the lamb Frodo found delightful after weeks of mild fare, but after the second taste Aragorn, who was watching him closely, set his hand to Frodo’s stomach, and noting turmoil there shook his head.  “A bite and no more of that on your plate at dinner, then.  I don’t wish to see you lose it all just when you’ve only now begun to stomach your food better.  You like fish, don’t you?”

       The feast was a pleasant affair, although there was a distinct look of distaste on Frodo’s face as he looked at his plate of vegetables and fish and single bite of the lamb while all about him were enjoying the curried dishes.  Well, perhaps not all, for there were a few women who could not seem to get it down, and it was swiftly removed and more of the fish and vegetables brought to them.  That a few others were having to share his own fare made it a bit easier, he supposed.  Even he had to admit the fish was excellent, though.

       Afterwards the dancing was most elegant.  Again the King led the dancing with the Lady Éowyn and did better than he had before, and then left the lady to her intended, who tonight danced most divinely indeed.

       When a gentle dance was played Frodo stood up with the Lady Rhiannon who afterward insisted she’d never danced with a better partner.  He was able to complete the set, which had been perhaps a bit short; but again those who danced in Frodo’s set took fire from his own dancing, and all were alight with pleasure when done.  Frodo sat back in his chair afterwards, pleased but exhausted, watching the rest of the dancing with the more enjoyment that he’d been able to share a part of it.  Many stopped by his chair to speak with him and share their gladness to see him dancing, and both Pippin and Merry, serving tonight as guards of honor for their respective Lords, shared looks of delight.  Sam danced once with the Lady Éowyn, and proved he, too, was a good dancer.  Aragorn noted that Frodo watched this with distinct approval.

       Platters of sweetmeats were placed on tables about the dancing floor, and servants carried goblets of wine, brandy, and juices among the guests as they talked.  Delighted to find pleasure in taste this night, Frodo ate gladly of the sweetmeats, and accepted two goblets of wine during the evening.  Master Faralion sat with the musicians and played, and when the call went up for songs at the last he was prevailed upon to perform the Call of the Fool to the delight of the guests, including young Lord Gilvarion who was part of the company.

       At last the Elves consented to sing, a complicated harmony of delight for the beauties of the world; and then Elrohir, Elladan, and the King together sang a hymn to Elbereth, one Frodo hadn’t heard before.  He leaned his head back and without meaning to drifted into sleep, smiling at the dream, seeing Aragorn standing beneath the stars singing this with three children, a tall girl with hair of dark gold like Sam’s, a boy with hair as dark as the King’s own, and a small girl with hair of bright gold and a face as open as that of the Sun, all three with the Light of Stars in their eyes.

       When the song was finished he awoke, feeling somewhat foolish.  Gimli came to him quietly and asked if he was ready to return to the house in the Sixth Circle, and reluctantly Frodo agreed, rising and going to take leave of Aragorn, gently touching the power of the Elessar and expressing a silent thanks, although he wasn’t certain he understood himself for what he was grateful or particularly to whom.

       Sam went with Gimli and Frodo, and together the gardener and the Dwarf joked and laughed.  They were almost back to the house when suddenly Frodo became sick to his stomach and hurried to the side of the street, losing all he’d eaten and drunk, falling to his knees, Sam and Gimli together holding him and seeking to calm him.  At last, when the bout seemed over Gimli straightened, shared a look with Sam, and turned to hurry back up the ramp.

       Sam had helped Frodo out of his spattered trousers and drawn a hot bath for him, adding rose oil to the water, when the Dwarf returned followed by Elrohir.  The Elf examined Frodo carefully as he sat wearing drawers and the quilted silk shirt designed to go under his mail.  “How much wine did you have tonight?”

       “Only two goblets.”

       “During or after the meal?”

       “After.”

       “You didn’t eat too much at dinner from what I could see.  Did you eat any of the sweetmeats after?”

       “Yes, a fair amount.”

       After a moment’s thought, Elrohir asked, “Do you find on most days food doesn’t taste particularly pleasant?”

       Looking down at his hands, Frodo admitted, “Most days it seems that way.  Today it--today it tasted good.”  He looked up at the Elf.  “On the days I need to eat I can barely stand to do so; on the days I want to eat, I can’t seem to keep it down once I do.”  The frustration was obvious.

       “It appears that you can only eat a certain amount at a time, Frodo.  And you don’t appear to be able to handle more than a single glass of wine at a time.  I suspect it was a combination of the sweetmeats and the wine that led to this.”

       Frodo looked away at the shelves.  “If I were to eat only the amount I ate tonight at a Shire meal, including the sweetmeats after, the hostess would take offense that I didn’t care for her cooking!”  He looked back at the Elf.  “I am a Hobbit, Lord Elrohir--a Hobbit, not a child of Men!  I can’t live on such light rations!”

       They heard the front door open, and a few moments later Aragorn had come through the room in which Sam slept to the study where Frodo sat, his mind seething with frustration.  Elrohir spoke to his foster brother quietly in Sindarin, and Aragorn sighed and nodded.

       “It does no good to speak in Elvish,” Frodo grumbled.  “I do understand Sindarin, you know.”

       Elrohir straightened.  “I am aware of that, my Lord Frodo.  I did not speak so to keep you from hearing, but simply because it is the tongue in which I best describe symptoms such as yours.” 

       For a moment Elf and Hobbit looked pointedly at one another, and then Frodo crumbled.  “I apologize.  I am again taking out my own frustrations on you.  Please forgive me.”

       The Elf placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, his own expression softened.  “I understand, Small Master.  I understand how hard it must be; and then to feel as if someone is patronizing you adds coals to the fire of your distress.”  He knelt down.  “I apologize also, Frodo Baggins.”  He stood.  “I will leave you with him, Estel.  Elladan and I still need to finish packing for tomorrow.  We will return soon enough, I suspect.”

       Sam saw the Elf out, then came back.  “I’m not certain as how you tell the two of them apart, Master,” he said as he came in. 

       Frodo, who was drinking from a mug Aragorn had brought with him, shrugged.  “I’m not certain myself, except now I generally seem to know which is which.”  He set the mug down.  “I can’t even finish this.  I’m tired of not being able to eat!”  He glared at the mug.  Finally he looked back at Aragorn.  “I’m not going to get any better, am I?  You said that with Halargil because he hadn’t become better within a reasonable time he wouldn’t get better.”

       “It’s different, Frodo.  Halargil suffered a brainstorm.  You did not.  We don’t know why recovery must be quick with brainstorms or it will not come at all; we know only this is true.  Look at you now--you have days when you feel almost normal and others when you can barely keep anything down.  The days when you are almost normal are increasing in number, however.”

       “I can feel almost normal in the morning, and be ill by evening--or the other way around.  No one can say how I will be from moment to moment.”  He stood and walked to the shelves on the wall and stood staring blindly at the volumes standing on them.  “I will be calmed after a time and will feel better; then something happens and it starts all over again.”  He turned and looked at the Man, his face almost to the point of tears.  “I cannot take you home with me, back to the Shire; yet it is being by you that I am able to feel best.”  He stepped closer to the King.  “Am I going to ever get any better, Aragorn?”

       At last his friend answered, “I don’t know, Frodo.  I know that where there has been a great deal of damage to the body, when there is heavy scarring it takes a lot longer for the body to recover--if it recovers fully at all.”

       “And is there a lot of scarring in me?”

       “We don’t know.  We don’t know, but--I suspect there is.  Some of the scarring will likely never heal, but most of it will heal--in time.”

       “In time.”  Frodo sighed.  “Then I don’t want any more draughts.”

       “Why not?”

       “They aren’t doing any good.”

       “No one said they aren’t doing any good, Frodo.  They are not themselves healing you, but do help you maintain a better balance.”

       In time a compromise was agreed upon--Frodo would continue with his morning draughts but no longer receive an evening one.  Aragorn wasn’t particularly pleased by this state of affairs, but he could not force Frodo to compliance with what he believed ought to be done.  He went to the kitchen with Sam and fixed a small plate of food for Frodo to eat as he could.  Broth, toast with just a bit of honey on it, apple juice, a few vegetables.

        “Light foods, only small amounts of any foods which are rich or very spicy.  Very little tomato or of any fruits whose juice may sting in a cut.  Served once an hour until he can keep it all down.”

       “I understand, Strider.”

       “Any teas you can get down him with mint, ginger, rose hips.  Light ale only, a small amount at a time, watered wine once a day.”

       “Yes, sir.”

       Aragorn carried the plate back to Frodo’s room, and found Frodo had gotten himself into the bath while they were gone.  He stood by the side door to the bathing room and asked, “May I enter?”

       At last Frodo answered, “Yes.”

       The room had a few stools in it, and was warm from the boiler having been fired to heat the water.  Aragorn set his tray on one of the stools near the tub, sat on another.  After a moment he felt Frodo touch on the Elessar gently.  He’d done so in the feast hall, also, only briefly, more in greeting, he’d felt, than for need.  “We will be riding down through the city tomorrow to see Éomer and Éowyn and my brothers off on their way.  Will you and Sam ride with us?”

       “If you wish.”

       “I’ll leave word at either the Dragon’s Claw or the Inn of the King’s Head to have a meal ready for you as you come back up through the Second Circle, whichever you prefer.  They have excellent lamb at the Silver Pheasant in the Fourth Circle, and fine light lunches at The Lady Finduilas in the Fifth Circle.  As much as you can walk, the better for you.”

       After a moment he took out of a pocket of his robe a small package and set it on the tray by the tub.  “I had this made for you, and the silversmith brought it to me today.  Keep it filled with water or tea to carry with you.”

       Frodo straightened, and took it, unwrapping it carefully.  Inside was a finely fashioned silver pocket flask, engraved with an eight-pointed star and Iorhael in Tengwar script.  He looked up at Aragorn and smiled tremulously.  “I’m so sorry to be such a burden on you.”

       “A burden, small brother?  No, never that.  Never, never that.  Stubborn?  Yes!  But never a burden.”

       Aragorn closed his eyes, sitting in the room lit by candles, smelling the rose oil in the fragrant steam, hearing the eased breathing of Frodo as he soaked and relaxed.  Gently he began to sing an elaborate counting song in Adunaic common among the Dúnedain, one which his uncle had taught him when he was a young Man, one which his father had always sung as he approached his home and his young bride to announce his return to her, one which he himself used to sing as he neared the cottage where his mother lived once she’d returned to the Angle after he’d left Rivendell to take his place as Chieftain of their people.  Frodo sat back in the tub, smiling softly, watching the play of reflection of the flames on the silver flask, finally beginning to drowse as he listened to the song, each of the twelve verses growing more complicated.

       Aragorn, as he finished, saw how Frodo had relaxed, got the towel and came forward to help him out of the tub.  “Don’t want you falling asleep here, tithen nín.” he said.  He saw the removal of the plug in the tub, saw Frodo, wrapped in his towel, back to his room where he sat on a low stool and allowed Aragorn to help him on with the nightshirt Sam had set out for him.  It was as he was easing Frodo’s hair out of the collar of the shirt the Man felt liquid on his hand.  Suddenly concerned, he said, “Lean forward, Frodo.”  Uncertain, the Hobbit complied.  Aragorn knelt and lifted the hair away and examined the back of Frodo’s neck.  The skin over the spider bite had opened, and it was draining a thick fluid, part pus, part lymph.  Concerned, Aragorn called out for Sam.

       Sam entered from his own room, having removed waistcoat and vest.  “What is it, Strider?”

       “Bring me my healer’s kit.  His neck needs to be cleaned and bandaged.  This may be part of the problem tonight.”

       Sam came first to look, then gave a low whistle.  “So, that’s been fillin’, has it?  I’ll go get your bag immediately.”

       He was as good as his word, then brought a basin into which he’d poured the boiling water he’d intended for tea.  Aragorn had helped remove the nightshirt again,  dropped athelas and other herbs known for their ability to fight infections into the water, and taking some of the clean rags kept in all of the guest houses for use in cleaning that Sam brought to him he began wiping away the drainage until all seemed empty.  Aragorn then smeared it with honey and finally placed the spent athelas leaf and a dressing over it, wrapping it all in a carefully arranged bandage to hold it in place.  “I’ll need to check this daily for about four days, Frodo, to assure it drains fully and begins to heal properly.”

       “I didn’t even realize, Aragorn.”  Frodo’s voice was quiet.

       “No, I don’t think you would have.  The warmth of the bath probably helped it open so it could drain.  It’s undoubtedly been building up for a few days.  We should have your hair cut some to keep it out of the drainage, then.  I hate to do so, for you do look good with the longer curls.”

       Frodo began to laugh gently.  “I could do with a hair cut.  Sam will do it for me tomorrow after we return, then.”  He stood and approached the low table where the mug Aragorn had brought with him still sat, picked it up and drank it down, then the water Sam had set beside it.  “I suppose this means a different set of draughts to help fight infection, then,” he said finally.

       “For a few days only, if you can bear them.”

       Frodo gave a small nod.  “Thank you, Aragorn.”  He sighed.  “Another thing to look forward to periodically, I suppose.”

       “So it appears.”

       “Thank you again, Aragorn.”

       Aragorn went into the bathing room and cleaned out the tub, put Frodo’s stained towel and the rags to be laundered, blew out most of the candles and washed his hands thoroughly.  Sam entered as he was finishing up.  “There was no need for you to of done all that,” he remonstrated.

       “Perhaps.  It makes me feel useful, though.  I seem to be able to do so little for him.”

       “Nonsense.  He’s worlds better for your care, and we all know it.  No need to be a ninnyhammer over his stubbornness.”

       The Man smiled suddenly and pulled Sam to him in pleasure.  “Samwise Gamgee, you are the salt of the earth, you know.”

       Man and Hobbit held each other closely.  Sam murmured into Aragorn’s chest, “I can’t dream why at the first I didn’t trust you, my beloved Lord Strider.  We’re blest to of been with you so long.”

       Together they went back into Frodo’s room.  He was asleep, his breathing eased, his face pale, his expression solemn.  For a moment the two lingered over him, and the King invoked the Elessar’s power to protect him during the night.

       As they left the room the breeze stirred the wind rods, and their gentle notes filled Frodo’s dreams with memories of the wind in the rigging of ships.

40:  Traversing the Circles

       Frodo rode with Aragorn down through the city, Sam with Elladan, Pippin with Faramir, and Merry with the Lady Éowyn.  People lined the way to watch the procession, calling out in gladness at the sight of their King and his guests.  The party rode cheerfully through the streets of the city, Frodo and Sam feeling strange as they sat so high on the backs of true horses, glad to know they were with those well accustomed to riding such tall beasts.  There was regret in the departing guests to be leaving, mixed with the anticipation of returning home to their own lands at last.  Yet all laughed and joked as they rode, and as they entered the Fourth Circle Éomer raised a riding song in which those familiar with Rohiric joined, including the King.  Sam smiled as he listened, and Frodo felt his heart lift. 

       Many came forward with blossoms and sprays of greenery to hand to the departing King and his Lady sister, to the two Elven Lords, and the grey-clad Dúnedain from the North accompanying them.  The Lord Elessar sat his brown steed proudly, his face joyful as he acknowledged his people.  All saw the gentleness with which the Pheriannath were treated, saw their smiles as they rode with the great lords down the steep streets of the White City.  Many called out to them and bowed toward them in honor.  Word that their beloved Lord Faramir had been made Prince of Ithilien had been passed to the Heralds of the city and had been read at the gates of the seven levels the preceding day at sunset, and all rejoiced to see him wearing his moonstone circlet while their Lord wore the Star of Elendil on his own brow, the stone shining brightly in the early light of the day.  King and Prince rode easily and well, their faces full of solemn pride as they saw their guests on their way, Faramir openly holding the hand of the Lady Éowyn much of the time.

       Mithrandir on Shadowfax joined them in the Third Circle.  He’d ridden out after the feast last night on business of his own.  “I’ve scouted out past the Rammas Echor and all the way to Amon Din--no sign of any enemies,” he reported.  “I don’t think you will find the way difficult.  Do be prepared for rain tonight, though.”

       “Thank you, Gandalf,” Éomer replied.  “We will make camp early tonight in Anorien, then.”

       When at last they came to the gateway all dismounted.  Most of the returning Rohirrim were awaiting their Lord and Lady here, having come down through the city early in the morning to make ready.  Wagons of supplies were there waiting, as well as carrying those who could not ride due to their injuries.  Here all made their last embraces, and the Hobbits bade farewell to those who were leaving.

       Éowyn held out her hands to Faramir.  “I will return when we come again to bring away the body of him who was as father to me.  Until then, my beloved....”

       The final kiss between them was tender, and there were many who watched as, unashamed, the Prince of Ithilien and the White Lady of Rohan gave one another their final embrace.  Both Éowyn and Éomer knelt to take their leave of Merry and then gently bade goodbye to the Ringbearers and Pippin.  Then the party mounted once more.  Aragorn remained afoot after the others and turned to Frodo.  “As you asked, a meal will be ready for you at the King’s Head as you reach it in the Second Circle.  Go slowly, and if you tire enough to need it, stop at any gate, and the guards will send for ponies for you to ride the rest of the way.  After we see them off, we are to ride on a review of the damage between here and Osgiliath.  I will return this evening.”  He knelt to embrace each of them.  “Go well, and do not tire yourselves.”

       He swung himself onto Roheryn, and looked down on them and saluted.  Frodo and Sam bowed deeply while Merry and Pippin gave salutes, and they watched as the cavalcade readied itself in ranks, and led by Aragorn, Éomer, and King Bard, they headed north toward the gate in the Rammas Echor.

       The four Hobbits watched as the last of the line of Riders finally pulled away from the city, followed by the wagons, in which Men sat, waving back at those who stood outside the gates and watched from the walls.  Finally Frodo turned and led the way back into the city, and they began their way through the First Circle to the gate to the Second Circle.

       Master Beneldil, innkeeper for the Inn of the King’s Head, waited at the drive for the inn, greeted the four of them with pleasure and deep bows, and conducted them himself to a quiet corner of the Common Room where a table awaited them.  The four of them gave thanks to him for the meal served to them, ate and drank gladly enough, then sought to pay the bill.  “No,” Beneldil said, shaking his head.  “I would not take your coin.  My wife’s brother is alive today only because of the final destruction of the Ring; and the city stands because of the four of you.  We of the City of Minas Tirith owe you each so very much.  We can never repay what you have done for all of Middle Earth.”

       Sam turned red, while Frodo went white, only his cheeks showing any color at all.  Master Beneldil and his wife, however, stubbornly refused to consider accepting payment, and at last the four Hobbits rose from the table.  Merry gave a quick glance at each of the others, and at a nod from Frodo carefully hid a couple gold coins under the basket which had held bread rolls; they finally accepted the bag of scones given them by the cook of the establishment and left to resume their walk up through the city.

       They’d not gone far, however, when they heard shouting from the walled yard to the building opposite the King’s Head.  Frodo turned that way, upset by what was obviously anger, and turned to the open gate to the drive through which delivery wagons would go and peered in.  As he did so they heard the cry of a child, at which time Frodo forgot the idea of just peering into the yard and strode in full of the fury which would take him at times back in the Shire when he heard someone abusing a child or animal.

       “I don’t know what to do with you!” a Man was shouting.  “And you did it on purpose--I know you did!  How dare you?”  All four heard the blow as the Man boxed the boy’s ears.  Several of those who clearly worked in the kitchen of the place were there, Men and women wearing cooks’ aprons, one heavy-set woman whose arms were white with flour to the elbow.

       “Ow!” cried the child.  “No, Evamir--no!  Don’t hit me again!  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!  Please!”

       And then Frodo was there in the midst of it all, taking all by surprise as he grasped the child and pulled him from the hands of the large Man, putting the boy behind himself.  The Man stopped in total surprise and looked at the figure now standing between himself and the child, his face pale but lifted proudly and with an aura of authority the Man had never encountered before.

       “Leave off!” Frodo commanded.  “Whatever this child has done, he does not deserve to have his ears boxed like that.  You’ll deafen the lad if you do it again.  Stop--now!”

       The tall cook looked down amazed, and stopped, suddenly ashamed of himself.  “I’m sorry, small master.  I’m sorry to have upset you.”

       “Never mind me.  Stay there and let me find out what is the matter.”  So saying, Frodo turned to the boy, who was crying openly.  He was a well-favored lad, his face slender and fine featured, his body just beginning to lose the fat of early childhood, his arms well developed from regular work done.  There was no sign that he was regularly abused as Frodo had at first suspected, and even now he didn’t cringe away from the cook, even though he was crying miserably.  Frodo pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and presented it to the boy.  “Here--wipe your eyes and blow your nose.  When at last you can speak, let me know.”

       It took a few moments for the boy to calm, but at last he said, “I can talk now.”

       “Good.  Now, I wish you to tell me what has caused this upset.”

       “I let the soup to burn.”

       “Was it an accident?”

       The boy answered in a low tone, “No.  I did it of purpose.”

       “You did it on purpose?”

       The boy nodded.  “Yes.  I wished to go out to watch the Rohirrim to ride by, but he wouldn’t let me to go.  He told me to stir the soup instead, for he had other dishes to care for, and he thought he could trust me.”

       “But you didn’t stir it?”

       “I started to do so, but then I stopped, for I was angered and thought to punish him.  And the soup burned, and now it is ruined and must be done again.”

       “Was it right what you did?”

       “No, it wasn’t.”

       “You deserved punishment, then.”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “I see.”  The Hobbit silently examined the boy.  “What needs to be done now?”

       “The spoiled soup must be poured out into the vat set aside for the keeper of pigs who comes to collect it, and the pot must be scoured carefully to remove the burnt food from within it.”

       “Then go in and see to it, and do it properly, do you understand?”

       “Yes, sir.”

       “Then when you have it cleaned and set back up again, wait for what the cook will tell you to do next, and do it properly.  Is he good with you?”

       “Most of the time, yes.”

       “Then you will not disappoint him again in that way, will you?”

       “No sir, I won’t.”

       “Go then.”

       The boy nodded, turned to the Man and said, “I am sorry, Evamir.  I won’t do it again.”  So saying he went back into the back door.

       The Hobbit turned now to the cook.  “As for you--he did indeed do it on purpose, and you had every reason to be disappointed in him and angry; but you had no right to strike out in anger at him, for it did no good at all save to make him fear you.  You would have done better to send him from your sight with instructions to sit doing nothing either in a corner or in his room until you were calmed, and then call him back to do what he does now, then punish him properly when both you and he were calm.”

       “You are right, small master.  I will not do this again.”

       “Then that is all I require.  You usually treat him well?”

       “Yes, for although he is often a lazy boy whose attention can be pulled away from his work when he is busy thinking on his figures, yet he is a sweet child and full willing to do his work properly; and his mother was well liked when she worked among us.”

       “His mother is dead now?”

       “Yes, a year ago she died, and her husband two years before that.”

       “An orphan, then, as I was.”  The Hobbit’s eyes showed his own grief.  “Do not let him be bereft again as he must have been when his parents died.  And don’t let him come to hate or fear you.”

       “We will not, small master.”

       “Good enough.  I will wish you a good day then.”  And fully on his dignity, Frodo turned and left the yard, the folk from the kitchen watching after him, all bemused.  It was as he came out into the street Frodo realized that folk from the upper rooms in the inn opposite had witnessed the whole incident, and several were commenting on it with those who watched beside them.  Frodo lifted his head high and led the way up through the level, away from the two opposing inns.

       They stopped soon after they entered the Third Circle at a stand where sweet drinks were offered, and got juice for each of them, sitting at a table provided nearby while Frodo got his wind again.  Word was spread rapidly that the four Pheriannath were within the Circle, and once they proceeded along the way anew they were approached again and again by those who presented them with sprays of flowers or leaves, and on occasion by individuals offering them early fruits from their gardens or drinks of water, juice, and on one occasion even a goblet of wine.

       In the Fourth Circle it was much the same.  Frodo stopped in the marketplace to examine some of the items offered there for sale, finding some items he hoped he might purchase as gifts to take home with them.  It was there he saw a young woman whose appearance stopped him in his tracks, his attention wholly arrested.  She was young, nearly but not quite to adulthood, her eyes a clear blue-grey, her hair a lovely light brown, her expression thoughtful and introspective, her smile a work of loveliness.  Never had Frodo thought to find his attention arrested by a lovely lass again as hadn’t happened since he himself came of age; but for the second time since his arrival in Gondor it had occurred.  She was selling glass beads and other small items of glass--small bowls, figures, sets of goblets.

       Merry was also impressed.  “Now there,” he commented, “is a woman of such loveliness it makes me regret I am a Hobbit.”

       All Frodo could do in return was to nod his agreement.  But both Merry and Sam noted Frodo’s own fascination and shared a look of recognition that once again Frodo was indeed able to respond to female beauty.  Reluctantly Frodo pulled his attention from the girl and turned back to the way through the city.

       Frodo was growing tired before they made the gate to the Fifth Circle, but kept stubbornly on his way, refusing to let the others realize how tired he actually was.  Each now carried quite a bouquet of flowers and greenery, and again there were those who approached to greet them and to offer water or juice.  Near the gate they came upon an eating establishment, and Frodo indicated they should stop and get something more to eat.  Once inside, however, he ordered but a glass of mild ale and some rolls of bread for himself.  The others asked for sausage rolls and fruit and mugs of darker ale, and Sam also asked for a bowl of curds and whey which, once it arrived, he set before Frodo.  Frodo ate the bread and curds and whey, and drank part of his tankard of ale and a glass of water, at last indicating he was willing to go.  Pippin settled the bill, and together they went on, leaving the flowers behind, making the gate shortly.

       They were about midway through the Fifth Circle when Frodo admitted he was too tired to go further as yet, and together they sat on a bench at the edge of a square.  Frodo drank from his silver flask as the rest nibbled at the scones from the King’s Head.  Together they looked around the square at the houses and businesses lining it, and Frodo suddenly recognized from the goods displayed in a window that the shop opposite them was a stationer’s.  “I’d like to stop there for a time,” he commented.  “I’ve tried writing, but my hand cramps too much to allow me to grasp a pen properly.  Perhaps there I can get paper and thick drawing sticks to practice with.”

       The others agreed, and together they went to enter the shop, Pippin holding the door for the others to enter ahead of himself.  The room in which they found themselves was larger than they’d expected, with displays of paper not only for writing but for artwork as well.  In the midst of the shop was an easel on which paper was fastened to a board; on it was part of a painting, a painting of the coronation of Aragorn by Gandalf, although the face of the Wizard was rather vague and misty, the major focus of the painting having been given to the features of the new King of the realm.  The attention of all was fixed on it.

       “Now, if that isn’t Strider!” exclaimed Sam, his approval obvious in his voice.

       “Looks just like him,” agreed Pippin.  “He makes a wonderful King, you know.”

       “Yes, of course we know,” Frodo said, smiling.

       Merry was shaking his head.  “But is that really supposed to look like Gandalf?” he asked.  “That certainly doesn’t do him justice.”

       “Doesn’t do justice to whom?” asked a voice from behind the counter, and they looked to see a figure rising from behind it.  The Man looked with confusion about the room, then looked down.  “And what are you four boys----”  He stopped in embarrassment, realizing his mistake.  “No, you’re not just boys, are you?  The Pheriannath--here in my shop?  I welcome you, small masters.  What may I do for you?”

       Frodo looked up at him.  “Please forgive us.  We were only admiring the picture of the coronation of the King.  The portrait of Aragorn is masterful, but that of Gandalf--of Mithrandir--is rather blurred.”

       “Gandalf?”

       “It is how he is known in the Northern lands more than as Mithrandir.”

       “Gandalf, is he now?  A proper sounding name for him, I must say.  I wanted the focus to be on the King himself is all.  And you called him Aragorn?”

       “Aragorn son of Arathorn, now the Lord King Elessar.”

       “So that was his given name?”

       “Yes--the kings and chieftains of the Northern Dúnedain have been given names with the Ar- prefix for generations he has told us.”

       “That is fitting enough.  Then you know him well?”

       “Well enough.  We traveled with him, after all, for weeks from Bree to Rivendell--to Imladris as it is better known here; and then from Rivendell to Amon Hen and at last from Ithilien back to here.”

       “You are the Ringbearer?”

       Frodo paled.  “Yes.  Frodo Baggins of the Shire at your service, sir.  And these are my friends and kinsmen, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took, and Samwise Gamgee.”  The other three bowed politely, murmuring their own offerings of their services.

       “I am Iorhael son of Bernion of Lossarnach, my friends.”

       “Well, what do you know, Frodo?  He has the same name as you,” commented Pippin.

       “I beg your pardon?” asked the Man.

       Frodo’s cheeks became quite pink.  “It is nothing.”

       “But you didn’t come into the shop to see the painting.”

       “No, it wasn’t visible from outside.  I came in hoping to find some thick drawing sticks and paper to practice writing with.”

       “You are just learning?”

       Again Frodo’s cheeks became pink.  “No, I was always good at writing.  But my hand was injured, and I cannot bear to hold a pen or quill for any length of time.  I must practice to build back my ability to write once more.”

       “He was excellent at writing,” interjected Merry.  “You should see the books he has helped copy out over the years.”

       “You were a copyist?”

       “And a bookbinder,” confirmed Pippin.

       “I see.  I’d never thought of the fact you would have had a profession in your own land and among your own people.  It’s odd how little we can imagine people as they are in their own eyes, isn’t it?”

       “Yes.”

       “You say your hand was injured?  Let me see it.”

       Reluctantly Frodo held out his hand.  The Man’s face grew pale as he examined it.  “So, you’ve lost a finger indeed, have you?  Being the third finger it isn’t one which touches the quill or pen much; yet I can see how it would change the way in which your hand would close.  Well, come over here where I have a low table.  Usually I work with children here when I teach the art of writing and drawing.  I will bring out a selection of drawing sticks of various widths and we will see how each suits you.”

       Frodo took a place at the table, grateful for the low chairs intended to fit children of Men that suited his height well enough.  In moments the Man was back with a large sheet of drawing paper that he placed before Frodo, and a narrow basket of drawing implements he set to Frodo’s right.  “You use the right hand by nature and inclination?  That is good enough, although too many seem convinced that all ought to use only the right hand.  But considering the injury you sustained, it would perhaps be better if you’d been one to use your left hand.”

       “I was never good at using my left hand, although I certainly tried to learn to do so when I was young.”

       “I broke my arm once and was forced to use my left hand for weeks.  My writing and drawing were so clumsy,” the Man commented.  “Well then, check through the basket.  I have samples of different widths and shapes of drawing sticks there which you may try.”

       They remained for quite some time, and eventually Frodo chose out a variety of sticks of charcoal and graphite with which to practice.  He’d scribbled with several of them, and eventually as he found quite a thick one which at the moment felt comfortable to his hand he’d done a quick sketch of Sam.

       The shopkeeper looked at the sketch with admiration.  “Ah, an artist as well as a writer, then.  I am most impressed with your skill, sir.”

       “I thank you, but it is little compared to what I once did.”

       “It is much compared to most of my pupils, Master Frodo.  I have had so many who think of themselves as talented who do such childish work; and there you, with a piece of charcoal better suited for drawing on walls, have done a marvelously skilled drawing of your companion here with such an economy of line.  Your talent is great and obviously well honed.”

       Sam nodded.  “He was always a fine one with drawing sticks, the whole time as I’ve knowed him.”

       “You see, Master Frodo, they recognize your talent has not diminished overmuch.  Now, some paper to practice with.  Ah, I have the very thing.”  He vanished into a back room, continuing to speak with them from behind the curtain that cut it off from the shop.  “I laid in quite a stock of paper when I was working with one boy.  A fine enough artist he was, but with most paper he’d just scoot it all over the surface of the table.  So I found a papermaker who used a good deal of linen fiber in his goods, sufficient to add enough texture to help the paper keep its place better.  Most don’t appreciate its qualities, but I do.  Ah, here it is.”  He came out carrying quite a stack of thick paper.  “Shortly after I began working with the child his grandfather in Anorien died and the family moved to take over the family estate, and so I lost my pupil.  I will gladly give you a good number of sheets, and don’t think to pay for them.  I was given quite a marvelous bargain on them as I’d bought so much, and other than a few who like the manner in which it absorbs paint few have any interest in it at all, which is quite a shame, really.  To see it given into the hands of a master such as you are would be an honor in and of itself.”

       “But I can’t just agree to accepting everything as a gift....”

       “Nonsense.  You can pay for it with gifts of drawings you make, and with coming down to give an old Man your company.  There are few enough at the moment who care to work on artistry, and have been few for several years now.  It is wonderful to have one nearby whose talents I can admire and respect as I see I can with yours.  And you can tell me the tales of your journeys.  I’ve not been further than the places of refuge for many years now, and my son and his family are so far away much of the time on the family estates in Lossarnach.  He, too, is a fine artist, and his family often winters here in the capitol with me.  I’d like for him to take over the shop when I must at the last go on, but I doubt I could convince him to remain here in Minas Tirith long enough.”

       It still took a good deal of coaxing for the Man to get Frodo to agree to accept the gift of paper, drawing sticks, a large ball of gum for erasures, and finally a gift of a fine steel pen and ink as well--a broader one than Frodo was accustomed to, but one which was comfortable enough to his hand at the moment for the time he could bear to hold anything that narrow.

       Sam and Merry carried the packages between them while Pippin carried the last of the scones, and at last they took their leave, Frodo promising to come down at times to visit with the elderly shopkeeper.  As he saw them to the door, Master Iorhael commented, “I am pleased you appear to like the painting.  I’d not added in your figure as yet, although I did intend to place you there.  Now I shall certainly do so.”

       Frodo managed to thank him, although the small spots of color appeared again on his cheeks.  Pippin smiled as the door finally closed behind them to keep out the growing breezes.  “So, you are to be immortalized in a painting of Aragorn as King, are you?  It will be a fine memorial to the day, then.  Although I’d personally rather he did a proper portrait of Gandalf as well.”

       “I’ll be certain to tell him, then,” Frodo said dryly.

       They finally reached the gate to the Sixth Circle, and were soon back in their own house.  Merry and Sam carried the paper and other materials to place on the desk in Frodo’s room, then went out to where Mistress Loren and Lasgon were beating carpets on a line hung temporarily between the two trees on each side of the narrow yard between the back of the house and the outer wall of the circle.  Pippin called out he was going to fetch mushrooms and disappeared with a basket for the empty house with the chestnut tree.  At last alone with his acquisitions, Frodo unfastened the string with contained the materials gifted to him, and after arranging them on the desk and putting most of the great stack of paper into the drawer, he began to practice. 

       After about a half hour of practice Frodo set his practice sheets into the fireplace for burning later and settled himself onto his bed to rest for a time.  Sam, coming in later, found him deeply asleep, his right hand tightly closed.

41

       Sam drained and cleansed the spider bite when Frodo awoke and put on a fresh dressing, then brought him out to the balcony to work on cutting his hair, setting a cup of water beside his Master while he trimmed Frodo’s curls.  “It has gotten quite long you know, Master.  But Strider’s right--it does look particularly fine on you even when long--a shame to cut it off, but there you have it.  Can’t let it keep gettin’ fouled with the drainage from your neck--’twill only make it worse, it will.”

       Aragorn arrived not long before sunset and listened to Pippin’s description of their trip back up the circles of the city.  He was interested in the tale of the gift from the shopkeeper in the Fifth Circle.  “Yes, you would need to work on writing as well as everything else you do right-handed, wouldn’t you?  I ought to have given that more thought, then.”  He examined Frodo’s shorn head.  “I will miss the longer curls, of course; but this is more practical with summer coming on and with that bite opening again.  You finish the plate Sam has given you and then I’ll check out the drainage once more.”

      Pippin examined Frodo critically.  “He looks more like a Hobbit and less like a rather diminutive prince of Men.”

      Aragorn had brought fresh herbs with him to add to the boiling water which he allowed to cool while he unwrapped Sam’s bandage and dressing.  “Well wrapped, Sam,” he commented.  “Let’s see how it is this evening.”

       There was already a marked improvement in the look of the matter seeping from the wound, and Frodo didn’t flinch from the cleansing as he had the previous evening.  Aragorn didn’t use the honey this time, but took Frodo onto the balcony afterwards to cleanse his hair and wash away the last of the stray hairs which made his scalp and neck itch.  “There,” he said when done and Frodo had a thick shirt pulled over him and he saw Sam now brushing Frodo’s hair dry.  “Now let me work on that hand.”  He could tell from the manner in which Frodo held it that the hand was cramping, perhaps partly from the practice he’d done, but also from the cooling of the day as clouds moved in for the promised rain.

      As he saw Frodo begin to shiver, the King turned to Lasgon.  “If you will please lay fires and see them lit in the day room and Master Frodo’s room, it will help him through the evening.”  The boy quickly hurried off to see to it.

      Aragorn drew Frodo back into the house while Sam emptied out the basin used for the cleansing of the hair, and they closed the folding doors onto the balcony.  The fire was soon lit and merrily dancing on the hearth; and Lasgon was off to the room in which Frodo slept to see the fire lit there as well.

     Sam fetched a blanket to wrap about Frodo’s shoulders.  Aragorn sighed.  He suspected tonight Frodo would be most uncomfortable with the cooling of the weather and the rain--before such weather had appeared to bring on the dreams of Frodo’s imprisonment in the Tower of Cirith Ungol.  He carefully massaged the right hand, and felt Frodo himself touching on the Elessar stone to ease the cramping of the palm and fingers.  The door opened and closed and Gandalf entered with Gimli, Legolas, and Legolas’s brother Tharen carrying a couple bottles of wine. 

       For the supper they shared Aragorn fixed a small goblet of watered wine for Frodo laced with herbs to ease cramping and to fight the infection in his neck, and saw the Hobbit drink it down slowly.  “Good enough,” he said.  “There’s no need to drink this swiftly.  What do you plan to do tomorrow?”

      Pippin shrugged.  “I’ve not been set to serve you particularly, although Captain Gilmaros has indicated he might have me watch at one of the gates as they are short handed at the moment.”

      Sam said, “If Mr. Frodo’s well enough, I’ll be workin’ in the gardens for the Houses of Healing with Legolas.”

       Merry sighed.  “I’d volunteered to stand guard of honor before the tomb where Lord Théoden lies.”

      “My father and I,” said Gimli, “will be going down with the folk from the Guild of Masons and the engineers to discuss how the gates might be replaced and the lower walls and battlements repaired.  My father indicates he himself would like to do a good deal of the forgework for the gates, and I believe Dorlin and perhaps Orin will aid in the restoration of the figures.  But it’s not going to be a quick matter, Aragorn.  It may take years to do a proper job of it.”

      Gandalf smiled.  “Tomorrow you get to give your audiences alongside Prince Faramir, I fear, Aragorn.  I’ll be checking out the fields of the Pelennor once more in search of any more fell weapons, and Prince Imrahil and Prince Tharen will be going with me.”

       “The carpenter is coming tomorrow morning with the stepped stool he’s prepared for our use in the kitchen,” Frodo indicated, “And I may be busy with my own projects a good part of the day.  I doubt I’ll leave the house much save for a walk in the early afternoon.”

       “Bard and his folk will be busy in the lower city much of the day discussing trade agreements with the Guild of Merchants, and it appears I will be much isolated within the Citadel.  It will be difficult after the relative freedom of today.  But Imrahil’s wife, youngest son and daughter are arriving tomorrow afternoon, as well as a company from Fornost.  We met with their outriders today.”

       “Then we shall all be busy enough on our own affairs,” Frodo said.  “When will we have the chance you promised to meet with the bankers?”

       “In three days, I hope, Frodo,” Aragorn replied.

       “Very good, then.  I saw some items in the market in the Fourth Circle I wish to purchase as gifts for our family back in the Shire for when we return home,” Frodo commented.

       Shortly after, Frodo indicated he was returning to bed, pleading fatigue from the day’s climb through the city.  The others wished him well, and Sam went after a time to see to it he was indeed abed and resting, and returned to indicate Frodo had taken a book to bed with him but appeared properly settled in for the night.  He didn’t remain long, following after Frodo not much more than half a mark later.  Merry and Pippin decided to walk down to the Wounded Drum in the Fifth Circle, a tavern much frequented by Guards of the Citadel, and the Dwarf and Elves followed after them.

       Lasgon had gone to his chamber, and so Aragorn and Gandalf went into the kitchen to wash the dishes after the meal.  As they worked, Gandalf looked at the King and gave a snort of amusement.  “If Master Galador could see you now, Aragorn, he would have apoplexy; and Denethor would assume you’d lost your mind.  The High King of Men, washing dishes like a common husband!”

       Aragorn laughed briefly.  “That is what I’d truly prefer to be, as you well know, my friend.”

      “True.  Elrond has managed to leave you in quite the situation, hasn’t he?”

       “Yes.  If he will leave for the Undying Lands, he fully intends for the greater part of Middle Earth to be under the direction in the end of the most Elf-like Man possible.  Is that why he chose to foster me so early, do you think?”

       “It is always possible that was a factor as well as the early death of your father and the search for you by Sauron’s folk.”

       The Man’s expression grew saddened.  “I don’t wish to see Middle Earth lose him or the Lady or Lord Celeborn, Gandalf.”

       “Our time is passed, Aragorn, although I don’t believe Lord Celeborn will leave as yet.”

       “Lord Celeborn would think to remain here?  How he will bear it when Lorien begins to fade, with the Lady Galadriel returned to her own people, I cannot imagine.”

       “The feeling of urgency common to mortals is not in him, as you know.  He knows he will come to her soon enough, and will have the rest of the life of Arda to spend with her.”

       After several moments of silence, Aragorn said.  “Your use of the word our indicates that you do not wish to linger.”

       After a pause the Wizard finally answered, “I did not say so.”

       “Yet you say so by not saying so.  I do not wish to lose you, also, Gandalf.”

       “Such is life for mortals, my Lord Elessar.”

       “It will be difficult enough for myself--but for Arwen--her mother already gone, her grandmother and father going together, her brothers having finally to make the choice....”

       Gandalf stopped in the wiping of dishes and looked directly at his mortal friend.  “Aragorn, my job is done, and I would not wish in the end to become no better than Sauron or than Saruman hoped to be.  Even more, you, Éomer, Faramir, Éowyn, Bard, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Legolas, Gimli--you are not children any more.  You have grown up, all of you, all of you grown up ready to take your place as leaders of your peoples.  Your own example is already setting into motion reforms in Rhun and Harad you will not appreciate yet for some years, and even in Umbar there are those who are beginning to think far differently than their people are accustomed to think, again largely sparked by you.

       “You are the finest of Men to have been born in the last Age, and are as great a Man and will be as great a King if you continue on as you’ve begun as Elros himself.”

      “Yet I will not likely live half his lifespan.”

      “Would you wish more?”

       The Man shuddered.  “Certainly not!  Already most I’ve loved have gone before me, and those I love now among mortals will also go before me, including Sam and Frodo.  Which is another gap in what you said, leaving Frodo out of your count.  Is his life indeed likely to be so short?”

       “You are the healer trained by Elrond--tell me what you know in your heart.”

       Aragorn gave a deep sigh, listened to make certain that neither Frodo nor Samwise was close enough to overhear.  Finally he said very quietly, “He strengthens very slowly.  His digestion is chancy at best, and can be set off balance by anything, physical or emotional.  He is subject to feelings of grief and loss, and finds that he still desires what he hated so deeply and hates now for what It has done to him.  He tires far too easily.  He is plagued by pain in his hand and still in his shoulder as well, although he doesn’t mention it.  His heart was damaged by what he endured, and although some healing has found it, it remains yet very vulnerable.  And still nothing Elladan, Elrohir, or I can do seems able to pierce the darkness at the heart of the bite of the spider, which although it so far has caused him little distress I fear in the end is beyond the power of Men or Elves to deal with properly.  There is something there I do not like, Gandalf.  It opened suddenly last night and began to drain.”

      Gandalf’s face became concerned.  “It did?  I know not what this means, but I, too, am troubled by it.”

       Aragorn reached into the cooling wash water and pulled out the goblet from which Frodo had drunk at dinner.  Rubbing it lightly with the cloth he used, he continued, “He might remain, or suddenly die.  What I fear, however, is that a sudden shock to him will push him into physical and spiritual decline.  If that happens, he will not take it well.  He will do his best to hide his decline from all, but it will rob him, I fear, of his ability to know joy; and that is already much diminished.”

       Gandalf said nothing, merely continuing to wipe a saucer he’d already wiped dry several minutes past.

       Finally Aragorn continued on, “I don’t know if Adar or my brothers ever told you, but when I was small I used to imagine I had brothers of my own, a twin brother and a younger one.  Since we’ve come to Minas Tirith I’ve so strongly felt as if Frodo were my imaginary twin brother.  It’s all I can do to keep from addressing him as Gil-galadrion at times.  I almost did last night before we went to the feast.  Then, this evening to see him with his curls cut short--it was almost as if I were looking at someone else, only a Hobbit again--not that Frodo has ever been only a Hobbit.  And even Pippin commented he was looking like a Prince of Men before Sam cut his hair.”

       “You imagined two brothers, and identify Frodo with the one you imagined your twin?  Have you ever felt you’d found the other as well?”

       Aragorn shrugged.  “Lately I have.”

       Gandalf’s expression was carefully neutral, although the look he gave the Man was intense.  “Whom?”

       “You won’t laugh?  Sam.”  He rinsed the goblet and handed it to Gandalf, who realizing he was still wiping the same saucer hastily set it down to take the wine glass.

       “Samwise Gamgee?  I sincerely doubt he sees himself as the equivalent of a prince among the Dúnedain.”

       “Of course not, Gandalf.  But his awareness is so great.  Certainly he doesn’t appreciate just how intelligent he is, thinking as he does that Frodo is the wisest of all Hobbits, with the possible exception of Bilbo.  Yet Frodo depends heavily on his intelligence and observations, not to speak of his faithfulness and common sense.  And lately I’ve also come to do the same.  And with whom else can I speak as deeply on the subject of gardening?”

       Gandalf laughed.  “If you must imagine any to be your brothers, you would be hard pressed to find better than these two.”

       The Man smiled sadly.  “I will miss them terribly when they leave to go back to their own land.”

       “The Shire will need them, Aragorn--it will need each of the four of them.”

       Aragorn said softly, “Each of the four of them, including what time Frodo can give them?”

       “He was properly named, and they will need his wisdom and compassion, although they may never fully appreciate what he gives to them while he remains in Middle Earth.”

       As he finished the last of the dishes and turned to empty the pan in which he’d washed them, Aragorn took a deep breath, held it, then released it in a sigh of grief.  “I’ve ever hated Sauron and his creatures; but I’ve developed an even deeper hatred of his creation, for what It has cost him and what It costs all of Middle Earth if we must indeed lose him.”

       Not long after, Aragorn left to return to the Citadel, charging Gandalf to summon him if Frodo showed any distress.  Half a mark later the damp breeze which had blown much of the day quickened, becoming a distinct wind.  Soon after a storm broke over the city and the Pelennor, and when at last those who’d gone down to the Wounded Drum returned they were shaking off their cloaks before they hung them on the hall tree in the entranceway.  Merry and Pippin, who had duty early, bade the rest goodnight and went to their room, and the rest gathered in the day room to speak for a time before Tharen returned to his assigned quarters in the Citadel.

*******

       He is lying, bound hand and foot, on his side on a pile of rags and refuse in the corner of a stone room.  His back and side ache, for he has been beaten with a flail of some kind with multiple cords, each ending tied around a bone spur which has dug into his back.  He can feel the stiffening where the blood has dried, the pulling of the scabs as he seeks, only briefly, to change his position.  A red lamp burns in a suspended lantern in the center of the room, its light eerie.  He can hear from below the murmur of voices, then the clash of weapons in the distance.

       “No!  You can’t save me!  They will only kill you!  Let me die here!  I’ve failed, for they’ve taken it!  It’s too late!  Aragorn, it’s too late!  Too late!”

       Gandalf straightened.  He’d heard something, but not a cry out loud.  Suddenly he rose and hurried through the bathing room and the side door into Frodo’s room.  The Hobbit lay huddled on his side.  He wasn’t crying out in his nightmare, was whispering instead and he curled in upon himself.  “Too late!  Flee, Aragorn, flee!  It’s too late--they found It, took It--It’s already on Its way to him!  Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli--they will only kill you!  I’m sorry!  I’m sorry!”

       Legolas had followed after the Wizard, heard the whispered pleas.  Gandalf turned to look at him.  “Go summon Aragorn--he was expecting this.”

       A nod, and the Elf was off, advising Gimli to get some water boiling as he passed.

       Gandalf leaned over the bed.  “Frodo!  Frodo--it’s but a dream.  Waken and let it go, Frodo.”

       The forehead was drenched in sweat and the skin felt clammy.  The Hobbit curled in upon himself as he lay on his side.  His eyes were open but unseeing.  The wind rods where they hung outside the glazed window danced and struck against one another and the closed casement, no pleasant music this time, but a constant clash of noise.  Frodo didn’t waken at Gandalf’s touch--if anything he became only more fearful and agitated.

       Gandalf opened the door to the parlor room where Sam slept, and noted that Sam, too, was sleeping restlessly--Sam, who usually didn’t move at night.  Gandalf leaned over the bed, and Sam immediately awoke, reaching, Gandalf noted, for the sword which lay by him.  Gandalf stepped well back, speaking quietly.  “It’s only me, Master Samwise.  Your Master needs you.” 

       Sam sat up, the sheath in one hand, his other on the hilt, considering as he woke fully.  His eyes cleared as he looked up at Gandalf, and he nodded as he threw back the covers and set the sheathed sword back into its place on the far side of his bed.  As Sam rose and drew an open night robe over his nightshirt, Gandalf was left to think on how the quest had affected all if, on a night of impending storm, Sam felt compelled to sleep with a weapon to hand.  How well this reflected what he knew of the Man who would soon be coming down from the Citadel--if he’d slept at all, he, too, would most likely be sleeping with a knife at hand.  The legacy of a bitter time of mistrust and danger on all sides.  Gandalf grieved that these gentle, caring individuals all had been forced to learn to keep a weapon close to protect themselves and others.

       Sam had hurried through to Frodo’s room and was now stopped by the bed, listening to the continued whispering.  “It’s the tower again as he’s dreaming of,” the gardener said quietly.  “His eyes are open, yet he’s not seein’ us.”

       “Yes, so I noted,” the Wizard murmured in reply.

       Sam took the right hand between his own hands.  It was held closed, and he could feel the spasming of its muscles.  “Master, Master, Frodo--it’s time to waken, me dear one.  It’s but a dream, Master.”

       Frodo looked at Sam blankly.  “It’s too late--they took It!  Go West, Sam--they can’t deny you!  Sam, flee!”

       “Oh, Frodo, dearling, dear Master, it’s but a dream.”  But when Frodo still lay caught in the images of the illusion, Sam sighed, then began to sing.  “In Western lands beneath the Sun the flowers may bloom in spring....”

       Gandalf leaned over the small hearth and worked to waken the fire from its embers, added in a couple more logs.  Frodo was calming, but still not awakening, not fully.  He lay, listening to the sung words, listening and weeping without sound.  At last he took a deep, sobbing breath and woke, actually looked into Sam’s eyes.

       “I woke you.  Oh, Sam, I’m sorry.”

       “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo.  It’s all right.”

       “The hand--it aches so, Sam.  My back, where they beat me, is stiff with the dried blood.”

       A flash of lightning from outside followed by the crash of thunder, and Frodo visibly shuddered, pulling again back in on himself.

       Gandalf went to make tea, and was there waiting with Gimli for the water to finish coming to a boil when Aragorn and Legolas came in.  Aragorn opened his bag and pulled out several pouches and two vials, took a pinch of each herb and dropped it into Frodo’s mug, poured the boiling water over the herbs, and reached for the honey pot and a stick of cinnamon.  The remainder of the water was poured into a basin, and he dropped in a fresh leaf of athelas and some other herbs, then nodded to Gandalf to bring it with them as he took the mug and carried it through day room and Sam’s parlor into the study where Frodo lay, still curled in a ball.

       The spider bite had seeped a goodly amount of matter and blood, and it had escaped the dressing over it, had soaked the bandage which held the dressing in place and the nightshirt, had dried on Frodo’s back where he’d laid back on it.

       Sam helped Aragorn ease Frodo into a sitting position and to remove the nightshirt, and the Man carefully unwound the bandage, having at times to soak it to free it from Frodo’s skin.  They helped Frodo from the bed to a stool, and looking at the lymph and blood which had fouled even the bottom sheet Gandalf quickly stripped the bed and carried the sheets away, then returned to make it anew.

       “The bite was barely seeping anything when I cleaned it but a few hours ago,” the Man commented as he worked.  “Yet look at how much it has let go in just the short time since.”

       Gandalf nodded.

       Frodo said, “I’d dreamt it was where they beat me, Aragorn.”

       “Yes, I see.”

       Gandalf advised the Hobbit, “I’m placing a folded towel where your shoulder and neck lie, in case it should happen again, Frodo.”

       “Thank you.”

       At last Aragorn finished cleansing Frodo’s back, and began working on the wound itself.  He was able to express some more pus and a bit more blood, and then at last it appeared completely drained.  Once again he settled the spent athelas leaf from the basin over the bite, placed a fresh, dry dressing over it, and wound clean bandaging around Frodo’s neck and shoulders to hold it all in place.

       As he worked the storm moved off, further and further, and at last the lightning and thunder came from miles away, and the rain on the window was no longer a steady drumming but a quiet tinkle; the wind rods no longer clashed but struck one another in a gentle series of pleasing tones.

       “Beef tea tomorrow to help rebuild the blood, Frodo--beef tea and liver.”

       The Hobbit made a distinct face of revulsion.  “You would have me lose all indeed, would you?  Liver?”

       “It’s that or powdered hops infused in the beef tea.”

       “If it’s as well with you, I’ll take the hops.  If you forced me to eat liver I know I’d only remain nauseous throughout the day.”

       “Better the hops than that, then.  All right, hops it shall be.”

       At last the bandage was tied off, and between them Gandalf and Sam eased a clean nightshirt over Frodo, then a robe over his shoulders.  Aragorn now worked on Frodo’s hand, working an oil with eucalyptus and aloe into the skin, now and then touching on the Elessar stone he wore to add to the easing.  The whole time Frodo sipped at the draught Aragorn had fixed for him, finally drinking the remainder of it off when at last the Man straightened and pulled back.  Sam had the water ready for him once he was done, and he drank that gladly.  “This one wasn’t as bad,” he commented once he set the tumbler which had held the water down.  “If you will pardon me....”  He rose and went to the privy.

       Aragorn helped him into bed once he’d returned.  Frodo sipped from his refilled water glass, then at last consented to lie back.

       “Rain seems to bring on that particular dream,” he commented as Aragorn pulled the linens and blankets back over him.

       “I’d noticed,” Aragorn said.  “I’ll tell you this--they didn’t waken me, for I was sitting and reading myself.”

       “I’m glad they didn’t awaken you.  I must have called out and awakened all here.”

       “Gimli, Legolas, and I were all in the day room together, talking quietly.  And you managed not to awaken Sam at all--I did that,” Gandalf assured him.

       “And you needn’t worry ’bout wakin’ me, Master--it’s what I’m here for, after all,” Sam added.

       “I see,” Frodo sighed.  “Well, I’m all right now, and you can all be off with you and get your rest.  Go on, and thank you.”

       Sam patted Frodo’s now relaxed hand, smiled and murmured wishes for a more relaxing rest of the night; then Gandalf smiled down at him and left as well.  Only Aragorn remained.

       “Why don’t you go on, also?  You’ve a busy day tomorrow from the sounds of it.”

       “I’d like to see you sleeping before I go.”  Aragorn pulled the chair near and sat.  “You need your own rest, small brother.  I’ve already charged Eldamir to bring you your morning draught.”

       “You wouldn’t forget that, would you, even with what I’ve had tonight?”

       “That’s for the drainage and the disturbed sleep, and you know it, Frodo.”

       “All right--I give in, my Lord Healer.”

       The Man smiled, and set his hand on the side of Frodo’s neck, felt the now gentle, even pulse.  “This is much better.”

       Frodo yawned.  “I would hope so.  Why was there so much more from the bite, do you suppose?”

       “I have no idea.”

       “I thought it was from where they beat me.”

       “So you said.  Sleep, small brother.”

       It didn’t take long for Frodo to again drift away into sleep, and at last Aragorn stood over him, breathing a silent prayer that the rest of the night be restful.  He looked out the window where the sky was already clearing, and he reached up to open the casement again to allow the now gentle breeze to enter the room.  He placed another log on the fire, then put out the candles which had been lit; seeing Frodo was smiling softly now as he slept, he went out, gently pulling the door closed after him.  He looked down at Sam where he already slept, noted the sword lying near at hand, and grieved for it, although he knew it was the same for himself; and after offering a prayer for blessing for this one went on out into the day room.  Dwarf, Elf, and Wizard sat there again, goblets beside Gandalf and Legolas, a mug of ale beside Gimli. 

       “Would you like some ale or wine before you go, Aragorn?” Legolas asked.

       “No, but I thank you.  I’ll but give a look at Pippin and Merry.”

       He opened the door.  Pippin’s bed was a tangle of coverings, but his uniform was neatly folded with his mail on the chair by his bed, and his sword also lay where he could reach it easily at need.  Merry actually woke and sat up, and the Man could see his new sword also lay already drawn, where he could grasp it easily.

       “Frodo have another bad dream?” Merry whispered.

       Aragorn nodded.  “The spider bite also drained a good deal more.  It’s cleansed now, and he’s asleep once more.”

       “Good enough, then.  Good night and rest well, Strider.”

       The King smiled.  “I will, Merry.  Sleep well, Sir Knight of the Mark.”

        Hardorn stood outside the house, his bow in hand.  A nod between the two Men, and they withdrew, back up to the Citadel once more.

There are a few references in this chapter to happenings in my LONG work, "The King's Commission," and to the short story "Gifts and the Benefits of Scholarship," which appears in the collection called "Moments in Time."  Thanks to all who noted and appreciated the ties to these other stories.

42

       On the third day after the trip back up through the city, Aragorn took Sam and Frodo down to the Fourth Circle, where in a fine building some distance off the main Way of the Circle they were to arrange for the management of the estates and properties within Gondor which had been granted to them.  A property manager was chosen, fees were settled upon, and tokens chosen and recorded to identify those authorized to access the funds gathered and the records of business done for each of them--the emerald ring commissioned by Aragorn for Sam that, while they remained in Gondor, he wore on his right hand, and a stick pin whose head was a five-pointed star made of clustered gem stones about a great central diamond for Frodo, who would not agree to wear or carry any ring.

       The days were settling into a routine.  On those mornings when Aragorn couldn’t meet Frodo at the Houses of Healing he would send Eldamir with Frodo’s morning draught; and whenever the Hobbits were in the Citadel the kitchen staff saw to it that food and juice and tisanes and goblets of water were at hand for them, particularly for Frodo and Sam, at all times.  Mostly all seemed to relax and heal, although there were days when Lasgon or Sam would come to summon Aragorn when the hand cramped or Frodo would be found, quiet and clutching at his shoulder, huddled into his chair in his room.

       All had bad dreams from time to time, it appeared.  A youth fell from the walls and almost died; Merry was one of those who helped bring his body from the Fourth Circle to the Houses of Healing and sat by him after the healers and Aragorn were finished with him and he lay in healing sleep.  That night Merry woke all calling out for Éowyn be beware the Nazgul, and his hand was cold and numb until Aragorn bathed it.

       Pippin stood on guard one day when the case of a Man who’d been abusive toward his wife and children was brought before the King.  Ordinarily local disputes were brought before the tribunals set for each circle of the city; but this case was sufficiently heinous that the magistrates for the circle in which the family dwelt sent it before the King.  The father had become furious when their newest babe had awakened him from his nap, crying out in pain for the colic it suffered; he’d shaken the child in his fury and ended by throwing it against the wall, and it had died. 

       The wife had healing bruises on her face and arms where she’d been repeatedly struck; one older child had a badly twisted arm where a broken bone had set improperly, and all also had bruises; while the oldest girl showed symptoms of worse things done to her by her father.

       Aragorn had questioned the Man long and relentlessly, forcing him to admit to the abuse given, forcing him to uncover the core of fury the Man held and to reveal how he imagined all others deserved what he did to them.   When he was sent to the prison, informed he’d so angered the King himself he needed some time to allow his own temper to cool that the sentence passed be appropriate and no harsher than the situation demanded, the Man was shocked.

       The wife and oldest daughter were admitted to the house within the Houses of Healing where damage to the spirit was addressed; the boy with the twisted limb was also admitted, for the arm would have to be broken again and reset to heal properly.  The other children were taken to the house in the First Circle where children without parents were housed, and a gentle woman whose own beloved husband had died in Osgiliath took them under her care, lavishing on them the love they deserved but had been denied by their father.

       After he’d escorted the children down to the House of Children, Pippin had been quiet and withdrawn.  That night he’d had his own nightmare, and Frodo had come to sit by him, to offer him the chamomile tea Sam brewed and to hold his hand while he finally returned to sleep, this time the dream more calm, if still somewhat disturbed.

       The next night Sam had a dream of seeing the spider standing over Frodo’s body, and of fighting it off with Sting.  What had sparked it he couldn’t say afterwards.

       As for the High King of the Men of the West--whenever he could manage it, he would slip out of the Citadel down to the guest house in the Sixth Circle to join his friends, although he found he couldn’t manage to do so alone--his cousin Hardorn saw to it there was always one to serve as personal guard at hand, which both frustrated and amused Aragorn.

       Children frequently came to spy on the Pheriannath and their fellows in the guest house, a situation that Merry found annoying, Pippin found flattering, and Sam and Frodo found amusing.

       “They’re out there again, Master, hiding behind the wall.”

       Frodo laughed.  “One day, Sam, I’ll understand the fascination I seem to hold for younglings.  At home in the Shire it was my cousin Pando hiding in the hedge about the garden--here in Minas Tirith the children come up in droves to spy on us all.”

       “I know.  I was out helping Mistress Loren to hang out the clothing to dry, and there was three watching me then, all giggling.  And there was two of them across the way, peepin’ over the wall about the empty big place there, watchin’ Mr. Pippin as he stood on guard outside while Lord Strider was in here the other evenin’.  How many was there the other mornin’ when you was havin’ problems with the stomach again?”

       “Five--two lasses and three lads.”

       “Well, at least they mean no harm.”

       “No, they don’t appear to mean any.”

       Sam found himself glad for the children’s interest, particularly on those days when Frodo’s stomach would be bothering him, for Frodo would be distracted by them, usually would tell the ones caught spying a story, and then would feel better afterwards.

       Frodo continued his visits to the Houses of Healing where all the healers began to treasure the time he spent with their patients, while the patients themselves would begin to look up in anticipation when small shadows could be seen passing in the hallways.  Let them catch sight of the small Pherian come to visit, and pain and boredom would be forgotten, grief and fears would lift.  He would sit by beds and listen to the renewed hopes expressed, and could be prevailed upon to tell stories from far away or long ago which amused or thrilled or enlightened.

       Master Faralion would come to visit at least once a week, bringing gifts of fruit and breads and an occasional bottle of wine, carrying a lap harp or a gittern or lute, eager to learn the songs of the Shire and sharing the songs of Gondor and his own creations, listening to the tales of the Pheriannath and sharing his own stories in return.  In the evenings the other companions would often be present as well, Legolas often with his brother and on occasion other Elves from the delegation from Mirkwood, which was being renamed Eryn Lasgalen once more, Gimli with his father and another Dwarf named Dorlin who was known to the Hobbits from visits to the Shire years before, Mithrandir with his laughter and keen eyes.  The love all showed to one another, and particularly to Frodo, was so obvious to him; and the songs they would share with him were often surprisingly touching.

       All conspired to make Frodo smile and laugh, and he was beginning to hear the most unusual tales as a result.  The Hobbits spoke of the days when they were young and of elaborate tricks played on one another, of days spent working the fields or watching among the shepherds, of walking trips about the Shire and the usually fruitless searches for visiting Elves, of orchards and fields raided and secret feasts on stolen provender, of fishing and swimming in either the Brandywine or the Water.  They remembered Bilbo Baggins and his tales of Great Granfather Gerontius, also known as the Old Took, the foibles of each, the wisdom each had shown and their mutual dismissal of convention when it was found to get in the way of living.  And the Hobbits and Gandalf reminisced on the Party--a celebration which obviously still was fresh in their memories even seventeen and a half years later.  All laughed at the stories, but behind the laughter Faralion could still see the memories of loss and pain Frodo bore to this day.

       It was not that unusual for the Lord King to either be present when Faralion arrived, or to arrive shortly after Faralion’s own admittance into the household.  At times he would bring with him either Lord Bard or Prince Faramir (or both), and they would find themselves pressed into service peeling potatoes or cutting fruit into pieces, or perhaps stirring a pan filled with mushrooms being cooked in one manner or another.  Lord Bard often appeared bemused to find himself aiding in preparing meals or snacks; but both the Lord Elessar and the Lord Faramir appeared to relish being so involved.  Faralion soon learned the King was himself as excellent a cook as were the Hobbits.  Mistress Loren, if she lingered yet, would watch, awestruck, as the king took eggs, cheese, diced meats and vegetables and herbs and mushrooms and would prepare omelets light as clouds and fully delectable; or he would slice meat marinaded in a sour, salted wine thin and prepare it with oil of sesame and green onions, thinly sliced carrots, mushrooms, and celery, and serve it over potatoes or rice in a dish all seemed to love, although Frodo would never eat the rice.

       A couple weeks after the coronation the King examined Sam and Pippin and announced that, from what he could tell, they were recovered enough to again smoke their pipes, and both quickly took advantage of the permission granted to go out upon the balcony and fill their pipes and light them.  Frodo accompanied them, but soon withdrew, coughing and choking, his pale features rather grey in distress.  The King took Frodo back to his bedroom, and after a time came out to tell them quietly Frodo was now asleep, and apparently could no longer tolerate pipe smoke when it was right around him. 

       “Then we’d best smoke downwind of him, as we do with Legolas,” Merry said.

       The King nodded.  “That would be wisest.  It is possible that in time he will tolerate it better and better, and perhaps one day he’ll smoke again; but for now when he breathes it in it brings back the time on the side of Mount Doom again.”

       “We certainly don’t need that,” Sam said with some fervor.  The others agreed.

       There was a lower bench now on the balcony, one better suited for the four Pheriannath than the two which had been there from their arrival, and Sam explained this had been a gift specifically intended for him by Frodo, and that apparently it had been put together by a joint effort between Frodo, Pippin, the King, and the healer Eldamir who lived in the next house.  Frodo’s eyes sparkled when Sam told this, then went off into the kitchen at the call of Mistress Loren to tell her what kind of icing he wished used on the cake she’d prepared.  Sam looked after him as he left, then confided, “There’s some story about that bench as none of them will tell, but sometimes just looking at it he’ll start to smile, as if just rememberin’ ’em puttin’ it together brings it back to mind.  And sometimes when Lord Strider’s here he’ll look at the bench and then Strider and will chuckle a bit.  I’m just glad it brings joyful thoughts to him, meself.”

       During the day Frodo was often gone from the house, usually visiting in the Houses of Healing, on one of his walks intended to improve his stamina, or up in the Citadel, usually attending on the King.  Faralion often saw him at the public audiences, which the King had indicated would be held four days a week.  The Lord King usually met with the Council of Lords at least once a week, and the Lords of Gondor were much surprised when they realized that Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise would be asked to attend as often as not, and that King Bard, Lord Halladan, and others of the Northern Dúnedain were welcome also to attend and comment on what was being discussed, as were any Elf or Dwarf who cared to accompany the King.  Faralion would hear comments on such subjects in the dining hall, and often saw Master Galador roll his eyes as he listened to the description of the latest Council meeting.  Obviously the King cared nothing for protocol for such things as his Council.

       The news that the King had taken up gardening and was himself planting an herb garden behind the Citadel swiftly made the rounds, and it was not unusual for a Lord come to consult privately with the King to be brought there to find the great Lord Elessar, wearing sturdy trousers and a dark shirt and gardening gloves, often with a hat on his head to keep off the Sun, kneeling down to plant or to weed and examine his prizes.  What was odder was that often those who found themselves meeting with him there would find that he wasn’t working alone, but had Prince Faramir and Lord Samwise and often the Ringbearer working alongside him, with the Elves often laboring there as well, sometimes sharing stories as they worked, occasionally discussing the business of the realm.  The number of great Lords who found themselves holding the end of a string being run down a row to offer support to specific herbs or helping in the weeding grew each day.  Even Galador had found himself pressed at times to aid in the King’s labors for his garden.  Faralion himself found the Master of Protocol’s confusion at such a turn of events humorous, and privately thought it would be the making of the Man.

*******

       One Highday Faralion came up to the guest house in the Sixth Circle and was admitted by Mistress Loren.  “The rest have gone out riding with the King,” she said.  “But Master Frodo came back early, for he was tired.”

       “Then he is resting?”

       “No, he’s not resting now, Master Faralion.  Master Iorhael came up from the Fifth Circle and is with him, back in his room.  Shall I take you through to them?”

       A few moments later and Faralion was being led through Sam’s parlor room to the study in which Frodo slept.  The housekeeper knocked at the door.  “Master Frodo?  Master Faralion has come.”

       “Oh, how pleasant.  Do come in!”  Loren opened the door and allowed the minstrel entrance.

       Frodo sat at a desk just inside the door, an elderly Man with a pleasant expression beside him.  Frodo’s face appeared somewhat tired but happy enough.  “Have you met Master Iorhael, Master Faralion?  He is an artist, and has a shop which sells papers and art supplies in the Fifth Circle.  Master Faralion is a minstrel of the realm.”

       “A great pleasure,” the elderly Man said, his face beaming.  “I’ve heard your song the Call of the Fool.  Very clever--very clever indeed!  And how are you this day?”

       “Shall I bring you some ale, Master Frodo?” the housekeeper asked.

       “Oh, yes, thank you--a light ale for myself.  Master Faralion, would you like some ale?  We have a fine golden one from the Dimmed Star and a dark ale from the Wounded Drum, and a light ale which Aragorn has sent us here as I can stomach it better.  I think it is from somewhere in Lossarnach.”

       Master Iorhael accepted a mug of the lighter ale, and Faralion requested one of the darker stuff.  Mistress Loren gave a curtsey and left to return to the kitchen again, and the artist, musician, and Halfling were left in the room.  Faralion pulled a stool up near the desk, looking at pages of writing spread across its surface.  “I promised Bilbo I’d make notes about the trip,” Frodo explained, “so I was writing about the earliest days, of Gandalf’s testing of the Ring in the parlor fire, of realizing Sam was listening, beginning to ready ourselves to leave the Shire.  I’ve just come to where we arrived at Crickhollow, at the house I’d purchased from my Brandybuck relations at the edge of the Shire.”

       “Why did you purchase this house?” asked Master Iorhael.

       “I’d let it be known I’d spent the last of the treasure left me by Bilbo, and that I hadn’t sufficient income to keep me longer at Bag End.  So I----”  He stopped, his face suddenly disturbed, his gaze going distant, his coloring going an unexpected grey.

       The minstrel and the artist were both taken aback, and Faralion took Frodo’s left hand where it lay on the surface of the desk and began to chafe it.  “Master Frodo?  Master Frodo!  What is it?  What is wrong?”

       “What is he doing?  What is that fool Lotho doing to the Shire?” Frodo whispered.  “What is he allowing to be done to Bag End?”  He was beginning to shake.

       Faralion rose, letting the hand go, and looked at Iorhael.  “I will go see what help I can find for him.  He appears to be lost in a vision.”

       The older Man nodded.  “Go then.  I’ll keep by him here.”

       Faralion found his way to the kitchen, where Mistress Loren was carefully placing three tankards on a tray with a large plate of cut vegetables along with ham and cheese between slices of bread, cut into quarters.  She looked up at the disturbed expression on the minstrel’s face.  “What is it, Master?” she asked.  “Has he had another turn for the bad?”

       “He has gone suddenly distant and is shaking.  I don’t understand what he’s speaking of, for he’s not speaking to us.  Does this happen often?”

       “He has frequent nightmares of what happened to him,” she said.  “And on occasion his hand or his shoulder where he was wounded will become intensely painful, and his attention is drawn away as if he were back there where he was hurt.”

       “What is done for him?”

       “Usually we summon the King.  But the King is not here--he’s outside the walls of the city today with the rest.”  She paused to think.  “We must call Master Eldamir from the house next door--I do not believe he is on duty now.  He’s a healer who often sees to Master Frodo’s draughts.”

       “I’ll go, then,” the Man said.  “If you could go to be by him and Master Iorhael until I can return....”

       A few moments later he was out the front door of the guest house and before that of the house where the healer dwelt with his wife, son, and his wife’s parents.  An elderly Man opened the door at Faralion’s frantic knock.  “Yes, may I help you?”

       “Master Eldamir?” Faralion asked.  “Are you Master Eldamir?”

       “No, Eldamir is upstairs in his room.  He worked through the night in the Houses, and is fatigued.  Do they need his return?”

       “It is Master Frodo, the Pherian.”

       Steps could be heard overhead, and a moment later a younger Man could be seen descending the stairs.  “What is it, Ada Garvarion?  Do they summon me back to the Houses again?”

       “It is Master Frodo, Eldamir.”

       “I see.  I will be down directly.”  He turned and hurried back up the stairs, and almost immediately was back again, slinging his healer’s kit over his shoulder.  “I thought Master Frodo had gone out riding with the Lord Elessar earlier,” the healer commented as he came out of his house.

       “He apparently tired and came back.”

       “What symptoms?”

       “He stares into the distance as if he sees what we cannot, speaking of evil things happening to his home.”

       “That is a new one,” Eldamir sighed.  They hurried back to the door which Faralion had left open and inside, closing the door behind them.

       Frodo had been moved to the low armchair and a blanket wrapped about him.  The tray with ale and plate of food stood on a cleared place on the desk.  Mistress Loren was leaning down to light the fire while Master Iorhael sat on a low stool, clasping Frodo’s left hand.  All three looked up as Faralion and Eldamir entered.  “I am all right,” the Hobbit protested.  “It was only--only a momentary thing.”

       The Healer snorted.  “My beloved Master Frodo--I doubt anything about you is but a momentary thing.  You saw evil about your home?”

       Frodo gave a deep sigh.  “Yes,” he said resignedly.  “I felt as if I looked at my home, save it’s not mine now--I had to sell it before I left the Shire.  And Lotho, my cousin who bought the place, had allowed the garden to be trampled, dug up, and built over.  Marigold was both terrified and furious, and Pervinca and Pearl and Pimpernel are all filled with fear and grief.  Then--I was back in my self once more.”

       Iorhael looked at the healer with interest.  “Do you think it is a true seeing?”

       Eldamir knelt before Frodo and placed his hand to the Pherian’s neck to feel the pulse.  “I know not.  Is the ability to see what goes on elsewhere widespread amongst your people, Master Frodo?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “I have my share of Took blood, and the Tooks are known for odd knowledge at times.”

       “Have you had such experiences before?”

       Reluctantly, Frodo answered, “I’ve seen and dreamed things before they happened before, again at odd times.”

       “It’s not that unusual a gift among the Dúnedain,” Eldamir commented as he turned the Hobbit’s face to look into his eyes.  “Your eyes are clear, your pulse a bit rapid but steady and strong and slowing properly; your breathing sounds clear from here.  Were you speaking of your home?”

       “Yes, I was telling them of the writing I’d been doing for my elderly cousin Bilbo--I promised to do a journal of sorts for him; I’d been writing of what I’d done before I left the Shire and the purchase of the Crickhollow House, and was thinking with regret of leaving Bag End--and had the--the vision.  It was much like seeing it with my eyes.  It was unsettling.”

       “I can imagine.  You sold your home?”

       “The home I inherited from Bilbo, where I’ve lived since he brought me to live with him and adopted me as his heir--yes.”

       “It must have been quite a wrench.”

       “Yes.”

       “What is the one who bought it like?”

       “Lotho?  As unpleasant a soul as possible.”

       “Why did you sell it to him, then?”

       “I never meant to do so--I offered it to quite different cousins, but somehow Lotho found out--undoubtedly Ponto told his sister Peony, and she would have told Lobelia, Lotho’s mother, right away if she knew.  It must be how he found out.  All I know is that Lotho was on the doorstep offering me cash for the place for just what I’d asked Ponto and Iris.  I couldn’t keep up the fiction I was out of money if I didn’t accept his offer.”

       Eldamir nodded his understanding.  “Would he tear up the garden?”

       “Who knows what Lotho Sackville-Baggins is capable of?  He’s mostly Bracegirdle in his breeding and personality, and they tend to be--difficult.  I wouldn’t think he’d want the garden trampled and built over, for it’s part of why all admire the place, its gardens.  Sam, his father, and their uncle have kept the gardens the glory of the Shire for well, well over a century.”

       “I see.  Can you stand up for me?”

       Frodo stood, a trifle shakily at first but quickly that was well under control.  The healer laid his hand on Frodo’s chest, feeling the heartbeat.  Faint color had come back into his face, not a great deal, but at least he no longer looked grey.

       “I do not believe you are ill.  But certainly you have more than your fair share of fearful memories and reasons for worry.  What you’ve described I’ve seen often enough among certain of those with strong Dúnedain heritage; and it sounds as if your own family has an equivalent talent.”  He looked at the tray.  “That is light ale?”

       “Yes--Aragorn ordered it for me.”

       “If the Lord Elessar has allowed it I suspect it will do no serious ill--but no more than a mug at this time.”

       “I know.”

       “I will go, then.  At least you didn’t waken me--I was already preparing for my next shift.

       “Know this, Master Frodo--what you saw may or may not be true.  You know already that the Enemy’s device has prepared you to see ever the most evil and fearful of eventualities, and it can be difficult to change from such expectations.  And even if it is true--you can do nothing from here to change things.  Those you left behind must see to their own difficulties, even as they could not assist you to cross the Dead Marshes or find your way through Gorgoroth.  You are still not quite recovered enough to travel so far; and even if you were, it would still take over well over a month to make the journey for one on a steady horse with a clear road.  You cannot seek to take responsibility for that which you cannot touch.  Do you understand?”

       Frodo nodded, reluctantly acknowledging the healer’s logic.  “Yes, Master Eldamir.  Thank you for coming.”  He sank back into the chair as Mistress Loren accompanied the Man to the door.

       During the rest of the visit Frodo was quiet, although at last he brought out a portrait he’d done of Aragorn and Samwise kneeling together in the herb garden behind the Citadel, looking at a small plant they held between them.  “They were like this two days ago while we were visiting with Aragorn up there,” he commented.  “They are kindred spirits when it comes to coaxing things to grow.”

       Faralion’s heart was moved by the picture.  “How much like both our King and your friend it is,” he said, taking it into his hands and examining it carefully.  “I am not certain I’d ever taken thought to what a King would be like for us; but I’d never have considered he might be one to take to gardening.”

       Frodo gave a short laugh.  “You never followed him throughout the wilderness of Eriador and the ruins of Hollin.”

       “Hollin?”

       “What was Eregion.  We spent many days traveling through what had been its lands.  Aragorn knows the lands there well and clearly loves the place.  He and Legolas between them could wax quite poetic about it.  It is full of holly trees, for Gandalf indicated that was their badge.  The monster that watched in the waters before the West gate of Moria destroyed the last two which framed the doorway as it sealed the gate behind us, once it was foiled in its attempt to capture me.”  He shivered slightly.  “I wonder if it is still there?”

       “There was a monster there?”

       “Yes.  Gandalf indicated it was probably a creature of Sauron’s, or perhaps one left from Morgoth, one which either hid or was imprisoned beneath the mountains for thousands of years before the Dwarves inadvertently freed it.  We were told in Lorien that after the overthrow of Morgoth at the end of the First Age this was the fate of many of those Maiar who’d fallen to Morgoth’s blandishments and were then frozen in shapes of horror.  It was how a--a Balrog came to be there.”

       Faralion looked with shock at the Hobbit’s saddened face.  “A Balrog was there?”

       Frodo nodded slowly.  “Oh, yes.  I hope I never again have to see such a thing.”

       “You saw it and lived to tell of it?”

       “We all saw it, Master Faralion.  Gandalf fought it, and fell with it into the chasm beneath the Bridge of Khazad-dum.  He fell to his death, but was sent back by the Creator and the Valar to complete his task.  It is why today he is the White and no longer the Grey.”

       Faralion realized that Frodo was speaking the full truth, and felt the hairs on the back of his head rise.  The terrors the Pherian had known, he realized, had begun well before arriving before the walls of Mordor.  “I had no idea,” he said.

       Frodo nodded.  “Aragorn grieved for the loss of the trees, as Gandalf did.  He’d not wished to go into Moria at all.  He’d been there once before, although he would not tell us when or why.  All I know is that he appeared to have known through his own foresight that if Gandalf entered there again he faced his doom, but that as Gandalf was willing to lead us he would go to support him as he could.  His horror and grief when Gandalf fell was as great as my own.  He mastered it as was needed; but it must have been a joy and wonder when Gandalf was restored to him.  But I do believe that the holly tree he planted the other day in the Fifth Circle he planted to the memory of Hollin and entering Moria.”  He looked at the way in which Faralion held the picture.  “Would you like to keep that picture?” he asked.

       “Yes, I would.”

       “Take it and be welcome.”

       “Thank you, Master Frodo.”

       And when Faralion went back at last to his quarters in the Guild Hall, he took the picture with him.  He had it framed soon afterwards, and ever after the picture of the King and the gardener hung in his own chamber wherever he traveled throughout Gondor.

       That night Frodo had another night when his sleep was frequently disturbed by bad dreams.  Sam heard noises in the study room and peered in to find Frodo pacing it restlessly; then at his suggestion they dressed and went out walking, dressed in their cloaks from Lorien.  At last they settled in the grass in the gardens for the Houses of Healing, Sam leaning back against the bole of a tree, Frodo finally falling asleep with his head pillowed in Sam’s lap.  Aragorn spotted them there as he came to the Houses the next morning, and sighed as he looked down at the two of them.  Frodo woke as the Man leaned over them, looked up and smiled.

       “Good morning, Strider,” he murmured.

43

       Another week passed, and those of the Fellowship who dwelt in the house in the Sixth Circle noted that Aragorn was becoming somewhat moody.  One moment he would be engaged in whatever was happening, but let a silence fall and his expression would become distant; interrupt him in such a withdrawal and he could be at the point of being snappish.

       The Man who’d been abusive toward his wife and children was brought back before the King for judgment after three days.  His attitude was far more subdued after the days of confinement when none within the prison wished to speak with or to him.  He was given seven years of service in Annúminas, aiding those involved in rebuilding the city.  He was granted permission to write to his wife once a month, but was warned that if his wife sued to have their marriage contract declared null it would be granted.

       The King examined him sternly, and his voice was cold.  “You cannot understand how blest you have been to have a woman come to love you to the point of wishing to share her love, her life, her body with you.  To repay that willingness with abuse, to seek control at the cost of her trust and the trust of your children, to kill the child of your union because it cried and disturbed you--that is beyond my understanding.”

       “You would allow her to break our marriage?”

       “It is you who already has done so.  Does your marriage contract not call upon you to honor and respect her, to forsake all others, and to protect her and the children she bears you from harm to the best of your ability?”

       “Well, of course.”

       “How have you done this when you have struck her repeatedly and left her covered with bruises, or when you broke the arm of your son and then refused him the aid of a healer until after it healed incorrectly, when one daughter has learned to fear Men and what they can do to a child from you, and when you have killed the infant born to you last?  Have you loved and honored and respected the woman who consented to take you in love and delight?  Have you forsaken all others save her?  Have you protected her and your children from the evil which threatened them--in you yourself?”

       The Man simply stared at the King as he sat upon his high throne.

       “I demand an answer from you.”  The King’s voice was implacable.  “Have you fulfilled the clauses of your marriage contract?  Have you shown her love and honor?”

       The Man tried to take his eyes from those of the King but found he could not.  At last he said, “No, I have not.”

       “Have you forsaken all others save she who accepted you as husband?”

       “No, but a Man has needs....”

       “You have not the will to hold your needs in check during the days of her courses, during the last few weeks of her pregnancies when she cannot accept you while she brings your children to birth, or when she is tired, fearful, or merely out of the house doing what must be done for the needs of your family, and so you have turned to others and have forced a child to accept you?  Great will and control of themselves have I seen in most within Gondor, such that this people has conquered and held off the threat of Mordor for most of over three thousand years; yet somehow you are exempt from the self-control demanded of all others in the manner in which you have cared for your wife and children?”

       The Man flushed painfully.  “I have always reined in my own fear.”

       “But have you even attempted to rein in your lust and temper when it is your own wife or child who is before you?”

       Again it took a good deal of time before he answered, “No.”

       “Have you truly sought to protect your wife and children from the greatest danger within your home--from yourself?”

       “No.”

       “Have you therefore kept your marriage contract intact?”

       “No.”  The anguish within the Man’s voice could be heard by all.

       “Do you question that your wife has the right to ask to have the contract declared null, since it is you who has broken it repeatedly?”

       “No.”

       “Good.  Being honest with yourself is the first important step to learning to change yourself.  Know this--I will not advise her to do this, and no one else will advise her to do this either, although none will hide from her that this is something she has the right to do.  If at the end of seven years she will accept you back, then and only then may you return to Gondor, and you and she will dwell either within the city or upon the Pelennor where your treatment of her and your children will be monitored.  If she will not accept you back, you will be branded upon your forehead and hand with an A to indicate you have been abusive, and you will be allowed to settle within Arnor.  If, however, you ever show signs of allowing your temper to run freely over others or you show abuse to any other woman or child, you will be arrested again and imprisoned for the remainder of your life.  Is this understood?”

       “Yes, my Lord King.”

       “So be it then.”  At a gesture from the King the court scribe recorded the judgment against the Man, and he was led again out to the prison to wait the next party going North to Arnor.

       Frodo watched Pippin’s face as he listened to the judgment, and saw that both relief and compassion could be seen in it, and he was glad for it.

       After the day’s audiences were over, Frodo joined Aragorn, bringing with him the written evaluations he’d done of several lords and a master merchant he’d met the previous evening while dining with the King in the communal dining hall within the Citadel.  As he handed the reports to his friend, he looked up at the furrowed brow with some concern.  “This one yet disturbs you?”

       “I am hard pressed to understand the self-deception this one has practiced, allowing him to become abusive toward his wife and children.  Yet we see such repeatedly in Mankind.  Are we so flawed?”  He sighed, and looked down at Frodo, who today wore Gondorian dress.  “You look well today, small brother.  How is your hand?”

       “There is some cramping of the muscles, but not the insistent throbbing that has required direct attention.”

       “Well enough, then.”

       “You have been rather distracted, Aragorn.”

       The Man sighed as he led the way into the gardens behind the Citadel and sat on the bench there, indicating Frodo should sit beside him.  He laid the papers down on his other side, pulling the dagger from his belt and laying it on them to keep them from blowing away should a breeze spring up.  He reached down to take Frodo’s hand and massaged it, saw the brief signs of pain followed by more signs of relief.  “I am sorry,” he said at last.  “I find that at times my own patience is stretched.”

       “Patience with what?” 

       But Aragorn merely shook his head.  Only with Gandalf did he appear willing to discuss what bothered him, but all the others heard was the Wizard advising the Man to continue possessing himself with patience, and to not allow himself to fall to vain fears so close to the completion of the appointed time.  At that Aragorn stood some time simply looking at the Istari, then turned and left his presence, and no one knew where he went.

       Faramir had promised all to take them into the archives of the city, where the largest collection of books and documents known among the Men of Middle Earth was housed.  The chambers where it was kept were carved from the spur of rock on which Minas Tirith was built, and he explained there was an entrance from the Citadel itself.  When at last he went to lead the Hobbits, Legolas, and Gimli down the winding stair into them, however, he was alarmed to see the paling of the face of the Ringbearer, and the growing discomfort in the eyes of the gardener.  Suddenly Sam looked at Frodo, whose face was damp with perspiration, and said, “We can’t go on this way, my Lord.  Please forgive us,” and he drew Frodo back out of there.

       An hour later, when the King was free of a private audience with representatives from the Beornings who’d arrived the previous day and wished to discuss trade and allowed tolls for use of their fords, Faramir sought him out and described what he’d seen in the faces of Frodo and Sam. 

       Aragorn sighed.  “It probably brought back the memories of the imprisonment of Frodo within the orc tower,” he said.  “You will need to take them in through the entrance in the Sixth Circle.  I’d warned you that the circular stair might not be manageable for them.”

       “So I see, Lord Elessar.  I had thought you meant by the warning that their legs might be too short, yet the steps to the stair are remarkably shallow and I couldn’t understand the concern.  I grieve I didn’t take into account the capture of Lord Frodo by the orcs of Cirith Ungol.”

       The two of them searched and found the two Hobbits sitting near the base of the dead White Tree.  What drew Frodo there he couldn’t say, yet both seemed attracted to it.  Frodo felt a compassion toward the tree he couldn’t easily explain to others.  Now they sat, accepted by the four Guards of the Tree, Frodo gently stroking the dead bark.  Aragorn gracefully dropped to the ground by them, Faramir more slowly following his example.

       “The Tree comforts you, small brother?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “It waits for its child to take its place, Aragorn.”  He continued to run his fingers down the bole of the tree.  Suddenly he turned his face to Aragorn’s, his blue eyes thoughtful.  “I look at it, and seem to see what it was like when it was fully alive, before it faded; I seem to see the one which will, I hope, replace it, young and as full of hope as the name your brothers call you by; I seem to see another White Tree, far away, calling out to its own child and grieving as it has for a thousand years to receive no answer.  I think it will be happy only when this tree is laid to rest and its child growing in its stead.”

       Aragorn’s face was very solemn.  “Yet how do I find the sign that the hope is fulfilled, that the new line of Kings I embody will take root as would this ones child, and bloom and grow here, here before the Citadel of the city?”

       Frodo shook his head.  Again he examined the King’s face.  He gave a slight smile as he looked deeply into the Man’s eyes.  “When will you take a wife and begin begetting children that the land knows you are not the end of your line, but instead the starting place?  Tell me that, tall brother?”

       Aragorn’s face softened at the title given him by Frodo.  “When indeed, Frodo Baggins of the Shire?  I wait for the sign that I am accepted and the roots are taking, and already you bid me to bloom and bring forth fruit?”

       “Isn’t that how they tell that the tree has indeed accepted its new planting and that the soil has accepted it--when it leafs out, when its blossoms open and bring forth new life?”

       Sam gave a chuckle.  “Guess he’s indeed learned somewhat about gardenin’ in the years he’s been by me and the Gaffer.”

       Aragorn laughed aloud.  “I suppose so indeed.  I must again begin to devil poor Gandalf, I suppose.”  He stretched and rose.  “Faramir told me of the abortive essay down the stairs from the Citadel into the archives.  He didn’t realize the memories the narrow stair would evoke.  Shall we try the other way, down in the Sixth Circle?  I think you will find it far more pleasant.”

       “There is another way?”  Frodo’s face brightened with renewed hope.

       “I’ll let you in on a secret of this city--there is almost always another way.  Denethor taught me more than one way up from the walls in the days before his distrust supplanted the early friendship we first knew, and there are two main entrances to the archives.”

       “Two main entrances?  How many minor ones, then?” Sam asked.

       Faramir laughed as he rose and held out his hand to Sam.  “That would be telling, Master Gardener.  Only come.”

       After spending a delightful time among the shelves and stacks, Frodo was allowed to take two tomes with him, and Sam one, and all returned to the afternoon outside the cavernous holdings of the city’s archive.  “To think I’ve passed that daily and didn’t realize where the doorway led,” Frodo said, smiling at the entrance.  “I’ll not pass it by often without looking in now, I think.”  He gave the books to Sam.  “Will you take that back to the house for me, please, Sam?  I think I’ll go down to the stationer’s shop in the Fifth Circle and see Master Iorhael for a time.”  He looked up at Aragorn’s face.  “You do have some to entertain at dinner, don’t you?”

       The Man sighed.  “Unfortunately, yes.  Well, enjoy your time with Master Iorhael.  I’m glad enough to know you have some friends here.”  So saying he laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, then Sam’s ere he drew away.  He and Faramir gave bows, and turned to go back up the ramp to the Citadel.

       “Do you think as he really knows secret ways up through the city?” Sam asked as he and Frodo watched the two Men go.

       “I’m certain of it.  Aragorn’s not given to idle boasting, after all,” Frodo replied.  “Well, I’m off.”

       “Do you think as the White Tree will ever be renewed, Master?” Sam asked, staying Frodo a moment.

       “I think so, Sam.  I think so.”  He smiled and turned to head down toward the Fifth Circle.

       Master Iorhael was entertaining a new pupil, the daughter of a cloth merchant who hoped to do more than just pretty pictures.  She sat at the low table with paper and drawing sticks before her, working on a drawing of a bowl of fruit that lay in the center of the table.  She looked up as the door opened and the King’s Friend entered.  She smiled at him, seeing the pale features, the gentle smile on the intelligent face, the memory of fear faced and tiredness suppressed hiding at the corners of his eyes.

       Iorhael straightened, smiling broadly.  “Master Frodo--a joy to see you as always, my friend.  Welcome, welcome indeed!  Come and meet young Mistress Albeth.  You are smiling.  You have had a good day, then?”

       “Ah, yes.  Aragorn and Faramir have taken me into the archives, and I’ve had a pleasant time examining books of lore and poetry.  I know that Bilbo has access to all of Lord Elrond’s library there in Imladris.  But this would be such a joy for him.  I hope he can come here one day.”

       “It is a pleasant experience you wish for your kinsman.”

       “Indeed.  He taught me to love books and lore.”  He looked down on young Albeth’s work.  “And what kind of picture has Master Iorhael set you this day, young Mistress?”

       He examined her picture and listened to her explanations, smiling, then pointed out how the shadow lay here and a highlight there.  Albeth sighed and took out her ball of gum and used it judiciously, did her best to make the corrections he’d suggested, then smiled as the fruit began to display their rounded shapes more surely.  The girl was delighted.

       She continued to work, now overseen by Master Iorhael.  He watched with interest as, having realized through the brief instruction offered by the Pherian how to appreciate how shadow and highlight defined curves, Albeth began to improve her work.

       Frodo himself picked up a drawing stick and a large sheet of paper that lay nearby and began his own drawing.  He, however, was focused not on the bowl of fruit before him but on an image he’d carried in his heart since the day of the coronation.  He did a quick outline of the shape of the Citadel, framed by the branches of the dead tree, branches to the right holding, for those with eyes to see, the image of a woman he’d seen only in his brief sojourn in Imladris, the image of the Lady Arwen Undomiel.  Again he felt the truth of that vision, that somehow the hope of both Tree and land was tied up in her future; but what this meant he had no idea.

       He worked swiftly and surely, strengthening lines here, adding a shadow there, the hint of the water of the fountain playing among the dead branches, the King’s Standard breaking from the Tower of Ecthelion, the thought of the side of the mountain behind all.

       A bright and shining drawing it was.  Finally he paused, realizing it was done at last, only one final detail to add; and he carefully added what appeared to be a dragonfly hovering over the waters of the fountain.

       “How lovely,” the girl breathed, standing and looking over his shoulder.  “It’s so very beautiful, the Citadel caught in the branches of the White Tree like that.  Master Iorhael told me you were an excellent artist, but I’d not have believed it if I’d not seen this.”

       Iorhael himself stood up and came to stand over the Halfling’s other shoulder, looking down at the drawing.  He took a deep breath.  “Yes,” he said, “the hint of hope renewed.  A beautiful drawing, indeed, Master Frodo.  Your own artistry leaves mine in the dust.”  There was an echo of longing in his voice.

       Frodo looked up into the old Man’s eyes, seeing the indescribable emotion in his face as he examined the picture of a view he must find familiar.  “Would you like this drawing, Master Iorhael?” he asked.

       The Man looked surprised.  “You wouldn’t wish to take it with you when at last you return to your own land and people, Master Frodo, to remind you of the White City?”

       Frodo looked down at the picture.  In some ways he did wish to take it with him, but at the same time realized this was unnecessary.  “No,” he said at last.  “I carry this image still and others more dear to me in my heart.  No, I give it to you, in thanks for the friendship you’ve given me.  And didn’t you say that such should be part of the payment you desired for the paper and drawing sticks and pen and ink you gave me--pictures I might draw?  You are welcome to this and far more, you know.”

       The Man’s face shone with a remarkable pleasure as he at last claimed the picture for his own.  “I thank you, small Master--I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  I’ll have it framed and hang it here where I may look on it whenever I am in the shop.  Thank you, Master Frodo.”

       As he returned to the guest house in the Sixth Circle Frodo smiled.  His hand ached some, but no more than did his shoulder.  As with the shoulder, this ache was becoming familiar, a simple part of his life.  He’d completed a picture he’d carried in his heart for a month, and done it properly, and had brought pleasure to a pleasant, gifted Man, a friend in this land so far from his own.  Would he ever go home? he wondered.  Maybe he’d not make it all the way home again.  But it would be no great sacrifice, he thought, to die here, surrounded by such friendship.

       He ate lightly at supper, wished the others a good night, and went to his room to read, falling asleep in his chair with a rug over his knees and his book in his lap.

       Legolas looked in on him and found him thus, called Gandalf, and the two of them together woke him enough to get him into his nightshirt and into his bed.

44

       Aragorn continued to grow more solemn, day by day.  Again Frodo’s thoughts were drawn to the memory of the morning of the coronation, of Aragorn’s declaration that he’d accepted the rule of Gondor in hopes of gaining his own hope, and that he did not wish to resent those he was meant to rule over. 

       Gandalf, Legolas, and Hardorn appeared to watch the King with a combination of concern and amusement--and compassion.  What it was that the Man hoped for wasn’t obvious to the Hobbits, but Sam was heard to comment quietly to Pippin that if whatever it was didn’t happen soon Strider was likely to burst with frustration.

       Frodo was having his own concerns.  He was having more moments of awareness that things weren’t right in the Shire.  He didn’t speak of it to the rest of the Hobbits, but his own worry was intensifying.  One morning when he’d gone down to Master Iorhael’s shop after leaving the Houses of Healing, he was trying out some of the Man’s paints doing a picture of Bag End.  He’d done a sketch of it first, and now was doing it again in color, and found himself adding in a few portraits to amuse himself.  Pearl Took’s face was hidden in the nasturtiums, Rosie Cotton’s (for Sam’s sake) was worked into the sunflowers, his mother Primula was entwined in the hedge, and he was in the process of working his cousin Narcissa Boffin’s face into the wallflowers when he seemed to see Narcissa and her mother Ivy standing outside the door to their home, holding onto one another, their faces full of fear.  Then he saw his cousin Ferdibrand Took sitting in a dark hole, blood on the side of his head, his expression a combination of fear and defiance.  He stopped in his painting, his brush thankfully held away from the paper, until the vision faded.  He wasn’t certain whether Master Iorhael had noticed the moments when he stood apparently transfixed, for the Man said nothing of it; but Frodo was now certain things weren’t going well at all in the Shire.

       That night in a dream he saw Ponto Baggins lying in his bed, his room denuded of its usual cheerful clutter, his face pale and thin.  Iris sat on a rickety wooden chair nearby, her own face colorless as tears rolled down her cheeks, holding a thin rag to Ponto’s forehead.  Frodo recognized the chair--it was one which had always sat in the mud room off the back of the smial, on which Ponto sat while soaking his feet after his walks along the Water during heavy rains when they kept the watch for flooding.  How had it gone from the mud room to the front bedroom?  What had happened to the comfortable stuffed chair in which Frodo had sat when he took his turn caring for Ponto the time he’d fallen and rattled his brains a few years past, and Ponto had been confined to his room for five days while he recovered?

       The dream of Ponto and Iris had faded, as dreams will, and had changed into a memory of Gollum leading them through the Dead Marshes, crouched over, testing the tuffets with his hands, looking back over his shoulder to see if he and Sam were dutifully following him.  Frodo awakened with a start, feeling again the intense guilt of having failed the creature, the shame of having been taken by the Ring at the end, and sat up in his bed, his heart racing, his breathing ragged.  

       He finally got up, but instead of pacing he lit a candle and sat down at the desk, and moving aside the writing he’d done earlier he’d drawn the picture of Gollum as he’d crouched in the sedge, clad only in the ragged garment he’d worn over his loins.  The picture finished at the last, he’d opened the drawer where he kept the extra paper and placed it on the bottom of the stack.  Then he’d gone back to bed.

       He found himself keeping three separate stacks of work--one pages of notes he took for Bilbo’s proposed book or his research into the legends of the end of the Second Age, including the translation of an alternative version of the Lay of Gil-galad he’d found in one of the books he’d borrowed from the archives; the second a stack of pictures and written descriptions he was doing of people and images he was gathering here in Minas Tirith; the third pages on which he inscribed his frustrations, his fears, and his surges of anger, and pictures of the images that haunted his nightmares.  Orodruin seen from various angles from within Mordor was a frequent picture drawn; the faces of the orcs with their whips and knives who’d stood over him in the tower; one done of the spider Shelob; several of Gollum; the images of the Eye seeking him that still filled his dreams; one of the Tower of Barad-dur seen from across the plain of Gorgoroth.  These he’d hide at the bottom of the stack of paper, and every few days when the fire was lit on the days when he complained of cold or was found shivering he’d burn what he’d done.

       Frodo realized he wasn’t really well, and knew now he’d probably never fully recover.  He did his best to hide it, however, and daily grew more skillful at suppressing the symptoms.  He was growing stronger and his endurance was definitely improving; however his appetite was still not good most days, and there were frequent bouts of the nausea which he grew increasingly good at concealing from the others.

       He often sat out on the bench in the narrow back garden behind the guest house at dawn on those days when he didn’t meet Aragorn at the Houses of Healing, watching the rising of the Sun over the high walls of the Ephel Duath.  Pippin had sat here with him a couple days after they arrived, and had described what it was like before they’d marched on the Black Gate, how there was always a dark fume over the Mountains of Shadow and the lands East of the River, and how the fumes had come West to cover all that could be seen of the sky.  Now it was usually clear over those same mountains, and the land between the river and what had been the walls of Mordor was such an intense green it caused the heart to lift to see it.

       He was looking at that view one morning when he heard a hail from the house next door.  Mistress Linduriel, the wife of the healer Eldamir, had come out on the balcony of their house, and was leaning heavily on the railing.

       “Master Frodo?” she called.  “How are you this morning?”

       “Well, Mistress,” he replied.  “Isn’t it a beautiful morning?”

       “Yes it is, but I’m surprised you’d look that way.”

       “Surprised?  Whatever for?”

       “Eldamir has told me how very difficult and painful it was for you and Master Samwise, going through the Black Land as you did.  I’m surprised it doesn’t awaken the bad memories.”

       Frodo shrugged at the thought.  “Far from it,” he said.  “No, it makes me very glad to look at it under the rising Sun.  The whole time we were there it was dark and drear, after all.  Even when we were traveling through Ithilien we found it hard to see the walls of the Ephel Duath, for there was always a cloud of darkness over it.  As for when we were inside the land....”  She could see his shivering.

       “But now,” he continued, “every time I see the dawn over it, I know the nightmare is over, for the Enemy couldn’t bear to look at the Sun, and neither could his creatures.  Sauron has been cast down, his creation has been destroyed, the lands are once again open to sunlight and the return of life proper to it.  He’d done his best to denude it of all vestiges of beauty, to choke life out of it.  But he couldn’t kill everything.  There were plants with great spines there.  They were perhaps the only type of plant that could bear what he’d done to the place; but they were there.”  He gave a rueful smile.  “We found them by accident, and they probably saved our lives as they broke our fall when we dropped from a bridge to escape searching orcs; and we had quite the time getting free of them, I’ll tell you.  But even Sauron couldn’t kill all life native to the place.  I found myself proud of those plants, as sharp as their thorns might be.”

       The woman looked at the scene with renewed appreciation.  “I’d never thought of that,” she said.

       He shrugged.  “After seeing it only under the pall of smoke and ash and poisonous fumes, to know the earth is finally being given the chance to rest and know proper weather and sunlight--pure, unfiltered sunlight--is reassuring.”  He looked back at her.  “You are expecting a child?”

       “Yes, our third.”

       “How long until it is due?”

       “Any time now.  It has finally dropped in the womb, and could literally be born at any moment.”

       “May you rejoice to know this child is not born under the cloud of fear under which the other two were born.”

       “Oh, I do, Master Frodo.  I certainly do, and I give thanks that you and your fellows and the King are so close at hand.  The coming of all of you has allowed the whole world to be renewed.  Now I must go in, or my naneth will be out to fetch me in for fear I’ll endanger the child somehow.”

       She gave him a smile and went back inside, and indeed she could be heard speaking to her mother as she did so. 

       Later her son Tergil came out into the yard behind his house to play.  He carried a ball with a tether, and looped it over a rope strung between the support posts for the lower balcony.  He looked over the low wall and smiled.  “Good dawning, Master Frodo,” he called.

       “Good morning to you as well, Tergil,” the Hobbit answered.  “You have to tie your ball to a rope?”

       “Yes--or else it is like to go over the wall and fall into the yards of the Fifth Circle.  Then I’d not get it back.”

       Frodo thought on this for some moments.  How different it was, he thought, living here in this steep city of stone from the far gentler slopes of the Shire.  He watched as the child kicked his ball from one end of the yard to the other, the tether always bringing it just short of reaching the wall.

       Not long after a figure came along the wall carrying a large bag over his shoulders, a brush and a pan flattened on one side in his hands, carefully stepping over the low hedges or walls between the houses.  As he came, he was carefully sweeping the ash which still lay heavily on the ledges of the walls into the pan, then dumping that into the bag.  Frodo watched him with fascination, as did Tergil.

       “What’s he doing?” the boy asked his neighbor, pausing in his play.

       “I have no idea,” the Hobbit answered him.

       The ball was forgotten as the Man came on, until he stopped just short of the wall to Tergil’s home, looked over at him, and asked, “May I gather the ash from the wall in your yard?”

       “If you wish.  Nana has been saying it is awful to look at and has asked Ada to sweep it off, but he’s not felt like doing so--says he’s too tired from having to work so much nights since he returned from Ithilien.  What will you do with it?”

       The Man smiled mysteriously.  “What indeed?  That is indeed the question, isn’t it?”  He stepped over the wall and began gathering the ash remaining on the walls into his bag, carefully sweeping up every least grain he could.  At last he finished, reaching the wall between the two yards, then stepped over into that where Frodo remained unmoving, not appearing to notice the Pherian with his Elven cloak over him.  Frodo watched amused as the Man continued to sweep ash into his pan and dump it into his bag.  Finally he asked, “Well, what are you going to do with it?”

       The Man jumped and dropped his pan, which providentially he’d just emptied into his bag, turning to look with surprise at the small figure in the center of the yard.  He placed one hand over his heart, and gave a great shudder.  “Oh,” he said, “you startled me, Master.  I didn’t see you there--not at all.”

       Frodo shrugged, smiling slightly.  “I suspect the Elven cloak I’m wearing is part of it, for it tends to blend in a good deal.  May I inquire as to who you are?”

       The Man gave as low a bow as he could for the bag he bore over his shoulder.  “I am Celebrion son of Celebmir, master glassblower,” he said grandly.  Frodo examined him closely.  He was rather small compared to the Men Frodo had come to know best, broad chested but with narrow shoulders, his eyes a remarkable green in color, his fine hair of unremarkable brown receding on his scalp.  He obviously shaved his face, the shadow of what would be his beard easily seen.  Master Celebrion was examining Frodo carefully.  “And you are?”  Then his face grew excited.  “You are the Lord Frodo Baggins?  The King’s Friend?”

       Frodo gave a deep sigh at the unwanted title.  “I am.  Please address me as Master Frodo, if you must.”

       “Oh, Master Frodo--I certainly wished to offer no offense.”

       “None taken.  It is only, as I keep explaining, that our people find such titles pretentious.”

       “I see, Master.  I’ve not been North before, you must understand, and so I know little enough of the forms of respect given in the Northern lands.”

       “We tend to be rather plainspoken within the Shire, as appears to be true also in the Breelands, the closest land to our own.  Now, what is it you will do with the ash?”

       The Man beamed.  “It is a thing I learned many years ago when I was journeying in the far Southlands.  I went to Harad, and then Far Harad alongside a trader, then beyond Far Harad into lands where Men have skins dark as rich brown soil and hair that is in such tight curls it beggars imagination.  Few there beyond Harad know the secrets of glass, but I found a people on the Western coastline, in a land they call Camaloa, where they do blow it, and they produce some remarkable glassware.  There are active volcanoes on the southern borders of their lands, and they will mix the ash produced by them with sand to blow glass of colors to delight Elven lords.  Now, here we are, after Sauron has sought to darken the sky for us by sending up great clouds of the stuff--and I thought, Well, if Sauron knew how I can take such and make of it a glass of such beauty as to enchant Kings, he’d not have believed it possible!  I must harvest this wealth of material!  And so I have begun gathering all I can find.”

       “You make glass with it?”

       “Ah, but such glass--you’d not believe it.  Come down when you can to my workshop in the Fourth Circle, and I shall show it to you.”

       “How will I find it?”

       “The best way would be to come to the marketplace in the Fourth Circle and look for my booth there.  My daughter Linneth sells my smaller things there for me, and she can lead you to the workshop.  She’s the only one selling glass beads and smaller glass items in the whole of the market.”

       “I think I’ve seen her.”

       “If you have, you would know it--hair a soft brown from me, eyes blue-grey from her mother, quite the most delicate face, and that appears to be all her own.”

       “Yes--we saw her the day the Rohirrim left to return to Edoras.”

       “The day the Rohirrim left--yes, she said that the four Pheriannath walked back up through the city on that day.”

       The next day Aragorn was to take some among the Beornings out upon the Pelennor where they were to discuss with some of the farmers who looked to replant their orchards how it might best be done, and Aragorn agreed to carry Frodo down through the city to the Fourth Circle where the Hobbit indicated he wished to shop among the booths of the craftsmen who sold their goods in the marketplace.  And so it was that Frodo rode before the King on Roheryn down through half the city, and being set down he offered his thanks and took leave of the King, then turned to the stalls and booths until he found the one where the young Mistress Linneth sold her father’s smaller works.  She was as remarkably pretty as Frodo and Merry had noticed before, and she was, he realized, very young, probably not quite of adult status.  She smiled as he stopped at her booth.  “Master Frodo?” she asked.  “My ada said you might just stop at our booth and would like to see his workshop.”  She turned to a youth who was sitting near an older woman who sat braiding thick strips of material to make the mats sold in her own space.  “Meneldil, will you please watch my booth for a time so I can take a visitor to my father’s workshop?”

       “Gladly,” the youth replied, “if you will walk out with me on the Highday.”

       “I will promise nothing as yet, Meneldil.  And don’t sell all the strands of beads to yourself--your family can’t afford it.”  She rose and bestowed a winning smile on the youth and turned to lead Frodo away.  The one called Meneldil watched after them with longing.

       “Why would he sell all the beads to himself?” Frodo asked.

       She laughed.  “He wishes to court me, although both of us are too young as yet.  He buys at least a strand of beads each week from my booth, always involving me in the choice as much as possible, asking for my opinion on the color or the quality or the shapes of the beads or some such triviality, but always making certain it is a set of beads I particularly like.  Then for the rest of the week he tells me about the strand he has purchased, and how it goes to one he favors before all others.  Then, after noon on the Highday he comes to our home and visits with us there, hanging the beads about my neck before he leaves, telling me that no one save the fairest deserves to wear the beautiful works my father crafts.  I must have thirty strands he has purchased from me and for me, and each among the most beautiful sets my father has blown.  I am glad, for I hate the thought my father’s work might go to those who would not appreciate it, and these are lovely.  But I run out of room in which to keep them!”

       Frodo found himself touched at the thought of those beads and the remarkable manner in which the young Man courted the girl who stirred his heart.  “Do you find yourself favoring him in return?” he asked.

       “Oh, we’ve been dear to one another since we were very small, after my ada brought Nana and me here to Minas Tirith.  Ada is a great craftsman, and his glasswork is among the wonders of the realm of Gondor.  But he warns me frequently I am not yet of age and need not gift my heart to the first who notices my own beauty.  Perhaps I will choose Meneldil yet; but I have time to examine several before I settle on one alone.”

       She soon led him to a large building with a substantial chimney behind the marketplace, opened the door and led him into a large room whose walls were filled with tall, narrow windows of leaded panes, each of which had shelves set before them holding examples of her father’s work.

       Never had Frodo imagined such a variety of glassware.  He turned toward the windows and looked at the light streaming through glass of many kinds and colors--through bowls and ornaments, pitchers and goblets, vases and bottles of shapes simple and fanciful, colors plain or variegated.  Some were clear while others were milky; some were etched and others cased and smooth; some blown into molds and others freely shaped.  He was enchanted with the beauty of it all and stood enthralled. 

       He was drawn to a krater of golden hue cased with clear crystal with handles on each side, set upon a base of gold, coins of brilliant red caught between the layers of gold and crystal.  Had any told him of it he’d have thought it sounded garish; yet what he saw was fit for a prince’s hall.  Gently he touched its smooth surface with a single finger, smiling unconsciously in delight.  Then his attention was drawn to tall, rectangular vase also of cased glass, the heart of it a brilliant, rich green, a silver star of eight points inset on each side.

       “I love that one also,” Linneth said, gently running a finger along the top edge.

       “I think it is marvelous,” Frodo said reverently.  “If I had a way of carrying it safely home, I’d take it.”  He looked up, smiling.  “It would have been perfect for my Aunt Dora.”

       “I made it for Prince Faramir,” said Master Celebrion as he entered from a back room accompanied by his apprentices, carrying a crucible filled with sand.

       Frodo smiled wider.  “It is perfect for him as well.  As Sam told him--his quality is of the very highest.  That will be a beautiful addition for the home he is planning for himself and the Lady Éowyn.”  He thought for a moment, then looked up at the artisan.  “Could you do a sort of companion piece for it--perhaps a pair of candlesticks?  I would commission it as a wedding present for the two of them.”

       “You know them?”

       “Yes--Sam and I met Lord Faramir in Ithilien, and my cousin Merry rode from Rohan with the Lady to the battle of the Pelennor.  The Lord Prince is as wonderful a person as I’ve ever met, and the Lady is another.  I cannot say I know them well--certainly nowhere as well as I know Aragorn; but there is no question I honor the both of them.”  He looked at the crucible with interest.  “And what do you do with that?” he asked.

       “Ah--that is what you have come to see, is it not?” asked Master Celebrion, his face beaming.

       As Frodo watched the Man prepare the sand and ash for blowing, one of the youths opening the furnace and another working the bellows so the Man could heat the crucible until all within it was molten, he had to force himself to stay still and watch.  Perhaps only because the furnace was so well contained could he bear watching, particularly as the sand and ash began to melt into a glowing blob.  Of course it also helped that he had been made to stay well back on a stool with young Linneth beside him, a cold glass of melon juice in his hands for him to drink.  All these truths helped him stay focused in the now, recognizing this was a far different thing than standing over the fire of Orodruin had been.  But when Celebrion brought out the glowing glob of molten glass on the end of his pipe Frodo still found himself breathing deeply, although the scent here was quite different....

       It was watching that blob grow as Celebrion carefully blew it, keeping the glob hot over the furnace, that brought him back to now once more, for the fascination of seeing the beauty grow out of the molten glass as the Man carefully blew through the pipe.  The fires with which Sam and he had been surrounded in Mordor had been wild and destructive, the lava like a river of fire.  This--this was more in keeping with watching Iluvatar create a world by singing it into existence, infusing it with His breath....

       He broke through the memories of the Sammath Naur, was focused on the growing mass, saw it now being blown into the mold which would force its final shape, watched with fascination as at last the knife was being wielded....

       Some time later the mold was unbound and opened, and there was a most beautiful bowl instead, the surface of it a flow of colors as it was set where the light played on it through the windows and the displayed items on the shelves.  And he, Frodo Baggins, had watched it all come from a crucible filled with sand and ash.  His eyes were filled with awe and a wild delight as he looked at the finished product.

       Finally he raised his eyes to meet the satisfied green eyes of the artisan who was his host here.  “And to think Sauron could have done something like this within Orodruin, instead of loosing floating ash and flowing stone across the surface of Mordor,” he said, shaking his head.  “I think he hadn’t the imagination to create, could only see destruction instead.”

       He went back to his house carrying a small bottle done using the volcano glass as a gift for Gandalf, once again feeling assured in his heart that the nightmare for Middle Earth was indeed over, for beauty was coming out of what Sauron had intended to be destruction.  And the Wizard, receiving the gift, felt the relief in the heart of the Hobbit who reverently placed it in his hands, and was glad of it.  This was one of the few objects, he realized, he would bear away from Middle Earth with him, symbol of the healing that was, at least in part, taking place in the heart of Frodo Baggins.

45

       Aragorn had come to join them for dinner, and together he and Sam had worked in the kitchen, the Hobbit watching the largely silent Man with growing concern as he observed the careful attention given to slicing vegetables and preparing a salad.  As he came out to bring a stack of plates for Frodo to place around the table he murmured, “He’s only here, I think, ’cause he can’t bear bein’ on his own this evenin’.  He’s tryin’ to distract hisself, he is.”

       Aragorn was dressed today in a dull grey which appeared to reflect his mood.  Gandalf came in from the vegetable market in the Fifth Circle where he’d gone to bring back some early melons and the first of the strawberry harvest, and on entering the kitchen he’d sighed.  He set down his acquisitions and came out again, shaking his head.  Legolas looked at the Wizard with a raised brow, and Gandalf had shrugged in reply.  “It takes time to make such a journey,” Gandalf said, “which he knows well enough.”

       Legolas glanced briefly at the kitchen door.  “Perhaps his mood would be lightened if he simply had a hint that the journey is happening,” he suggested.

       “Has he tried using the Orthanc or Anor stone?” the Wizard asked.

       “If he did, do you think Lord or Lady would allow a glimpse of it?”

       “No, I doubt it.”  The Wizard gave a wry smile.  “No, we must look closer to hand for something to fully reassure him, I think.”  Suddenly he went still as if he were listening to something.  Frodo paused in his passing out of the plates to watch the Istari’s face, then shared a glance of question with Sam.  Sam looked again briefly at Gandalf’s withdrawn look of attention, then looked back at his master and shrugged.  Apparently, however, some idea had come to Gandalf of a means to possibly ease the anxiety of the King.

       Aragorn’s mood began to ease a bit as they sat and talked over the meal, and when they got to the strawberries Pippin looked up in sheer pleasure.  “Now,” he commented, “that was something like!  They are so wonderful!”

       Then Aragorn had stopped, his expression distracted.  “Something’s wrong nearby,” he murmured, and turned his head as if trying to figure out what had caught his attention.

       Then they heard cries of grief from next door, and the King was rising, all else forgotten, hurrying to the door, catching up his healer’s kit from where it hung on the hall tree, and Frodo followed after him automatically.  Aragorn led the way to the door to the house in which healer Eldamir lived with his family, and he opened it, not bothering to knock.

       Mistress Linduriel’s father sat in the day room on a couch, holding young Tergil and his small sister to him, his eyes wide with anxiety as he looked upwards.  He turned to those who so precipitously had entered his home.  “My Lord Elessar?” he asked, shocked, trying to rise to give proper reverence.

       “Don’t bother rising,” the King directed.  “The lady’s time came upon her?”

       The elderly Man nodded his head.  “The birth pangs began last night.  But the child was twisted in the womb, and it’s been difficult.  Three times Eldamir has tried to twist it in the canal, but it keeps sliding back to its former position.  He’s near exhaustion, my Lord.”

       “He ought to have sent for me,” the King said.  “Which room upstairs?”

       “Second toward the front of the house at the top of the stairs.”

       Aragorn turned to Frodo.  “Make certain there is water boiling, and have a basin of it brought up to me.”  So saying, he hurried for the stairs, taking them three at a time.

       A white-faced woman was in the kitchen, just having stoked the fire in an already warm room.  A large pot stood over it, and steam could be seen rising from it.  She turned to look at the one who’d entered, seemed startled and confused as she recognized the King’s Friend.  “My lord?” she asked.

       “The King has come and has gone up to the birth room,” Frodo explained.  “He asks a basin of boiling water be taken to him.”

       “It’s too late--I fear they’ve lost the both of them, mother and child,” the woman said blankly.

       “If anyone can aid, Aragorn can.  Is the water boiling?”

       “Yes, it’s just come to the boil.”

       “Then let us pour some into a basin and I will carry it upstairs to them.”

       The woman found a large metal pan and poured some of the water into it, then wrapped the handles with cloths, then handed it to Frodo, who, holding it carefully, headed for the stairs.  His arms were aching before he was halfway up, but he forced himself to go on.  He heard the murmuring from a room toward the front of the house and entered there. 

       The first thing he noticed was the odor.  He’d attended the birth of a pony once in the stables at the Hall, and had seen kittens born a few times over the years; the room smelled much as the stable had or the small rooms where the kittens had been born.  He could see Aragorn leaning over a bed where a still form lay, his expression distant, could hear him calling “Linduriel” as if he were searching quite far away. 

       Eldamir stood nearby, his face grey with fatigue and grief.  He looked up as Frodo entered, recognized what he carried, and came forward to help him set it on a table.  “We need more clean cloths,” he said, and Frodo nodded, turning and heading down through the house again to the kitchens where the woman had put even more fresh water in the pan and set it to boil.  She listened to Frodo’s request and took a stack of such cloths from the table and gave them into Frodo’s hands, and once more he climbed the stairs.

       Things were different when he returned to the room--no longer did attitudes and postures speak of defeat and loss.  Hope had entered that room anew, he recognized.  The King was holding an impossibly small thing in his left hand, turned to take one of the cloths as Frodo came even with him and dipped it one-handed into the basin from which the odor of a spring rain over a stone street just washed clean emerged; he gently wiped at the small thing in his other hand, then set it down on a towel that lay on the bed, knelt and pressed his mouth over it, gave small puffing breaths--and suddenly Frodo saw it move under the apparent kiss the King administered. 

       Aragorn straightened and looked down, a gentle smile on his face.  He took another of the cloths Frodo held and forced the tiny mouth open, wiped at the inside of it, lifted the form by the fragile ankles and wiped again, and there was a thin wail as more of the birth fluid was gently cleansed away. 

       A woman was leaning over the still figure on the bed now gently cleansing the privates of the mother.  Aragorn reached across to gently lay the tiny babe in Eldamir’s hands, Eldamir reaching for it eagerly, and then the King was leaning again over the face of the still woman.  Again he called her name.  “Linduriel, awaken.  Your babe breathes now, and needs his mother.  Awaken and come back to us.  Rest you shall have, but not the long rest before your time.”  Again he took one of the cloths Frodo held out to him, dipped it into the basin and wrung it gently, carefully wiped the woman’s face.  One more time he called, this time with a voice full of gladness, and there was finally a stirring, and the woman’s eyes opened, looked up into his.

       “It is another son?” she asked in a barely discernible whisper.

       “Indeed.  Tergil has finally the brother he’s demanded.”

       “Good.”

       Eldamir held the babe down where she could see it, and she could see that it indeed breathed and moved.  Her face shone with gladness.  Aragorn rose and stepped back.  He looked at Eldamir and smiled.  “We will go downstairs and reassure your wife’s father,” he said.  He took the remainder of the cloths from Frodo and set them beside the basin on the table and placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and together the two of them went down to the day room. 

       The Man held Tergil and his small sister close to him, looked at the King with a face pale with long waiting, waiting without speaking a word.  Aragorn smiled at the two of them.  “Mother and son do well,” he answered the unspoken question.

       Tergil gave a whoop of delight while the elder Man’s head fell back a bit in relief, his eyes closing as he breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.  The girl looked from her brother to her grandfather, and deciding the news was good smiled broadly.

       From upstairs could be heard purposeful movement and the notable tread of feet as Men and women moved back and forth, and at last there were steps on the stair.

       Eldamir’s face was pale with fatigue, but no longer with impossible loss.  He carried a blanketed form and brought it to show his wife’s father and his children.  “Another son,” he said proudly as he opened the blanket to show them. 

       Frodo took a proper look as well.  It was decidedly larger than a Hobbit bairn would be, but still remarkably tiny, its thin face moving left and right as if searching.  The child’s grandfather gently caressed its cheek with one finger, and Tergil looked down with delight while his sister looked on with surprise.  “Brother?” she asked her father.

       “Yes, my darling child, you have another brother.”  Eldamir smiled up at the King.  “Our Lord Elessar came and hope returned,” he said as if that explained everything.

       “All is well here,” the King said gently, smiling down at the tiny, twitching form in the blankets.

       Frodo broke away and went back into the kitchens, looked at where the pale woman sat on a chair at the table.  “A son has been born,” he told her gently.  “The bairn and his mother do well now, and Eldamir has brought the babe down to show to his grandfa and his sister and brother.  Go out and see.”

       She looked at him disbelieving, and with a sigh he came to her, reached up to take her hand, drew her to her feet and after him to the door to the day room, then he moved to Aragorn’s side and the two of them left the house to the joy of a child born and its mother safe.

       As they moved back to the other house Frodo asked, “You had to call the both of them back?”

       Aragorn nodded.  “It wasn’t very difficult--they’d not strayed far as yet.  Unlike you or Faramir or Pippin or Éowyn.  Merry wasn’t too far away; Pippin was quite lost at the time and couldn’t quite believe he could be called back.  Éowyn wasn’t certain she wished to come back.  Faramir, you, and Sam were all right at the gates.  Faramir turned gladly, as did Sam.  Only you, stubborn Baggins as you were, felt you had to argue about it, though.”

       Frodo found himself laughing at the image, and he saw his friend also smiling broadly as they reentered the guest house.

46

       Strawberries and cherries flooded the markets from Lossarnach and Lebennin, and the Hobbits appeared desirous of eating each and every one of them.  Those who sold produce in the Fourth and Fifth Circles were amazed at the amount of the fruits the Pheriannath seemed intent on consuming; and those who brought in milk and cream from the dairies of near Lossarnach found that each morning a Pherian awaited the opening of their stalls to buy the first of the thick cream.

       Pippin was the worst, and the morning Frodo insisted that Pippin seemed intent on literally fulfilling the Hobbit adage of bathing in the fruit and cream he’d given his elder cousin a markedly considering look.

       Frodo went up to the Citadel with Aragorn after they left the Houses of Healing.  Aragorn was trying to distract himself by taking thought on how he would deal with the folk of the Shire and the Breelands, and he wanted to learn as much as he could about the social structure of the Shire before he crafted the documents he would send to them.  They did a good deal of work in Aragorn’s personal study off the vestibule to the Hall of Kings, assisted part of the time by the Lord Faramir.  When Aragorn was called away to speak with Gimli and Gloin briefly about the amount of stone they’d decided was needed to provide for the repairs to the walls of the First Circle, Faramir watched after him with interest.

       Finally the Lord Prince Steward looked back at the Hobbit.  “Does our Lord King have a woman he favors?” he asked.

       Frodo shrugged.  “He’s very like an Elf in that he says very little about his loves or his family when they are not with him.  He’s certainly said nothing of any woman to us.  I’ve seen him with so few--by the Lady Arwen, who is his foster sister as her brothers Elrohir and Elladan are his foster brothers; by the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien--save she is very decidedly married to the Lord Celeborn; by the Lady Éowyn here--and that is all.”

       Faramir sighed, thinking.  “I know that when first she saw him Éowyn thought of herself as being in love with him, although he apparently did not return her regard, and rebuffed her gently when she declared herself at last to him.  But he speaks not of what he himself desires.”

       “He has never done so, save to say he has a great hope which could not be granted to him until he’d become King of Gondor and Arnor.”

       “And he was indeed raised among the Elves of Imladris.  So odd a thing.”

       “The Lord Elrond told me he has ever fostered the heirs of Isildur, the descendants of his brother who chose mortality; but that of them all only Aragorn did he feel toward as a father toward a son.”

       “Well, I can tell you this--there is for him somewhere a woman, and he longs for her deeply.  How can I not recognize in him what is true for me as well?”

       Frodo looked toward the door with increased interest.

       “And was there ever one for you, Master Frodo?”

       The Hobbit returned his attention to his companion.  He considered the Man’s face, and finally answered, “Once there was, when I was yet a lad, before I came of age.  Nothing since.”

       “She chose another?”

       “Yes.”

       “You regret it?”

       Frodo looked away.  “I certainly do not regret I had no love by me while--while I held that.  But I do regret not to have married and to have fathered children.  I was orphaned so long ago, and wanted ever the love I saw in my parents for one another, wanted to hold my own little ones to me as my parents used to hold me to them, as my aunts and uncles have ever loved my cousins.”  He looked back to meet Faramir’s eyes.  “The Ring destroyed my ability to love as a lad loves a lass, my Lord Prince.  Perhaps I would have found another--the day I came of age I think I was beginning to respond to the love held for me by my cousin Narcissa; but once I had It in my pocket....” He looked away again, shuddering.  “Domination and enslavement only did the Ring understand, and I would not be that way.”

       Faramir sighed and placed his hand gently on Frodo’s shoulder.  “No, and I rejoice you are not of that kind.  No wonder it was so difficult for It to catch ahold of your soul.”

       The Pherian’s expression became hard.  “Yet it did so at the last, and almost to the destruction of all.  Do not think too highly of me, Faramir.”

       At that moment Aragorn returned, and the subject of the relationship of Shire to Crown was again under discussion.

       Pippin did not have duty that day, and so Frodo had not seen him since he left the guest house early that morning at dawn.  When he came to the house again he was very tired, although pleased with what they’d managed to accomplish so far.  Pippin sat in the day room, an expression on his face that indicated he was pleased with something and was looking forward to the reactions of others.  He looked up with a level of satisfaction at Frodo.  “Ah, so you are home at last, are you, Frodo?  Was the day productive?”

       Frodo came in and sat briefly on the chair that the others had tacitly agreed was his alone, wrapping his cloak more firmly about himself.  “Yes, very productive, I think.  But I’ve spent altogether too much time in Aragorn’s office today, and the cold of the stone of the walls of it has seeped right through me, I think.  And what have you been up to?”

       Pippin couldn’t hide a smirk.  “I’ve been marketing, and finally managed to get all I required, although I had to go all the way down to the First Circle to find the last of it.”

       “And what were you purchasing?”

       “You will find out soon enough.  Will you be wanting to bathe?  I lit the boiler a bit ago in case you should wish a bath.”

       “Yes, I do.  Thank you for lighting the boiler for me, youngling.  This old Hobbit is getting as creaky in his joints as the Gaffer himself.”

       “Frodo!  Don’t you dare consider yourself old!  You’re only fifty, after all!”

       Frodo shook himself as he rose.  “Is it only fifty?  It seems an age ago we went walking out from Bag End.  I feel at least twice that right now.”  His expression had gone solemn and sad, and Pippin was disappointed.

       Frodo went off to his room where he finally divested himself of his cloak, laying it across his bed.  The fire here, he noted, had been lit, for the clouds were moving in for another rain, although this didn’t have the look of storm that had accompanied the last one.  He walked into the bathing room, intent on setting the plug in place and filling it from the boiler.  Then he realized that, contrary to what Pippin had said, the fire beneath the boiler wasn’t going at all, and the wood there looked freshly laid.  He straightened, looked at the tub, and froze.  “What?” he cried out in amazement.  The door to the hallway creaked open and he heard guffaws of laughter from Pippin and peals from young Lasgon.

       The boy was clinging to Pippin, both of them there in the hallway just beyond the door laughing fit to burst.  “You were right, Captain Peregrin!” the boy managed to gasp out.  “He has been taken by complete surprise, hasn’t he?”

       “I only neglected to say,” Pippin said between his own bouts of laughter, “that it is the boiler upstairs I lit.  I don’t think you’ll truly wish to bathe in that, although you’re free to do so if you think you can manage it!”

       The bathtub was filled with strawberries and cherries--full almost to the rim; and beside it sat several tins of thick cream.  Frodo stood looking at it in amazement, until he, too, began to laugh, his laughter growing louder until he, too, found himself clinging to Pippin and Lasgon for support.

       “What in Middle Earth?” he heard from the doorway, and Merry came in, leading Sam and Legolas, who’d been working in a parkland area on the fifth level of the city.  The three of them looked at the huddle of two hobbits and the boy with total consternation, then Sam went beyond them into the bathing room to look in amazement at the contents of the tub.

       Sam turned at last toward the three in the hallway.  “Mister Pippin--did you do this?”

       “Of course!” the Took declared proudly.  “It was worth it--truly worth it!”

       Elf and Brandybuck pushed by to see, and both joined the laughter.

       “Well, I never!” Sam said with respect.  “Who’d a thunk to do such a thing?” as his own rich chuckle joined that of the others.  “Bathing in strawberries and cream!” he chortled.

       “I couldn’t get enough strawberries alone to do the job, though,” Pippin pointed out, “so I had to mix in a good number of cherries.  Hope you don’t mind, Frodo.”

       “Jars and bottles and such we need now,” Sam said.  “Can’t let all this go to waste, can we?  Is any of them markets still open, do you think?”

       Merry and Pippin and Lasgon were sent off to the market in the Fifth Circle where there was a potter who specialized in pots for preserving fruits and vegetables, and Legolas hurried down to the Fourth Circle with instructions to bring back any apples or dried apple peel he could find and as much sugar as he could purchase.

       Frodo went up to the bathing room on the upper level to have his bath, drawing his dressing gown around the softer shirt and trousers he drew on afterwards, then came down to the lower floor once more, wondering what was to be done with his young cousin’s decided sense of mischief.

       They started before dawn the next morning, Frodo sending Lasgon to the Houses with a note that he’d found he had other pressing business he needed to deal with that morning and wouldn’t be able to meet with the King as usual.  Gandalf had absented himself again for two days, and no one had any idea where he was or what he was seeing to, trusting him for the moment to be preparing what was needed for Middle Earth.

       Frodo hadn’t slept well, but appeared calm enough, and he was certainly intent on seeing the fruit preserved.  They worked all through the morning.  Gimli watched the Hobbits at it and shook his head.  Stone and metals and gems he understood; this need to preserve food was beyond his kenning.  When Sam looked intent on pressing the Dwarf into stirring the bubbling fruit Gimli shook his head, pleading a prior commitment to meet with his father, and he hurried out of the house and down through the city as fast as he could go.

       At noon, once the day’s audience was finished and King Bard indicated he and those with him would be preparing their goods for their departure back to Dale on the morrow, Aragorn decided to go down to the Sixth Circle to find out what it was that had kept the Hobbits so busy.  His cousin Hardorn attended on him today, and with bow in hand he followed his Lord Cousin down to the guest house, expecting he would stand as he often did before the door in idleness.  Aragorn knocked and entered, and suddenly the former Ranger heard his cousin give out a great shout of laughter.  The front door of the house behind Hardorn opened.  “My beloved cousin--forget the pretence of guarding me today--we need you within.”

       Intrigued, Hardorn turned and went in, and was almost overwhelmed by the odor of cooking fruit.  Aragorn himself took his kinsman’s bow and leaned it and the quiver against the hall tree, and Hardorn was sent into the bathing room to pull fruit out of the great tub there into a series of three bowls--one for cherries, one for strawberries, and one for fruit going rotten.  Hardorn shook his head.  He’d managed to evade his cousin’s gardening, but it appeared he’d not evade the Hobbits’ canning.  How on earth had Aragorn’s minister of the Privy Purse and captain of his personal guard managed to get roped into making preserves?

*******

       Mistress Linduriel leaned back against the cushions and pillows piled up at the head of her bed, looking down with intense pleasure at her youngest child where he lay beside her on the blankets.  It was still a wonder to her to realize the two of them were indeed alive and growing stronger by the day.  Tomorrow the midwife and her husband had both assured her she might rise and go downstairs for a time; today was another day to laze and look on her wonderful infant with delight and listen to his brother and sister in the distance as they argued as to which would bring her the next tribute of flowers.  She dreaded seeing the plants she’d so carefully nurtured about the edges of their back garden; she was positive no blossoms would be left upon them.  Yet, in the end what did that matter when compared to the wonder that her child lived?

       She heard the distant knock at the door, the steps of her mother as she went to answer it, the murmur of voices, then the sound of feet on the stair, her mother’s slightly uneven steps followed by the heavier tread of a Man, but not her father or Eldamir.  A visitor, apparently.  She was glad her mother had brushed her hair for her and that she wore a quilted bed robe over her night shift. 

       She looked up as her mother appeared in the doorway.  “Beloved, it is the King and the Esquire to the King’s Friend.”  She watched with awe as the tall form of the Lord King Elessar entered her bedroom carrying a vase of flowers, followed by the much shorter figure, short yet solidly built, of Master Samwise carrying a basket.

       The King smiled.  “Mistress, it is good to see you looking so well.  And how is the child?”

       “He does well indeed, my Lord,” she answered.  “Come and see!”

       The King gave her a brief bow of courtesy and accepted her invitation, and she heard his measured tread, and the bare whisper of sound that accompanied the movement of the Pherian who followed after him. 

       Master Samwise paused near the bed.  “We thought as you’d like some preserves, so we brought you some,” he explained, setting his basket on the bed near her knee.  It contained six pots, the cloth over the mouths marked half with an S glyph and the rest with a C.  “Some is cherries and some strawberries,” he added.

       “I see, and thank you,” she answered.

       The Lord Elessar set his vase of flowers upon the stand by the bed, then leaned over the small, blanket-wrapped bundle that lay beside her.  His face was gentle as he delicately opened it to look down on the infant who lay loosely swaddled within.  The baby shifted slightly, turned its head, opened its milky eyes to peer upwards.  “Ah, small one, you almost chose not to remain with us,” the Man said quietly.  “Well, the Ringbearer sends his greetings.  And I, too, rejoice to see you with us yet for a time.  A blessing on you.”  He looked up at the child’s mother.  “What have you chosen to name him?”

       “Terevamir,” she said, reaching down to stroke the downy fuzz of hair upon the tiny head.  “Do you think he will like that name?”

       “A fine name for a fine child,” the King answered.  “And you do well, Mistress?”

       “Very well, my Lord.  I’d not have minded going on, I think, but am glad to see my children grow, and I rejoice this one is well and healthy now.  Eldamir would have been torn apart to lose the both of us as he almost did, I think.”

       “Yes,” the Man responded, “that is true.  For his sake alone I am glad you came back.  We cannot stay long, but wished to greet you this day and bring you these gifts.  Rest and strengthen, my lady, and in time I hope to see your children playing in the gardens of the Citadel.”

       Samwise stepped forward and peered at the child.  “So,” he said, “it was you as was the source of all the fuss and bother the other night, was it?  Well, I’m glad to see you, and hope as you’ll have a pleasant life here.  Your mum and dad and sister and brother are all pleasant enough folk.  I think as you’ll find it well enough, you know.”  He reached out and gently stroked the child’s cheek.  “Fine lad you have there, Mistress,” he said.  “I wish you a good day.”

       “The Ringbearer did not come?”

       “Not this time, Mistress.  He’s been busy the whole of the mornin’, and now he’s restin’ a time.  But he sends his greetings.”

       “Bear mine in return, and thank all of you for your gift.”

       The King bestowed his blessing on mother and child, then left them, taking with him his friend.

47

       That night was another banquet of farewell for those from Rhovanion who would be leaving on the morrow.  Aragorn again brought Frodo to the kitchens of the Citadel to taste some of the spicier and richer dishes to be offered, and afterwards they went together to the feast hall.

       Gimli sat by his father and the rest from Erebor, sad to see them go, although he hoped to return home himself for a time soon enough.  Legolas sat similarly with his brother and those of their people who’d come from Eryn Lasgalen.

       Frodo appeared cheerful enough at the feast, but ate sparingly at best, and Aragorn watched him with a level of concern as he frequently rubbed unconsciously at his shoulder or hand.  He was seated near a lord from near Erech who was describing the riding out of the Paths of the Dead of the King’s companions and the army that followed them, and his own people’s reaction to it all.

       Again Aragorn led the first dance with Lady Rhiannon; but not long after the dancing started there was a bustle near the doorway, and one of the servers made his way through the crowd to the King’s side and spoke quietly in his ear.  The King listened, asked a couple of questions, and sighed, turned to approach Lord Faramir.

       “There is an emergency in the Houses of Healing,” Aragorn told his Steward, who stood by his cousins Lothiriel and Amrothos and his aunt this night.  “I must go at once, but hope to return soon.”

       “I will make your excuses,” Faramir assured him.  “Go swiftly, and may all go well with you there.”

       As he approached the exit, Aragorn found Frodo and Sam by his side.  “I’ll go with you,” Frodo said.  “I’ve felt as if there were something building up much of the day.”

       Aragorn shared a look with Sam.  “He’s been itchin’ all day ’bout somethin’,” Sam confirmed.  “I’ve a mind meself to go back to the house early and rest.  That rain last night seemed to of put us both off our sleep.”

       “I see,” the King said.  “Well, Frodo, if you feel you ought to go with me, let us leave, then.”

*******

       Almaros sat in a corner of the Wounded Drum, a large beaker of ale before him--perhaps his eighth or ninth.  It seemed he had been doing a good deal of such drinking for some time--certainly since he’d returned from the assault on the Black Gate.

       He’d always been a tall, muscular, happy, pleasant fellow.  At twenty-five he was joyfully married to the woman he’d loved since the two of them were sixteen; he’d finished his apprenticeship three years past as a mason and specialized in repairs to homes and guild halls, and was a superb plasterer.  He’d never thought to go as a soldier until after the assault on the city by the forces of Mordor.

       His wife Kendriel had gone with her mother, sister, and the sister of Almaros to the places of refuge West of Minas Tirith, and he’d watched her go with regret.  His father was yet strong and vigorous, and had in his youth served in the Rangers of Ithilien for a time, until an arrow in the shoulder had lost him partial use of his left arm.  Yet his father had continued an excellent swordsman, and had remained with the younger Men to protect the capitol.  He’d been standing beside Almaros when a great stone cast over the walls by the catapults of Mordor had struck him and killed him instantly.  Almaros had been shaken, but also taken with a great rage against Sauron’s folk that had led him to volunteer to go with the Men of the City in the march on Mordor itself.

       Almost he’d been unmanned by horror as they’d come closer and closer to the Black Gate, but he’d managed to master himself.  He’d stood on the right-hand hill with the rest of the Men of the City, behind Beregond of the Guard; the Man from the First Circle who’d stood on his left had been disemboweled by an orc who’d broken through to their rank; the one on the right had killed two orcs but had lost his left arm to a third.  Almaros had been stunned by a blow to the helmet he’d inherited from his father and had fallen face down on the noisome ground; then both of the two orcs killed by the Man to his right had fallen on his back, and he found he couldn’t roll the things off him to get up.  When the one who’d lost his arm fell beside him, he’d heard the Man lying there, whimpering in pain for some time before he’d gone silent.  By the time searchers found Almaros, the Man had apparently bled to death.  As he was helped to his feet, Almaros had seen bodies of Men, orcs, trolls, and wargs on all sides, heard piteous cries, and had watched as the Dwarf who was the King’s companion had singlehandedly rolled the body of a great troll off of a grouping of three bodies, saw him lift up the body of the Ernil i Pheriannath and hold it to him, howling with grief until the Elf had come to take it from him, then declared this one was perhaps alive after all, if they could only get him to the King for tending.  Others had ministered to the other two Men, one of whom was telling of the great courage the Pherian had shown, and how his kill of the troll had saved the lives of all about them when the troll had attacked their position.

       Almaros had done nothing to save anyone--he’d not had the chance.  He’d lived, basically unhurt, had come home again relatively safe.  He’d not done as well as the Pherian had.  He wished he’d died.

       He knew that Kendriel couldn’t understand what was wrong with him any more than her brother Kendrion did.  Kendrion was a member of the City Guard, and had been one of the Men ordered to escort the transports of women, children, and other non-combatants to the protected valleys where hopefully they’d remain safe.  He’d not seen the great army massed upon the Pelennor; had not been there when the rain of heads fell behind the walls of the city, hadn’t seen the First Circle burning in the night.  He hadn’t gone with those who went out from Minas Tirith to march on Mordor itself.  He’d seen only the remains of the bodies of the Mumakil, the funeral pyres on which the bodies of the trolls, orcs, wargs and Men who’d fought under the command of the Nazgul were still being burned when at last he led those under his care from the places of refuge back to the city.

       Almaros had tried to resume his old life, but no longer was he carefree; no longer did he simply rejoice in his work and his wife and his home.  Now he saw to it the house was sealed shut each night; he startled awake at any odd sound he heard; he constantly called out to Kendriel while he was home to make certain she was there and had not been taken by an unknown enemy while out of his sight.  When he slept he had nightmares of orcs, trolls, and wargs; heard the cries of the Nazgul and the horrid calls of their leather-winged steeds; heard again and again the whimpering cries of the Man who’d bled to death beside him when he could do nothing to help, nothing to save him. 

       Tonight Kendrion and several of those who served with him had decided to go to the Wounded Drum in the Fifth Circle, and they’d insisted Almaros go with them.  Once he’d begun drinking, however, Almaros hadn’t been able to stop.  He’d said little enough, hadn’t joined in the laughter or songs; had gone to the privy at one point and had come back to sit in the corner alone, ignoring and eventually ignored by the rest.  Maybe if he could drink enough he could drown out the memories....

       Then one of those who sat with Kendrion was describing the battle as it could be seen from the walls, the lines of the trenches which had been dug by the enemy and which they’d filled with fire, the whine of the arrows, the crashing of the stones, the flare of the balls which burst upon impact and caused so many fires within the First Circle and even a few in the Second.  Kendrion and a couple others who’d also been in the escort for the women and children shook their heads in amazement at what they heard described.

       As the description began, Almaros set his head down on the table; half-dazed with drink, he found himself envisioning what they were describing; then it was as if he were there again, standing behind the wall watching that rain of heads coming over it; he turned to his father who stood by him to share a look of horror, only to see the stone falling on him again....

       He lurched to his feet, knocking over the almost full beaker of ale before him and the chair he’d been seated on.  “No!” he bellowed.  All turned to look at him, shocked at the wild aspect to his face, the mindless terror and rage to be seen in his eyes.  “No!  I’ll not go through it again!  You won’t kill him again!”  He continued to yell, his words growing increasingly incoherent.

       The guardsman who’d been describing the battle stood, stepping near him to place his hand on Almaros’s shoulder.  “It’s well past now, my friend,” he said, but the young mason struck his hand away.

       “Ye’ll not be cozening me!” Almaros shouted.

       Attention throughout the room was turning toward their party.  Kendrion tried to calm his sister’s husband.  “Hush, now.  All are turning to see....”

       “Can’t you see it’s all for nought?”

       The barman looked over their way, plainly upset at the row being raised.  “Ye’d best be taking him out so he can cool his head with some fresh air,” he suggested.

       The attempt to coax him out, however, was unsuccessful.  The more they tried to compel him, the more fearful and combative Almaros became.  Realizing he was likely to hurt himself or someone else, other guardsmen began coming over to try to help bring him out of the tavern.  Terrified, Almaros began to struggle.  It took six Men to finally overpower him and carry him out of the Wounded Drum, at which time Kendrion looked, sweating with effort and fear, at the most senior of those who’d aided in bringing Almaros out.  “What do we do now?” he asked.

       The rest looked to one another, struggling to keep Almaros under control.  “The Houses of Healing,” finally one of them suggested.  “They should be able to give him some herbs to calm him, I would think.”

       As no one had any better idea, the group turned to the gate to the Sixth Circle.

       The journey wasn’t easy, for Almaros fought and struggled the entire way.  He himself had no real idea why or what precisely he was fighting, but fight he did.  The guards at the sixth gate heard their tale, and their lieutenant made a decision.  “The King will be needed to aid with this, I think,” he said, and he sent a messenger up to the Citadel and detailed two of his Men to assist in getting Almaros to the Houses. 

       The last of the way seemed to take forever, for Almaros seemed to gain in strength in the extremes of his desperation.  Where earlier those bringing him had done their best not to hurt him,  now several grumbled they wished they had the strength to knock him senseless for the moment so they could make it the last of the way more quickly.  As it was, however, none dared let go of what part of his body each held to attempt it, for any time a limb was pulled free whoever was closest was clouted heavily.

       The porter at the door to the Houses watched the approach with interest, then turned to the page who stood by, sending him to warn those who served that night.  Healers and aides came clustering into the main hallway as those who held Almaros finally prepared to let go his feet, at least.  The warden watched as they set down his feet and hips, and those who’d held him pulled hastily aside.  Almaros struggled to his feet, still struggling to pull hands and arms free, shaking his head free from those who’d muffled his cries of fury and terror.

       It was into this scene that the King and the Ringbearer walked, their attention caught by the spectacle before them.  Frodo’s own attention was fixed on the Man’s face, apparently fascinated by the horror shown there.

       “What brought him to this?” asked the King.

       Kendrion, who’d held one of the legs and whose face was beginning to display a marked bruise where he’d been kicked, shook his head as he took a deep breath.  “He’s been anything but rational since the war, my Lord King.  He came back from the assault on the Black Gate thin and wary.  He drives my sister, to whom he’s been married two years, to distraction, insisting he must know where she is and what she does each and every moment that he is in their home.  He cries out in his sleep and strikes at any who startles him.”

       Another added, “He came out with us to the Wounded Drum, and has drunk steadily all the night.  He started to drift into a doze and woke suddenly, knocking over his drink and furniture, crying out drunkenly.  He seems to think he is under attack.”

       “Let me go!” Almaros cried out.  “Let me go!  Kendriel!”

       Kendrion turned to his sister’s husband.  “Kendriel is well, Almaros.  She’s well and home.  Calm yourself.”  When he tried to lay a soothing hand on the mason’s shoulder, Almaros pulled a hand free and struck him alongside the head.  “Ach!” the young guardsman cried out.  “No!”  As others sought to restrain Almaros again, the frustration Kendrion knew grew too great for him.  “You fool!” he cried out in the face of the inarticulate bellows his brother-in-law had been reduced to.  “You fool!  Quiet yourself, lout, that someone can help you!  Or have you lost all semblance of sanity?  What happened there that you have come to this?”

       Frodo could restrain himself no longer.  He stepped forward and placed a hand on Kendrion’s side.  “No!  Stop it now!  Both of you!”

       Both surprised by the authority in the halfling’s voice, they stilled and looked down at the Ringbearer.  Certain he’d caught their attention, Frodo nodded.  “Both of you will quiet your voices,” he said in command. 

       Kendrion looked in question from the small figure to the tall one of their new King, who simply nodded confirmation.  Uncertainly he pulled back from Almaros, then took a deep breath, preparing to explain.  “He’s been anything but right since he’s come back from the battle, my lord,” he said.

       “Were you among those who fought?” asked the Pherian.

       “No,” Kendrion answered.  “I was sent to guard the women and children.  But he was not even hurt!”

       Frodo shook his head.  “If you were not at the battle then you cannot know the wounds he carries on his spirit.  Keep quiet if you cannot understand.”  Then he turned to Almaros and those who had been holding him, and directed them, “Let him go.”

       All looked at each other.  With a nod from the senior guardsman they did so, stepping back.  Almaros stood finally on his own, wavering on his feet.  Frodo stepped forward and looked up into the Man’s haunted eyes.  “Those who have never seen the Black Gate and the Towers of the Teeth or heard the cries of the Nazgul from right above you cannot know what it is like, can they?”  Almaros nodded in agreement.  “Did one of your companions die nearby you?” Frodo asked. 

       Again a nod.  “Two,” Almaros said huskily, “and before that, here, my father.  A stone.  I could do nothing--nothing for any of them.” 

       Now it was Frodo’s turn to nod his understanding.  He gestured to the Man to kneel down so that he could look into his eyes, and again Almaros obeyed.  He reached out to touch the Man’s face, and there was grief and understanding in his eyes, and he said, “I can understand.  Many died to allow me time to reach the Chamber of Fire, and I could not help any of them.  Be at peace now, and allow the King to attend you.  For, like you, I have seen greater evil than I ever dreamed existed, and he called me back from it, and he can help you to find yourself as well, if you will allow it.”

       “I wasn’t seriously hurt!” Almaros whispered as the tears finally began to flow.  “I wasn’t hurt.  Why did they die?  Why am I yet alive?”

       Frodo reached forward to embrace him, held the Man’s body close to his own, rocking it gently in his arms.

       Kendrion looked on in worry.  “He’s been more than half mad,” he said to the Warden and the King in a low voice.  “What if he becomes violent again?  Shall we pull him away from the Ringbearer?”

       The Lord Elessar turned from the sight of the Pherian cradling the weeping Man, shook his head.  “No,” he said.  “This one needed one who understands--and there is none who knows the trials on his gentle spirit better than does Frodo.  Let Frodo continue to soothe him for a time.”  He turned to the Warden and gave orders for a soothing draught to be prepared, indicated the herbs he wished used and the proportions. 

       The Warden nodded.  “Mistress Ioreth shall see to it, my Lord.  She’s a good hand at preparing the draughts.”  He turned his head to an elderly woman who stood watching, and she gave a brief bow of her head and went off to fetch the required remedy.  The Warden then turned to the rest who stood nearby.  “I think we will not need all of you after all,” he commented.  “Let you return to your own duties.”  He turned to an aide.  “Prepare a room overlooking the gardens.  I doubt there is need to remove him to the house for troubled spirits--and if there is, we will move him there on the morrow.”  The young Man bowed respectfully and hurried off while the others scattered in an orderly fashion to their places.

       When Mistress Ioreth returned with the draught the King murmured his thanks, took it, and finally approached the two still embracing in the hallway.  He set his hand on the shoulder of Almaros.  “My friend,” he said gently, “are you ready to take some rest now?”

       Almaros looked up at him, his face streaked with tears.  “My Lord?” he asked.

       “Come.  A bed is prepared for you,” Aragorn said comfortingly.  “And in the morning your wife will want her husband returned to her whole once more.”

       Almaros felt the warmth from the King’s touch at his shoulder, felt it begin to spread throughout him as at last the Ringbearer loosed him and he stood.  The tears finally stopped as, sanity clearly showing in his eyes, he nodded.  “Yes, Lord Elessar,” he said.  He accepted the draught, drank it down, followed the King to the room outside which the aide stood waiting.  He was soon deeply in healing sleep. 

       Aragorn looked down on Frodo where he had sat himself in the bedside chair.  “Are you ready to return to the feast or the house, small brother?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “No--I’d rather remain here.  If he awakens again, it may ease him to know he is not alone.”

       The Man looked down at the Hobbit, and laid his hand on Frodo’s head.  “If you say so, muindir nín,” he sighed.  “Only don’t let your own spirit become troubled soothing his.”  He leaned down to press a kiss into Frodo’s hair, and left to return to his guests.  In the hallway he stopped to reassure the guardsmen.  At last he turned to Kendrion.  “Your sister is his wife?”

       “Yes, my Lord.”

       “Then go to her and let her know where he is and under what circumstances.  I think he will be much restored tomorrow.”

       “Thank you, Lord Elessar.”  The young Man still stood, however, obviously wanting to say more.  Aragorn waited.  Finally Kendrion blurted out, “He was brave, the Ringbearer.  Almaros could have become violent again and hurt him terribly.”

       The King smiled solemnly.  “Frodo knows the depth of his own authority, you will find.  He was in no danger, not once your friend responded to his command to be quiet.”  He turned to Ioreth.  “Mistress, please bring him a cold compress ere he leaves.”

       “Yes, Lord Elessar.”  She again hurried away.

       “I thank you.”  The young guardsman twisted the ring on his hand between his fingers.  “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.  I’m the one who joined the guard, not Almaros.  He wouldn’t have gone to Mordor if his father hadn’t been struck down beside him here, I think.  He went and was struck down himself immediately, but wasn’t badly injured.  I don’t understand what has bothered him.”

       “As Frodo said, those who haven’t felt the depths of terror which go through one in such a situation cannot fully understand the guilt that can course through you afterwards.”

       “Guilt?  He harmed none!”

       “True; but he has felt he didn’t help any, either.  He lived and others he felt more worthy died beside him, and he couldn’t help them.”

       “It’s foolish to feel such guilt.”  The King nodded agreement.  “I don’t understand why you say the Ringbearer should understand such feelings.  Neither did he harm any.”

       “Yet he still feels responsible for the deaths of many, for he is certain the length of his journey cost the lives of those who died here before the city or in Osgiliath or before Mordor.”  The King sighed.  “You cannot know how deeply scarred Frodo’s very soul was by his burden.  He may never fully recover.”

       Ioreth returned with the compress, wrung out in comfrey water.  The King nodded his thanks, then indicated it should be given to Kendrion; and as the guardsman pressed it to his bruise he dismissed him. 

       Soon Kendrion and his fellows were on their way down the ways of the city to their homes, and the King, after looking back into the room where Frodo sat by the bed, turned to make his way back up the ramp to the feast hall of Merethrond.

       Frodo sat by the bed all through the night, drowsing at times, but not leaving the Man alone.  Twice during the night Almaros awoke to see the Pherian still sitting near him, once definitely asleep.  He smiled, comforted, and returned to his own sleep reassured.

       Frodo looked up just after dawn when Aragorn again joined him.  “He’s slept well throughout the night,” Frodo reported.  “I think he’ll be well enough now.”

       The King leaned over the sleeping Man, who woke immediately at his touch, his face calm, a hint of his former good humor in his eyes.  “My Lord?” he asked.

       “You look far different now than you did last night, my friend.  Are you ready to go home, do you think?”

       “I believe so, Lord Elessar.  Just knowing that--that I am not alone has helped immensely.  You cannot understand, I think, how horrible I felt knowing I lived unhurt while others died about me and I had done nothing.”

       “You think not?  Do not be so certain, my friend.  Again and again, particularly when I was yet a very young Man, I was physically held back from aiding others that I not be hurt while I was forced to watch others go forth to die in my stead, others who all too often knew full well they would die that I might live.  And there finally came the time when I must ask for volunteers to go before, those who most likely would die, that the rest of us might fall on the enemy from the rear and destroy them, or that we might aid noncombatants to be removed from danger while the enemy was distracted.  Although you may be sure I did my best to make certain those who went forward were best prepared not only to die for the good of others but to prevail against the enemy against all odds, until at last they survived more often than not.

       “You see, as the heir of Isildur I carried the hope of my own people.  I could not spend my life freely for others, for I must live that in the end the Enemy might be properly opposed here, and that all of the descendants of the Dúnedain might at the end be brought together again under one rule to the hope of all the free peoples of Middle Earth.

       “I had the choice of either feeling ever guilty that others died for me, or to honor them for their willingness to die that those of us who were shielded by them continued to live.  My adar taught me to choose the latter.

       “One more thing, my friend--I honor your mastery of your fear to go forth from this city to the Black Gate, your willingness to place yourself in the imminent danger of death that others might live.  You saw how many there were who left us as we approached Mordor to go to Cair Andros instead, Men whose spirits could not bear to face the Black Gates and Sauron’s own creatures.  Your wife’s brother has explained that you were not trained as a warrior, and that you chose to go to avenge the loss of your father who died here in Minas Tirith during the assault on the city.”

       “Yes, my Lord, that was true.”

       “For one who had never thought to serve as a warrior to choose to seek to protect others, and to make it to stand before the gates to Mordor in the end, that showed far greater courage than you can yet appreciate.  Even if you never struck a blow against the enemy at all, you yet showed far greater courage and self-mastery than many who had trained in the armies for years who could not bring themselves to stand against their greatest fears.  And that Eru saw that you were not equipped to prevail in such a battle and saw to it you were struck down early and yet not seriously hurt that you might return to the comfort of those who love you--I give thanks to Him for that mercy.”

       “You give thanks that I live?”

       “Yes, my friend, I do.  The very fact you were there shielded so many, including the Ringbearers themselves.  Frodo himself would have died had we not gone to stand before the Black Gate.  And had they not made it to the Sammath Naur largely because we stood before Mordor itself as a distraction for the Eye of Sauron, all in the end would have died.”

       “I see.”  Almaros looked at Frodo where he sat in the chair.  “I wish to thank you, Lord Frodo, for your willingness to spend yourself that the rest of the free peoples might live.  It was knowledge that you moved in secret that gave me the courage to go to stand before the Black Gate.”

       Frodo flushed at the sound of the hated title, although he did not seek to correct the Man.  “You knew?”

       “I traveled among those who surrounded the Ernil i Pheriannath, you see.  I overheard him explaining to Beregond of the Guard that you and your friend had broken off from the others to go alone into the Black Land, and that our Lord Faramir had seen you and aided you on your way.  He explained our coming helped shield you.  If you were willing to secretly enter Mordor to seek the destruction of the Enemy’s weapon, how could I do less than aid you as I could?”

       Frodo was confused and humbled by such an admission.  “Thank you,” he said.  Aragorn simply smiled.

       While Frodo and Aragorn went together throughout the rest of the Houses, Almaros was examined by Eldamir and pronounced ready to return home.  He was allowed to bathe and dress again, then released to go home at the time the King and Ringbearer completed their visits.  He stood now straight and gave profound bows to each of them, then turned to find his way back down the city to his home and wife while Man and Hobbit watched after.

       You see, Iorhael, how just the willingness to spend yourself for others was itself a sufficient sacrifice at the time?

       Frodo could think of no argument to counter the voice that spoke in his heart.

48

       Frodo returned to the guest house to rest, sending his farewells to King Brand and the rest by way of Aragorn.  Gloin particularly was disappointed not to be able to take leave of Frodo, but understood and gave his best wishes to the King to forward when he could.

       Frodo slept much of the day.  He ate well enough that morning,  but as the day progressed he found his appetite flagging and nausea growing.  By sunset he was accepting only tea from Sam.  “I don’t think I could keep anything else down,” he admitted quietly when no one else was there to overhear his refusal to try what had been prepared for dinner.

       “Wonder as what’s bringing this on?” Sam asked.  “Not enough sleep last night, maybe?”

       Frodo shook his head, not at all certain what had sparked things this time.  The ginger and chamomile in the tea seemed to aid the turmoil in his stomach, but he still felt decidedly weak.

       Aragorn had ridden out with Brand’s party, and he’d returned to the city to spend much of the morning reviewing the plans to repair the walls with the engineers, masons, stonecutters, and Gimli; after a lunch in the Guild Hall for the Masons he then walked through much of the ruins in the First and Second Circles and spoke with those who were carrying out the cleanup of rubble and such.  Many spoke with him that day, and were honored at his interest in them.

       By the time Aragorn finally returned to the Citadel he was exhausted and willing to fall into his bed as soon as he had eaten a light dinner.

       It was not long after midnight that those who guarded the side door near the living quarters of the Citadel recognized the approach of Lord Mithrandir, his white robes glimmering in the starlight.  “I must summon the King,” the Wizard told them.

       Belveramir awoke at the knock to his own rooms, then sighed as he went into the King’s own quarters to knock at his chamber door, opening it to set the lamp on the table just inside, explaining that Mithrandir asked he dress warmly and for moving quietly outside the walls of the city.  Intrigued and suppressing excitement, Aragorn had risen and dressed in his Ranger’s gear, pulling about him his cloak from Lothlorien, fastening the Elessar stone to the neck of his shirt.  He left word for Hardorn that he was going out accompanied by Gandalf, and at last left the Citadel, joining the Istari in the gardens.  

       “Does the time draw near?  Is it needful for me to ride out to meet them?” the King asked.

       “We will leave the city by foot, but we do not go far; and we go not down in the end, but up.”

       Together they slipped down the secret ways of the city until they reached the barrier at the great gate.  None appeared to see them leave through it, or to notice Gandalf leading the grey-cloaked figure south to the foot of Mount Mindolluin where he indicated a barely discernible path leading up the slope.  Now Aragorn would go first; then Gandalf would, at a slightly wider place, push past him.  Turn and turn about they went, until as the Sun rose they stood on the edge of what Aragorn recognized as the King’s Hallow at the foot of the first of the glaciers which covered the dome of the mountain year round.  Once he’d been brought here by Ecthelion, not long before he had gone South to Dol Amroth where he and Adrahil together had planned the assault on the fleet  of Umbar.  As he stood looking Southwest toward the Sundering Sea, he remembered that day.

       “Why have you brought me here, my Lord Steward?”

       “I thought you would find it--interesting, my Lord Captain.  Was I mistaken?”

       “True, it is interesting and the view is spectacular.  It is very quiet here, so far above the city and the homes of Men.”

       “Yes, and on occasion the great Eagles will come here.  It is said that the heirs of Meneldil would speak with them here on occasion, those whom history showed to be the more worthy rulers of Gondor.”

       As Thorongil he’d given the Steward a sidelong look.  He knew that Ecthelion and Denethor both believed him to be the heir to Isildur, although he would not confirm either one’s suspicions.  Had Ecthelion truly felt that he, were he to accept the Winged Crown, would be one seen as sufficiently worthy to warrant converse with the great Eagles?  At last he’d hazarded, “Did Manwë send messages via them?”

       Ecthelion shrugged.  “It is said the great Eagles nest in the heights of the Misty Mountains to the North.  Do they speak ever with the chieftains of the remnants of the Dúnedain there?”

       He’d shrugged in return.  “Would such as I know that?”

       Ecthelion sighed, then gave a soft laugh.  “Ever you evade the question I would see answered.”

       “Would you see the King come again?”

       “Yes!”  He’d been surprised at the Steward’s vehemence.  “The day nears when once again Sauron will move against the lands founded and ruled by Elendil and his sons, and that includes both Gondor and Arnor.  Only if all the Dúnedain fight together will any have hope of defeating him.  And I fear this land falls further and further toward despair the longer we await the return of the King.”  He’d looked down on the roofs of Minas Tirith below them.  “I know that my son has given up hope of that day coming and looks now to taking up the rule of the land of Gondor into his own hands.  He does not realize just how vulnerable he is to falling to the lies of the Enemy due to how strongly the fear of Sauron’s eventual victory motivates him.  He truly believes only might of arms will defeat Sauron’s forces, and so he avoids the counsel of Mithrandir and Curunír, he speaks with dismissal and suspicion of the possibility of seeking alliances with Mirkwood, the Golden Wood, or Imladris, and places all hope on our bonds to Rohan.”

       “You would seek alliances with the Elven peoples?”  That had truly shocked him.

       “Do you think that Sauron threatens only the world of Men?  Elves and Dwarves are also vulnerable to him.  Just as all the Dúnedain must fight together, so must all those who are threatened by him work in alliance.”

       “And why do you tell this to me?”

       Ecthelion took a deep, shuddering breath.  “This hallow was visited oft by those Kings who most closely followed the will of the Valar.  Even if you are not whom I believe you to be, yet you are closest to those who frequented this place of any I’ve yet seen.  For all you appear to ignore Mithrandir in company, yet the two of you understand one another automatically.  You speak Sindarin as one raised speaking it every day, but it is not pronounced or inflected as it is here in Gondor--it is a purer form of Sindarin than that which we use.  You not only understand and can translate Quenya--you are truly fluent with it.  Your Adunaic is also fluent, although heavily influenced by the Sindarin of the North. 

       “The sword you wear at your hip is of Elven make, and you use it as if it were an extension of your arm.  You ask questions about our enemies, not only about how they generally plan their defenses and offensives, but also about how they live and what influences them.  You move through forests as quietly as a deer, and follow trails days old as if they were clearly blazed.  You need but speak an order and your Men immediately follow it, trusting it is best.  And I’ve seen your handling of horses--they follow you like hounds.

       “And, although you do not flaunt it, your hands are those of the healer.  It is obvious you have been well trained in the arts of healing and herbalism; but those treated by you heal more swiftly than is the norm, and all tend to recover from the Black Breath on whom you lay hands.”

       The two Men examined one another closely.  Finally Ecthelion continued.  “The Kings of Arthedain were always close to Imladris--this we know.  I can reason well enough, and add two and two and two to reach six.  If you are not the heir of Isildur, yet you are very close to that lineage.”  Again he laughed.  “There is even rumor, looking on you, that you are my get left on a maiden of the Rohirrim from the days I spent among them as a young Man.  Yet, although you have become as familiar with Rohirric as any other language I’ve heard you speak, yet you clearly bear none of their blood--or so little as to count for nothing.

       “Nay, my Lord Thorongil, whatever name you were given at your birth, I strongly suspect it begins with the royal Ar.”

       Again the two of them spent some time merely looking at one another.  He’d not dared speak, for he could not yet admit the claim he had on lordship to both North and South, but would not willingly lie to deny it.

       When at last Ecthelion spoke again, his voice held a note of desperation.  “Will you not tell me either aye or nay?”

       He’d had to keep careful control of his own voice.  “If I were whom you believe me to be, the time is not yet, my Lord.  And if I were to be otherwise, then I have no claim to put forward.  And would you have your son’s lordship cut short before it began?”

       “I would have Gondor well under the hand of the one intended to rule not as Steward but as King, working in concert with all the free peoples, when Sauron again seeks to overwhelm us all.”

       He’d given a great sigh of his own.  “Denethor,” he’d finally said heavily, “will not willingly give over his own authority to any other at this time; and were any to seek to forward a claim on Crown and throne it would bring great strife to Gondor, and at a time when all of it must work together.  Adrahil and Imrahil would both be torn, for they are now kin to your son by marriage, but would prefer to serve the rightful heir of Elendil.  Most of the greater lords of Lossarnach and Lebennin would automatically support Denethor against any other claimant to power.  Would you have Gondor be torn apart by civil war the moment you enter the hands of the embalmers?”

       Ecthelion’s frustration was clear.  “You think it would come to that?”

       “I know, Lord Steward, that it would come to that.  I, too, can add two and two and two and get six.  I have come to know the lords of this land, and can guess which will side with the heir of Isildur, which will side with Denethor, and which will wait to try to discern which will prevail before declaring themselves.  When the heir to Isildur comes to claim the throne and Winged Crown, he will come, declaring himself openly, displaying clearly the tokens of Elendil as High King of Gondor and Arnor--standard, sword, and Elendilmir.”

       “But only through the heir to Isildur can Gondor, Arnor, and the other free peoples all be brought to work in concert.”

        “Perhaps.  But if he moves precipitously, Gondor itself is not likely to remain whole long enough to cooperate with the others.”

       “You are indeed certain of this?”

       He’d looked on the Steward of Gondor’s stricken face feeling a deep compassion for the Man.  “My Lord Steward, foresight is common in my family, as well as the ability to reason.  I have seen what will happen to Gondor if the heir to Isildur were to seek to claim the throne and Winged Crown now.  The day has not yet come, and I fear will not come for long years yet, for the two realms to be reunited.”

       At long last Ecthelion turned away.  Finally he said in a low, defeated tone, “I thought that if I showed you this place it would help draw you to do what is needed by Gondor.  Gondor needs her King.”

       “Yes, my Lord, I agree--Gondor needs her King.  But little good will he do her if in the donning of the Winged Crown he loses better than half of her due to internal strife.”

        “My son already begins to fall from the promise of his wisdom, turning from your friendship and advice, seeking to undermine your authority.”

       “If I were to leave Gondor, wouldn’t he then be more likely to return to it once the threat of supplantation was removed?”

       Ecthelion shrugged.  “He has already fallen from the height of wisdom.  He cannot return to his full former promise, having already chosen spite over acceptance.”

       And he’d shrugged, set a compassionate hand on the older Man’s shoulder.  It had been difficult, watching the tears flow from Ecthelion’s eyes.  And it had been difficult at last leaving the Hallow behind as they turned to return to the city below, for he’d felt awareness there of that to which he’d striven all his life.

       He turned North, then East, finally back South and then Southwest once more, then West.  Those he’d loved as his family would soon go that way, unless one or both of the twins at the last chose to follow Elros rather than their father.  He sighed deeply.  “It has been long and long since I last stood here.  Gondor is beautiful under the rising Sun.”

       “Yes, there lies your realm, and the heart of a greater realm yet to come.”

       “Yet how is that to come to be if the promise is not fulfilled?  No sign have I yet seen that my own hope shall be met.  The Tree does not take new life and will not bloom again.”

       “Then turn from the living lands to where all seems cold and dormant.”

       Aragorn then turned--and saw it growing there, just within the bounds of the snow field; and for the first time since he was crowned King he felt the hope surging up through him as he gently laid his hand on it, and the young White Tree gave up its grasp on the earth with no struggle at all.

*******

       “I’m sorry,” Faramir told Lasgon again.  “I know not where he has gone.  Mithrandir came to call him in the dark hours, and where he led him I know not.”

       The page’s eyes were filled with concern.  “Master Frodo is in distress, my Lord.  He says it is not great, but that is not true.  His right hand spasms with pain, and his other shoulder is cold.  And I doubt he’s kept ought down since early yesterday.”

       The Steward’s face was full of concern.  “Have you tried the Houses of Healing?”

       “I’ll see if Master Eldamir is free.  He ought not to know such discomfort, my Lord.”  The boy gave his bow and turned to go back down to the Sixth Circle again.

       Legolas and Gimli hadn’t returned the previous evening.  Legolas had brought Gimli back to the city, then ridden out again Eastward across the river in Osgiliath into Ithilien.  “I have a need to rest in the forest this night,” he’d said, and Aragorn and Gimli had nodded their understanding and wished him a night of refreshment for his spirit.  Gimli had decided to accept the hospitality of one from the Guild of Stone Cutters and discuss with him sources of stone for the repairs to the lower walls, and so Aragorn had returned back to the upper city alone, sending word regarding the absence of Legolas and Gimli to the guest house that the Hobbits not worry before he’d gone to his own evening meal and his bed.  So it was that when in the early hours of the morning Frodo had cried out in his nightmares the only ones to disturb were his cousins and Sam.

       What dreams he’d had they weren’t certain, for he wouldn’t say, but there was no question he was in pain.  When Pippin would have sent for Aragorn Frodo had at first forbade him, not willing to see the Man’s rest disturbed after two short nights for himself as well as for Frodo and Sam.  Sam had prepared a draught of willow bark and chamomile for Frodo, and for a time he returned to sleep, but it hadn’t lasted long.  Sam had kept the door between his room and Frodo’s cracked, and he heard the restless tossing and turning resume within an hour.  He’d risen then and gone in.  Frodo had a distinct fever; the muscles of his right hand could be felt spasming painfully; and the left shoulder had gone frighteningly cold.

       Pippin had looked at Sam and Merry, and had gone up the stairs to call Lasgon, whom he found already donning his clothes.

       But the King wasn’t there, he was told, and he’d come back to report on the failure of his mission.  He kept busy much of the rest of the night with Merry keeping water heating so that they could lay warm compresses about the left shoulder and arm and the right hand; and by dawn the worst of the pain seemed relieved.  Sam sent him back to bed near dawn, thanking him and suggesting he get some rest. 

       Again Sam prepared willowbark tea, but Frodo hadn’t been able to keep it down for long.  Weeping with the pain, Frodo had finally allowed Sam to get up on the bed with him and sit, pillowing Frodo’s head in his lap as he sought to help him soothe himself.

       Mistress Loren arrived not long after the dawn and was surprised to find both Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc sitting at the dining table with mugs of tea before them, their faces pale with fatigue and concern.  “Is all well?” she asked.

       “Frodo’s had a bad night,” Merry told her.  “Sam’s with him.”

       “Would I be able to help, do you think?” she asked.

       Merry shrugged.  “I’m not certain how.  He’s not slept much and his stomach is giving him fits once more.  He couldn’t keep down what Sam gave him this morning.”

       She’d gone to peer into the room and found Sam as Sir Meriadoc had described him, sitting on the bed, massaging Frodo’s right wrist, Frodo’s face even paler than it usually was.  “Is there ought I can do?” she asked quietly.

       “I think as he’s asleep again, but it’s plain it’s not restful,” Sam had murmured.  “Thanks, but for now I think as there’s nought else as can be done until the King returns.”

       An hour later Lasgon had awakened again, and on looking in on Frodo again and seeing no difference he’d gone again to the Citadel and spoken with the Steward.  After that he’d gone to the Healer Eldamir’s house to find he was on duty in the Houses of Healing, then went there.

       Eldamir was busy working with a young Man who’d been brought in that morning, injured trying to enter one of the damaged dwellings in the First Circle.  These had been cordoned off by the masons and engineers; but now and then someone would seek to slip into a damaged building in spite of the warnings.  Eldamir and two others, one of them the Warden himself, labored over the youth, setting his jaw and a broken shoulder, and finally seeing him resting. 

       Foiled now in calling the familiar healer to Master Frodo’s aid, Lasgon had begged for any to come who could.  A middle-aged healer went with him, but was unable to offer Frodo comfort.  It was not for lack of trying; but he was both unfamiliar with Frodo’s case and, unfortunately, with the nature of the Ringbearer himself. 

       “Has this happened before?” he asked.

       “Of course it has,” Sam grumbled.  “It’s not like as this hadn’t been going on ever since we was brought out of Mordor.”

       The Man had insisted on feeling Frodo’s hand and opposite shoulder, and he was nowhere as gentle about it as was the King.  When he asked Frodo to remove the nightshirt so he could examine the shoulder more closely his tone was abrupt, which put Frodo’s own back up.

       “I don’t really wish to remove my shirt,” Frodo complained.  “You can feel it through the fabric.”

       “Well, I can’t truly evaluate a wound I’ve not even seen,” the Man returned with equal fervor.

       In the end Frodo had complied.  The Man had his first chance to see the extent of the scarring the Ringbearer bore, and he stopped dead, his face going almost as white as that of Frodo himself.  “Sweet Valar,” he’d murmured.  “I had no idea.”  He’d pulled back from the scarring in dismay at what the Ringbearer had endured, but Frodo had burned with shame and had pulled the blankets over himself and ordered him gone.

       Again Sam sat pillowing Frodo’s head on his lap, holding the throbbing hand, hoping that Aragorn would return soon, although Frodo, once his own quiet weeping was done, had again insisted he didn’t want the King disturbed.

*******

       The return had gone more swiftly than the trip up to the Hallow, for Aragorn had returned the way he’d been shown years before by Ecthelion, entering through a secret back gate into the royal cemetery.  The Warden for the Silent Street had been shocked to see the two figures making their way past the tombs and the ruin of the House of the Stewards, one cradling a bundle close to his breast as though he carried a dearly beloved child.  Not far below the Hallow Aragorn had stopped and removed his shirt, gently set the tree down while he filled the shirt with fresh earth from the mountainside, then gently covering the bare roots of the tree with it and wrapping the shirt around it to keep them from drying out.  As he’d lifted the bundle once he’d redonned his leathers and cloak he’d felt the relief of the sapling and its thanks for the concern shown for its comfort, and had carried it even more gently as a result.

       “What do you do here, and what is it you carry through these precincts?” the Warden asked before he recognized the King.

       Gandalf had straightened.  “It is the Lord Elessar himself, and he carries the sign of the hope for the nation.”

       “My Lord Mithrandir?  My Lord Elessar?  How did you come here?”  Then he’d paused, looking back along the way they’d come.  “You’ve been upon the mountain?” he asked.

       “Yes, sir,” the King said quietly as if unwilling to disturb a sleeping infant.  “We found there a sapling of Nimloth.”

       “You found what?”  The Warden’s voice was still with surprise and awe.  “You found a sapling of the White Tree upon the mountainside?”

       The King held it out for inspection, and the cluster of blossoms at the top of it could not be denied.  “Make ready a place for the tree from the courtyard,” he said quietly.  “It is time for it to be laid to rest.” 

       The Warden’s face was lit with a solemn joy as he indicated all would be properly prepared, and he bowed to the King and his burden as he saw them through the gate back into the Sixth Circle.

       The Guards for the White Tree were amazed when the cloaked figure stopped before them and asked that one of their number be sent to summon all in their group to help remove the old White Tree.  “But, my Lord,” one said respectfully, “until a new Tree is found to replace it this is not done.”

       Aragorn again held out the sapling he carried, and all looked on it with growing delight.  “The replacement has been found,” he said with authority.

       The Guards forgot their usual duties, clustered about the King and the young Tree, and gently they stroked its slender stem with a single finger, or one of the crown of leaves, or the opening blossoms.  After a mutual look of question, one set off to call the rest of their fellows.

       Ropes were gently bound about the limbs of the dead Tree, and all worked together, the King himself adding his own strength to that of the Guardsmen.  It didn’t take long, for the roots holding Tree to soil had long since died, and it easily gave up its place, apparently pleased to be able to rest.  Six of the Guardsmen set the old Tree aside as the King prepared the soil for the new one; within an hour and a half of their arrival back before the Citadel the young sapling had been planted.  “I will go now and dress that we might lay this tree to rest in the Rath Dínen with honor,” the King told them.

       Gandalf, seeing all was in hand regarding the planting of the White Tree, went down to the Guest House to summon Frodo and the rest up to the brief ceremony that would accompany the laying to rest of the old Tree.  He was pleased, for he knew that now Aragorn was relieved that the riding from the North indeed was in progress, and that he would give over the moodiness and begin preparing for the arrival of one whose coming he’d longed for over the space of almost eight decades.

       On entering the guest house, however, he found it quiet.  Pippin came out of Sam’s room to see who’d come into the day room and took a long breath of relief.  “You and Strider are back, are you?  Good!  Frodo’s in the worst pain I’ve seen him endure in over a month.”

       The Wizard hurried through to the study room, and took a look at the misery on Frodo’s face, gave a nod and turned and hurried back through the house and out again. 

       Aragorn was just pulling on a surcoat of simple green over his shirt when the door to his chamber crashed open.  He turned, surprised anyone would enter his quarters so, and saw the intent face of Gandalf looking at him.  “Frodo,” he said tersely.

       Aragorn had caught up his red healer’s kit and was on his way out of the Citadel almost before Hardorn could catch up with them.  “Where do you think you go now without a proper guard?” his cousin demanded.

       Aragorn looked up from where he was fastening the brooch to the neck of his surcoat.  “I was not exactly alone, and you know as well as I that I could take care of my own safety.”

       “With a young Tree held close to your breast?  How were you in a situation to protect yourself had any danger come upon you there?” Hardorn asked.

       “Frodo’s ill again,” Gandalf explained.

       The grumbling ceased.  The Ranger held too much concern for Frodo’s comfort to continue to complain at his Lord Cousin.

       Sam looked up in relief as Aragorn entered the room.  “Glad to see you, Strider.  He’s not been able to keep nothin’ down since last night, and both his hand and his shoulder are botherin’ him.”

       “Nightmares?”

       The gardener nodded.  “Won’t tell us what they are, though.  And what he’s been sayin’ isn’t enough to tell.”

        Aragorn leaned over Frodo, running his hand gently through his hair, feeling the forehead.  “Slight fever.  Have you been coughing, Frodo?”

       There was a slight shake to the head.  Finally Frodo said softly, “The hand has been hurting more and more for the past two or three days, and when it hurts worse, so does the shoulder.  Then it seems the stomach can’t bear--can’t bear to be outdone by the rest of my body.”

       Aragorn sighed, began to sing the invocation and allowed his fingers to feel deep into the hand, then the shoulder.  Finally he laid both hands over the belly.

       At last he straightened.  “You appear to have a mild case of inflammation of the stomach and bowels,” he said quietly, “and I believe that sparked the hand to begin spasming again, which as you said set the shoulder off, which in turn made the stomach even more uncomfortable to the point of no longer being able to tolerate food.  As it is you are nearly dry from the inability to retain enough fluids.”  He pinched the skin on the back of Frodo’s hand and watched as it remained wrinkled.

       He again set his hands over Frodo’s belly, and the warmth began to spread slowly from there throughout the Hobbit’s body.  After a few moments he moved his hands first to the spasming hand where he massaged it gently, moving from the palm to the wrist and then up the arm; then at last laid his hands over the place where Frodo had been stabbed with the Morgul blade.  Frodo found himself going limp with relief, and he began to breathe deeper, steadier breaths.

       When he at last removed his hands, the King looked down on Frodo sadly.  “I cannot heal all the wounds you have suffered, Frodo, only ease them somewhat.  But I believe I can heal the current inflammation, at least.”

       Frodo nodded.  “It is already better.”

       Aragorn went to the kitchen were Lasgon had set water to boil as soon as he saw the King arrive, and returned soon with a draught.  Frodo drank it slowly, feeling more warmth move out from his stomach to aid in the feeling of relaxation.

       Once Frodo was eased, the King turned his attention to Sam, and in a few moments he, too was smiling again.  After seeing to it that Merry and Pippin were also reassured, he returned to the kitchen where Lasgon was assisting Mistress Loren to clean the room.

       Lasgon looked at him, his face troubled.  “I’ve tried to summon you, my Lord, but you weren’t there.”

       “No, I wasn’t.  But the White Tree has been renewed.”

       The boy’s face cleared.  “It has?  You have found a young Tree to plant in its place?”  At a nod from the King, Lasgon gave a whoop of triumph.  “At last, my Lord!  At last we know that the realm will prosper again fully!”

       The King looked at his smallest Guardsman and the Knight of Rohan.  “Will the two of you please dress in accordance with your offices and accompany me back up to the Citadel?” he asked.  Aragorn then returned to the room where Frodo rested.  “Do you feel well enough, small brother, to come briefly up to the Court of the White Tree?  I have something to show you there.”

       “You have found its child?” Frodo asked, his face lighting with pleasure.

       “Yes.  I’ve already seen to its planting, before its roots could dry.”

       Aragorn ordered some broth brought to Frodo, and suggested he come to the foot to the ramp, down which they’d bring the old White Tree soon.  “We’ll then go back up to the Citadel and you can see its child.”

       Frodo was somewhat shaky as Sam helped him dress.  He drank the mug of broth, and donning his cloak from Lorien he, Sam, and Lasgon went out to wait at the foot of the ramp.  They arrived not long before the procession came, and those guarding the top and bottom bowed low as the Guards of the White Tree carried the remains of the old Tree slowly and with honor to the gates to the Rath Dínen, then through them to lay it at last with respect in the place prepared for it.

        Aragorn said a few words over it, thanking it for its service to the realm of Gondor and asking that the Valar remember it with joy; and at last with honor they left it to its rest and they returned back out of the Silent Street to the Sixth Circle. 

        Many from the level had seen the procession and had come out to learn more, and now they followed King, Wizard, and Ringbearer and their attendants as they went back up to the level of the Citadel and paced steadily back to the Court of the White Tree.  All looked so strange, for to see the Citadel itself so plainly, unframed now by shapely bare branches, was a new experience for all.  The Court of the Tree itself appeared empty--until all came close and saw the slender, small shape of the young Tree as it lifted its small crown of silver leaves and white blossoms skyward.  Two Guards alone had remained here to stand honor guard for the new Tree, and now all of those who served in this capacity circled it, bowed deeply to it in welcome and honor.  Their captain indicated which two would take up their proper stations alongside their two fellows, and the rest withdrew backward to allow others to come to see.

       The last of the shakiness Frodo felt left him as he looked on the small life now standing bravely at the center of the Court, there beside the fountain.  Gently he approached it, knelt slowly to look at it and up through its small canopy.  Softly he stroked it with one finger.  “You have come at last,” he said quietly, “come at last to take your proper place.”  He rose and stepped back, bowing, steadied by Sam’s arm.  He then pushed Sam forward.

       Sam set his hand confidently on the slender shoot, gently caressed a leaf.  “No wiltin’ at all,” he commented.  “It’s already takin’ hold, Lord Strider.  It will do well here, and soon all will rejoice in its shade and beauty.”  He, too gave the Tree a bow, and returned to Frodo’s side, where he now stood beside the King.

       The King looked at the page.  “Lasgon, would you like to go forward and touch it?” he asked.

       The boy looked up at him in surprise and delight.  “May I?” he asked.  At the King’s nod he went forward tentatively, and softly stroked the fine bark.  “Welcome,” he said.  As he stepped back he looked again at the King.  “I can feel a vibration in it.”

       The King nodded.  “Yes, you feel its life, already strong and rejoicing to be in its proper place,” he said.  He looked on the small sapling.  “We welcome you here, and pray that as the life of the realm again fills and renews Gondor and the city of its capitol that you continue to grow and prosper as well.  I cannot speak for all who will follow after me, but I assure you I intend to do only the best I can by the combined realms of Gondor and Arnor, and that I will ever honor you and your ancestor and those who gifted us with Nimloth and your lineage.”  All bowed deeply to the young Tree, and gently the King drew Frodo away, into the Citadel.

       Late in the afternoon, after Frodo had eaten a few small meals and had retained them, and after he’d slept peacefully for a time, he and Aragorn and Faramir came back out to the Court of the White Tree, accompanied by Sam, Merry, and Pippin, now again on duty.  All sat on one of the benches, and Frodo leaned against Aragorn’s side as together all took time to look on the small sapling with joy and wonder.

49

       At sunset the news was officially released throughout the city by the heralds at the Gates, and already messengers were speeding throughout the realm of Gondor with the word that the White Tree itself was renewed in the Court of the Tree before the Citadel of the Realm.  There was a general feeling of joy and holiday shared throughout Minas Tirith as the news spread and was confirmed, and shortly after sunset a parade of citizens was forming as it appeared all of its population was now intent on seeing for themselves the wonder of the Tree renewed.

       Gimli had waited much of the day for Legolas’s return.  The Elf entered past the barriers not long after noon, and together the two climbed through the city up to the Sixth Circle, arriving in time to see the old White Tree being carried to its rest and to join the procession up to the level of the Citadel.  They’d chosen to stay back while Frodo, Sam, and Lasgon were granted first right to touch the small Tree which now grew where the white form of its predecessor had stood dead for the past thousand years.  Finally the Elf came forward, and the Guards allowed him to set his hands familiarly against the shoot.  Legolas smiled with surprised pleasure as he finally rejoined Gimli.  “It is indeed alive and aware--perhaps a bit overwhelmed, but delighted to be where it was intended to grow.  And it seeks already for Aragorn’s presence.  Our Lord Elessar and it have now become joined in an odd way.”

       Gandalf joined them as Gimli shook his head and laughed.  “The stones of this city already delight to his tread as he goes up and down and through it,” the Dwarf declared.  “That a tree should come to feel the same....”  He laughed again.

       At a cry from above, they looked up to see, high in the sky, the form of one of the great Eagles circling overhead before it finally broke away and flew back Northward.

              The Wizard smiled.  “Yes, Tree and City take heart again at the return of the King, and the renewal of all.  And from this point the healing spreads outward as do the ripples in the pool when the pebble drops into it.  South and North does it spread, West and East as well.  And other realms also begin to know healing and change not anticipated.”

*******

       The following days were filled with activity.  Aragorn and Hardorn were finishing their visits with the various departments that saw to the well-being of the Citadel and those who dwelt therein or visited the place.  Aragorn was also doing a fair amount of conferring with Mistress Gilmoreth, and surreptitiously things were being changed in the Royal Chambers themselves.  What was happening and why the King did not tell, and the few who must know were sworn to secrecy.

       The King sent errand riders out to the North gate of the Rammas Echor, and Men accustomed to serving as scouts to the North and Western borders of Anorien.

       What those who lived in the guest house knew only was that their friend’s moodiness had at last fallen away with the finding and planting of the White Tree, and that he lived in an anticipation of delight.  Only Gandalf and Legolas appeared to appreciate what was coming, but they stubbornly kept their own counsel.

       New lamps were being fitted throughout the Citadel; windows were being opened on all sides and glass was cleaned along with all that could be dusted or polished.  Tapestries were cleansed and repaired; rugs and carpets were beaten and relaid or replaced; doors and woodwork were being stripped and refinished.

       Aragorn had had the statues changed in the Hall of Kings.  Those of Elendil and Isildur and Anárion were cleaned and polished, and he’d carefully chosen those whose visages he would look upon whenever he must sit in this room.  Meneldil; Tarostar Rómendacil; Tarannon Falastur; Ciryahir Hyarmendacil; Eldecar; Tarondor; Ondohir; Mardil the Faithful; Ecthelion; Denethor, certain others.  Frodo was surprised to learn that not all the rulers of Gondor could be shown here, and he was taken to the Halls of Remembrance to look on the ranks of those who’d served Gondor over the three millennia of its existence.  He’d been examining some statues near the far corner of the room when he’d found, hanging on the wall, a portrait that surprised him.  He’d hunted for Faramir, who’d been showing him the room, and drew him back to explain it.

       Faramir laughed as he looked up.  “So,” he said, “that’s where my father had it taken, is it?  I’d wondered.”

       “But how is it here at all?” Frodo demanded. 

       Sam, Merry, Pippin, and Gimli, who were all part of the tour, looked at the portrait with interest.  “What’s a picture of Strider doin’ hangin’ there?” asked Sam.

       “Well,” Faramir began, but the story was interrupted as they heard the door to the hall open in the distance and they heard the halloo of the King as he sought his friends.  “We’re here,” the Steward answered, “by the Southwest corner.”

       Aragorn came through, accompanied by Hardorn, Gandalf, and Legolas.  “I’d wondered where in all this you might be,” he commented, then looked up, and paused.  “Ah,” he said, “I see I am discovered at last.”

       The Wizard looked up and laughed merrily.  “Ah, yes, the portrait of the greatly honored Lord Captain Thorongil, is it not?”

       Frodo looked from Wizard to Steward to King in question, and the others followed suit.

       “I suppose I should finish telling the tale,” Faramir said dryly.  “You see, my grandfather Ecthelion had two whose counsel he felt most worthy--his son, my father; and the Lord Captain Thorongil, the strange mercenary who was so plainly of Dúnedain lineage and who was believed to have come from among the Lost, as folk here have always referred to the Dúnedain of Arnor.”  He smiled at Hardorn, who’d straightened somewhat at that title.  “He had portraits done of both, and would not allow Thorongil to override him.  They hung behind his seat in the Council Chamber.

       “My father, once he was Steward, had his own portrait moved to my mother’s chambers in the Steward’s wing.  I’ve just had it moved to the sitting room there.  But the portrait of Thorongil he kept in the Council Chamber, although he had it moved to the opposite side of the room.  He commented once to me when I was younger that he felt he always needed to keep an eye on Captain Thorongil, for he swore he was far more than he’d ever shown himself here.  The tone of his voice, however, made it plain that he himself felt that what Thorongil might be was suspicious in the extreme.”

       Frodo surprised himself by beginning to chuckle, and soon all were laughing with abandon.  Frodo turned to Aragorn.  “You always have been a suspicious rogue, you know,” he managed to say.

       Sam nodded.  “Oh, yes, Longshanks!  From the first time as we seen you there in the corner in the Pony!”

       The rest laughed.  “Ah, Strider,” Gandalf said, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “how you have long confounded all who have known you over the years.”

       Faramir grinned openly.  “I, myself, am glad that my grandfather’s beloved counselor has returned at last to Gondor.  He so hoped you were indeed the King.”

       Aragorn nodded.  “Oh, I know,” he said.  “But if that was last hanging in the Council Chamber, how did it end up here?”

       “Father had it removed here not long after Boromir left in search of Imladris.  I think he was trying to actively banish you from memory.  A question, Aragorn--why do you have my father’s statue still displayed in honor in the Hall of Kings?  He showed you so much distrust and envy.”

       Aragorn’s face became solemn with memory.  “Yet he served Gondor long and well, save at the very last when Sauron’s lies at last drove him to despair.”  He searched Faramir’s eyes.  “Would it not have caused you distress if I had removed his statue?”

       “Yes,” Faramir answered slowly.  “But I would not have blamed you in the least.”

       The King shrugged, looked back briefly at the picture, although he plainly recalled its companion.  “Yet I always admired him, his knowledge, his understanding of the realm and the city and his ability to read the hearts of those he met.  I loved him, Faramir, one of the few here in Gondor I thought of as a kindred spirit.  But then the envy took him.”  He looked back at Faramir.  “My admiration for his wisdom and skills, however, has not waned.  I will not seek to punish him for his humanity by banishing his statue when I still honor the memory of his greatness.”

*******

       The dreams of ills in the Shire continued to disrupt Frodo’s sleep and to appear in visions at times during the day.  Aragorn kept a strict watch on the Hobbit, and on those nights when Frodo had been most restless during the day would make a point of walking down to the Sixth Circle to walk about with Frodo, allowing Sam to rest many times.  They spoke of many things during these walks--of their childhoods and their dreams when younger; of their impressions of the lands they’d visited.  But other than commenting he felt they needed to return to the Shire soon, Frodo would not tell anyone of the images he kept experiencing of the evils that might be besetting his homeland.

       Frodo was surprised to learn that Aragorn hadn’t been aware of the existence of the Lady Arwen during his childhood.  “Her portrait hung in Adar’s room, but I had assumed she was merely some relative long passed West,” Aragorn commented.  “I saw her first on the day I came of age, just after Adar first told me my true name and lineage.  I was amazed at her loveliness.  I thought at first she was Lúthien come to life.  But I was but a mortal newly come to manhood, and she a great Lady among the Elves, the Evenstar of her people, who had dwelt among her mother’s folk in Lorien for over twenty years.  The Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, after all, are parents to her mother.”

       “Your brothers never mentioned her?”

       “At times, but so obliquely I never understood their meaning.  Adar never mentioned her in my presence.  Elves rarely speak of those not present to those who do not know them without need.  Such is not their way.”

       Frodo nodded his understanding, and the subject was changed.

       Often they would end either in the gardens for the Houses of Healing or in the Court of the White Tree.  When the King brought the Ringbearer back to the guest house he would be relaxed and sleep deeply for a time; but the images he refused to share continued to plague him, and on nights of rain he’d dream one or another of the memories from his encounters with evil.

       He told stories to the children who still came to spy on him, and to Lasgon and to Tergil and his small sister as well.  He visited Master Iorhael’s shop, and on occasion went further down the city alone or with the King or with others from the Fellowship.  He attended many of the King’s audiences and saw more trials, none of them so serious as those he’d already seen, however.  He accompanied Merry a couple times when it was Merry’s duty to stand before the tomb where Théoden’s body lay; he went three times to watch the weapons practice, amazed at how good Merry and Pippin were becoming with their swords, thrilled to see the controlled skill Aragorn displayed.

       He met important folk and unimportant folk as well, wrote his evaluations, tried to keep up his notes intended for Bilbo’s book, drew his pictures--Master Iorhael reading a book and another time dozing in his shop; Mistress Linduriel nursing her infant, both of them now plainly flourishing; Lasgon and Mistress Loren moving a couch; Gimli and Legolas lounging on the balcony, bickering familiarly; Sam working in one garden or another; Pippin on his duty; Merry with a book in his lap, looking up to tell a story he’d just learned; Gandalf standing on the keel of rock overlooking the vista of Gondor to the South and East, the breeze stirring his white hair, his face full of thought and joy.  And at times he drew the images of his dreams and memories, taking care to burn them before his cousins or Sam could see.

       He told Lasgon the story of the first meeting with the King, and drew a picture of Aragorn as he’d appeared then, the mysterious Strider the Ranger sitting in the dark corner of the Prancing Pony’s common room, his hood over his head, his eyes lit by the glow of the embers of his pipe.  It was the first of several portraits he drew for the boy.

       On occasion he’d visit the workshop of Master Celebrion, and he paid the Man the fee he’d indicated he desired for the candlesticks Frodo planned as wedding gifts for Faramir and Éowyn.  He sometimes ate in the Citadel with Aragorn, either in the dining room or in the King’s own sitting room.

       Aragorn had made some changes to the room.  A couple chairs were replaced completely, and colors were now predominantly greens.  A picture of a woodland hall seen through trees hung there now.  He’d had new dishes made just for the Royal Wing, each painted with a depiction of the Two Trees of the Valar against dark blue set with seven stars.  Crystals of amethyst, quartz, and many other gemstones stood on tables.  A statue showing a figure of a woman seeming to grow out of a tree stood in a corner of the room.  Legolas had long examined this figure, and had turned to look at Aragorn with an unfathomable expression in his eyes, the first time he saw it.

       Aragorn was having a new robe made in dark green, simple and elegant, decorated not with embroidery but with a patchwork of squares on the yoke.  After he and Frodo left the tailor’s shop where the robe was to be crafted they paused by a weaving room and looked into it.  A great loom held on it the beginnings of a great blanket in soft blues and greens, and the King stopped at the sight of it.  He went into the shop and he made inquiries regarding it.  The weaver had just taken an impulse to weave such a thing--it was not commissioned for anyone in particular.

        The King had smiled.  “I would purchase it when it is completed, then,” he said; “or if you do not wish to sell this one I will commission another like to it.  How long until it is done, do you think?”

       Four days later Aragorn accepted delivery of it, and he took it into his own quarters, although Frodo noted it was not laid over his own bed.

       Aragorn continued to wait for something, and neither he nor Gandalf would speak of what it was.  But whatever it was he awaited, now he waited in joy--that was plain.  The Hobbits were mad with curiosity; Legolas would simply stand there, his mouth closed but smiling mysteriously; and Gandalf simply laughed at them all and counseled continued patience.  Gimli would just sit near an open window or downwind of Elf and Frodo, looking between the three of them who plainly knew, watching them in a calculated manner.

       Prince Faramir was as curious as the Hobbits.  “He tells me nothing,” he confided to Frodo, “but I’d hazard his lady is coming, whomever she might be.  You have no idea?”

       “None of us spoke on our journey of any we cared for,” Frodo explained.  “Certainly Sam never mentioned Rosie Cotton, and Merry’s not mentioned any of those he’d been considering.  I suspect in the end he’ll marry Estella Bolger, myself, although I can’t tell you why I think that.”

       “And you, Frodo--whom would you consider?”

       “Whom indeed?” Frodo said, shrugging.  He gave a great sigh, rubbing at his shoulder.  He was quiet for some time before he finally answered, “I doubt now I’ll ever take a wife.”

       “Why not?  Are you too old among your people to consider marriage?”

       “Too old?  No, not exactly--I’m but fifty, after all.  But--but after what I’ve been through and how I am now....  Who would have me, Faramir?  And on whom would I ever wish to inflict my nightmares and my uncertain health and my----”  He didn’t finish.

       “Your feelings of guilt?” suggested the Man.

       Frodo didn’t answer, merely shrugged again as he looked out the nearest window.

       It was with the healers he now found himself in contention.  The Man who’d come to the house on the morning the White Tree was found had carried back to the Houses of Healing the description of Frodo’s condition and the scars he’d seen.  Eldamir was not pleased, for he knew now that his fellows would not give Frodo any peace.  On the next day Frodo came when the King did not they converged on him.  Frodo was white with upset as he was coaxed to bare his scars and describe his symptoms.  He left vowing not to return unless Aragorn was present, but the healers now pursued him.  Every day one or another would come sometime during the course of the day to bring him one or another suggested remedy for the stomach upset or the recurring coldness in shoulder or the ache of hand and Morgul wound.  Aragorn arrived as one was urging on Frodo the proposed benefits of rubbing a particular salve on the scars from the whip weals, and quickly sent him packing.

       “What was that about?” he demanded, and an embarrassed Frodo confessed how the healers had developed an interest in his condition to him and to Sam.  Aragorn left the guest house and went to the Houses of Healing where he demanded to speak to all.  Now and then a draught would still appear by Frodo’s side as he was speaking to one or another of those who were served in the Houses of Healing, or a pot of balm would be left on the doorstep.  Frodo appreciated the thoughtfulness at the same time he resented what he saw as their insistence on intruding into his life.

       Aragorn still sent the morning draught via Eldamir, but Frodo would have to force himself to drink it, admitting that when he didn’t get it he did feel worse.  But he wanted an end to it all.  He only wished he could be well, and no longer have to deal with a stomach that without warning would become ill, a hand that spasmed from time to time, and a shoulder that ached to some extent almost constantly.

*******

       Then one afternoon two of the errand riders came thundering through the gates of the Rammas Echor from Anorien, riding their horses up through the streets of the city, the folk of Minas Tirith scattering to allow them through until they reached the stable in the Sixth Circle.  There they dismounted and hurried up the ramp to the Citadel.

       “There is a riding of fair folk coming from the North,” one said as he knelt before the King, who stood by his companions near the Court of the White Tree.  “They will arrive day after tomorrow, probably not long before sunset.”

       “The day before Midsummer,” Aragorn murmured, his face alight with joy.  “A fitting time.”

       Prince Faramir shared a look with his uncle and then with Frodo.  It appeared that the answer to the riddle of the King’s reticence would soon be made plain to all.

50

       Some days had been good for Frodo, while others were, if not bad, at the very best uncomfortable, usually in response to what he saw about him, he realized.

       The death of a soldier who’d been badly burned in the assault on the city from still another infection caused Frodo great grief.  Frodo had been visiting the Man almost every day since the return from Ithilien, and he’d come to care deeply for him, appreciating his sense of humor and the courage with which he’d faced each new day.  The Man had fought infection after infection until the last one had set in.  The soldier had been withdrawn when Frodo visited him the last time, and they had spent much of the visit in mutual quiet, Frodo holding the one hand which hadn’t been badly seared when he’d found himself caught in the fires which had raged within the First Circle of the city.  The next morning when he arrived Frodo had found the room empty, the bed stripped, the healers and aides who’d dealt with the Man most solemn as the Warden explained the Man had died in the night.

       He’d stopped to see several others, including the youth who’d fallen from the walls of the Fifth Circle and the young Man who’d been hurt in the rubble in the First Circle.  A child who’d been brought to the Houses after swallowing a goodly portion of her mother’s soap had held Frodo’s hand and smiled up at him as he’d taught her nursery rhymes from the Shire.

       “One, two, eyes of blue.
       Three, four, feet on the floor.
       Five, six, add eggs and mix.
       Seven, eight, fetch a plate.
       Nine, ten, do it again.”

       It appeared the girl would recover completely, as would the youth and young Man, which was heartening; but the loss of a person for whom he’d come to care so deeply left Frodo the more bereft.  He’d not had the heart to eat much that night, and his grief for the soldier left him withdrawn the following day. 

       Pippin returned from his duty to find Frodo sitting in the narrow back yard of their house, looking across the river toward Ithilien.  Frodo had come down from Aragorn’s audience that day early, pleading fatigue.  He’d drunk the water he’d been given but hadn’t touched the plate of vegetables and cold meats he’d been served.  Merry was leaning on the balcony looking down, his eyes troubled.

       “Did he eat anything at luncheon?” Pippin murmured in Merry’s ear.

       Looking down at the still figure below to see if there was any sign Frodo had overheard, Merry shook his head and pulled his younger cousin back inside.  “No,” he’d declared once he had Pippin back in the kitchen.  “Just pushed all about his plate moodily.”

       Sam, who’d recently returned from the yard of the empty house with the day’s harvest of mushrooms, looked over from where he was cleaning them with a brush.  “He’s not ill--or leastwise, he’s not as yet.  But if he won’t eat soon he will be, if you take my meaning.  Thought as if we was to have a goodly amount of mushrooms maybe he’d eat some at supper, for he could never say no to mushrooms less’n he was almost too ill to stand at all.”

       Pippin’s face brightened.  “Wait,” he said, “I have an idea.”

       “What kind of idea?” asked Merry.

       “Just leave supper to me,” Pippin said mysteriously.  “If I can’t get Frodo to eat, then we’ll send for Aragorn.  But, if he isn’t ill, I’ll wager he’ll be eating and laughing soon.”

       “What are you going to do?” Merry asked, his curiosity piqued.

       “Wait and see,” the Took admonished.  “Just clear out and let me work.”

*******

       “What’s your name?” Frodo asked the boy who’d come alone to peak over the wall from the yard of the empty house two down from theirs, and who’d been coaxed to cross carefully through that of Eldamir’s family to that of the Hobbits’.

       “Fargillion, sir,” the child had answered.

       “Where do you live?”

       “Down in the Fifth Circle, almost right down below, sir.  Sometimes I look up and can see you leaning on the wall looking out.”

       “You can?  I see.”

       “What’s your name?” Fargillion had asked, emboldened.

       “Frodo Baggins, at your service.”  Frodo gave a half-bow from his seat on the bench.

       “What does that mean?”

       “It’s the way most in the North introduce themselves to others.  It means that should you need whatever aid I might be able to give you, I will gladly help you if I can.”

       “Can you tell my big brother to stop tousling my hair?”

       Frodo gave the first laugh of the day.  “Would it do any good for me to speak to him, do you think?”

       The boy shrugged.  “I’m not sure, but it might be worth a try.”

       “How old are you?”

       “Nine and a half.”

       “How old is your brother?”

       “Margil is fifteen.  He’s to apprentice soon to a baker.”

       “Ah, a wonderful profession,” Frodo said, smiling.

       The boy shrugged.  “I’d rather be a soldier, myself.  I like swords.”

       Frodo’s humor fell away.  “I see.”

       “The Lord Prince Faramir is a soldier, you see, and I’d like to be like him.”

       The Hobbit found himself smiling again.  “Now, that is a worthy ambition, if you mean to be truly like him.”

       “You know him?”

       “Yes.  I met him first over there,” he said, indicating the far side of the Anduin.  “He showed himself an excellent warrior that day, but told me something I will never forget--that he loves the sword not for its brightness, but for what he can protect with it.”

       “And what can he protect with it?” the boy asked.

       Frodo thought for the moment, then looked deeply into the child’s eyes.  “You--you, your family, your friends, your city, your nation.  He loves it very deeply, you know, as did his brother Boromir.”

       “You knew the Lord Captain Boromir, too?”  The boy’s face was growing pink with excitement.

       “Yes, I did.  He traveled with us from the North, from Imladris to Parth Galen beneath Amon Hen, on the lake just this side of the Argonath.”  He found the memory didn’t hurt today.

       “You saw the Argonath?” the child asked in amazement.

       “Oh, yes, we did.  We sailed down the river between them, looking up at them.  Boromir admitted it was the first time he’d seen them, also, he who had lived here in Gondor all his life.”

       “Were you in the boat with him?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “No, Sam and I rode in the boat with the Lord Aragorn Elessar, while my cousins Merry and Pippin rode with Boromir and Gimli rode with Legolas, the Elf.”

       “Until you came with the King, I’d never seen an Elf.”

       “I know.  I’d not seen any for many years until we left my home of Bag End to come out of the Shire.”

       “But you’d seen them before?”

       “Yes.  I saw an Elf the first time when I was perhaps about of an age with you.  Elves, particularly those from the wandering tribes, like the Shire, and used to cross it frequently, going East or West, mostly.  For many years, however, most that could be seen had been going West, to the Havens and away, and wouldn’t stay to talk.”

       “Is the Pelargir West of you?”

       Frodo again laughed, but with a feeling of melancholy.  “Not the Pelargir--the Havens of Mithlond, the Grey Havens of the Elves.”

       “What was it like to travel with Lord Boromir?”

       And so Frodo began describing Boromir, the wonder he’d seen in his eyes on his arrival at Rivendell, the concern for his people and the capitol where he dwelt, his passion for his land, the concern he’d shown for all, the courtesy, the teaching he’d given all of them with swords.

       “You have a sword?”

       “Yes, I do.”

       “You don’t wear it.”

       “No, I prefer to wear it only at need.”

       “Did you kill an enemy with it?”

       Frodo felt himself grow a bit stern.  He took a deep breath.  “I used it only to try to protect others and myself, and when we were in grave danger.  I am not a warrior.  It is my cousins Merry and Pippin who are the soldiers among the four of us, not Sam or myself.  I never killed any creature with my sword.  Only once I used a sword to save Sam, Merry, and Pippin from a wight.  I used Sting against the great spider that lives in the Pass of Cirith Ungol, but didn’t kill it, although I was able to drive her back for a time and cut her web so Sam could escape.”

       At last the boy looked out at the angle of the shadow of the mountain.  “I must go, or I will be late for the evening meal and my nana will be upset,” he sighed.  “Thank you.”  He rose and carefully made his way over the wall and away toward the ramp down to the Fifth Circle, gently treading between Mistress Linduriel’s flowers, Frodo noted with approval.  Once in the yard of the empty house he’d turned to wave, then disappeared.

       A form settled either side of him.  “’Nother young spy?” asked Sam.

       Frodo smiled.  “Yes, and quite a nice lad.  Says he lives just below us.”

       Merry laughed.  “They keep coming up, don’t they?”

       Frodo nodded.  “Yes, they do.”

       “Well,” Merry said as he stretched, “we’d best be getting up into the house, for Pippin’s been working in the kitchen since he returned from his duty, and insists he has produced the meal of meals.  And if you don’t at least try everything he’s prepared he’ll be most insulted and will sulk for hours, which makes him a most uncomfortable roommate.”

       “It does, does it?”

       “You know how he is when he sulks--he just lies still, which isn’t restful at all.”

       “You’d rather he rolled frequently as he usually does?”

       “At least I know his heart is light then.”

       Frodo gave another brief laugh, and Merry and Sam caught one another’s eyes in hope.

       Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli were already in the dining room waiting for them.  The table was set, but other than a covered dish and a plate of bread and crock of butter there was no food as yet to be seen.  They rose for the Standing Silence, which all did automatically any more, then they sat and Pippin removed the cover from the dish on the table.  “Greens with bits of mushrooms in them,” Pippin announced as he placed a small amount in a bowl and set it before Frodo.  This was followed by creamed mushrooms in a soup, which was followed by a thinly sliced roast of beef and potatoes smothered in mushroom sauce and green vegetables steamed with bits of mushroom and a small dish of mushrooms sautéed in butter on the side.  As dish followed dish, each with mushrooms in it, Frodo began to laugh, his laughter becoming freer and freer until all were laughing with him.  When the pudding proved to be a compote of fruit with cream whipped with tiny bits of mushrooms in it he could barely contain himself.

       “You rascal!” he said, trying vainly to give Pippin a stern look.  “You rascal!”

       “Well, it got you eating, didn’t it?”

       Frodo gave him a playful clout to the side of the head.

*******

       Two days later the word came that there was a riding of fair folk from the North, and the King’s joy could barely be contained, it seemed.  The next morning after leaving the Houses of Healing Aragorn descended alone down to the Fourth Circle where he visited the building that housed the bankers who oversaw the income he received from his lands.  He was dressed plainly and wore his Elven cloak, the Elessar brooch hidden beneath its folds.

       The banker who received the ring presented examined it carefully, then went to an index and retrieved the card on which the token was pictured from all sides along with the verbal description, along with the extraordinarily thick folder which held the history of the account over the years since its inception.  Assured this one was authorized to access information and funds associated with this account the Man returned his attention to the one who sat opposite him.  “And how may we serve you, Master?” he asked.

       Aragorn named the funds he wished withdrawn from the account.  The banker was impressed for it was a sizable amount.  “You are looking to purchase a new estate, sir?  Or to perhaps to commission the construction of a ship?”

       “No, it is to pay for my wedding feast.”

       The banker stopped in surprise.  The amount appeared rather substantial for a wedding feast.  However, if this client sought to stop curiosity regarding his intentions for his own funds, the banker knew his business and ceased asking further questions.  He left his client in his office and went down to the vaults where with two others to serve as witnesses he drew the requested amount from the stores there, placed it in a chest, and assisted by another brought the chest back to the office where the client waited.  “Here, sir, is the amount you requested,” the banker announced.

       “Thank you very much,” the client said, reaching out and taking the chest, tucking it handily under his arm as he rose to leave.

       “When is the wedding?” the banker asked with a sardonic smile.

       “Day after tomorrow,” his client answered, bowing somewhat clumsily, which was to be expected with the weight he carried.

       The one who’d assisted in bringing the chest to the office had stood transfixed, his eyes fixed on the client throughout, watching after with amazement.  The banker watched his client’s departure.  “Tall fellow,” he observed to his colleague.

       The other looked back at him.  “Tall fellow, you say?  Of course he is--the Lord King is the tallest Man I’ve yet seen.”

       “The Lord King?”  The banker’s voice seemed to stick in his throat.

       “Didn’t you recognize him?”

       The two looked at one another.  Wedding feast?  Day after tomorrow?

*******

       A series of pages and messengers made their way down through the city to key vendors of foodstuffs on each level, each carrying small chests and messages.  On the day of Midsummer at noon each was to open the stalls which offered food for festivals, and all who came to them were to be given food and drink.  Funds to provide for this proved to be generous.  That afternoon cattle, sheep, and fowl ordered a month before by the Crown arrived from the Southern fiefdoms to the cattle markets for the city, while great quantities of fruits, vegetables, flours, fine breads, pastries, sugar, sweets, and wines were delivered from the same sources; and the amounts provided allowed the vendors to purchase sufficient for the needs of those likely to patronize each stall.  By sunset the rumors that the King was to wed and that his bride approached Minas Tirith were rampant throughout the capitol and surrounding districts.

*******

       Galador rose at the knock at his office door and opened it.  Outside stood the King and his kinsmen the Lord Steward Halladan of Arnor and his brother the Lord Hardorn, along with Mithrandir and the Elf Legolas.  They were speaking rapidly in what Galador must assume to be a Northern tongue, one which he’d often heard the Northern Dúnedain use when addressing one another. 

       The King paused as the door opened.  “Master Galador?  I told you that there would soon, I hoped, come a series of feasts where I myself wished to decide seating.  Well, one will come tomorrow and one the day after.  If we might make use of your representation of the table, I would be greatly appreciative.  If you will give us a list of those Lords, Ladies, and notables within the city or who could arrive by tomorrow night, we will take this within.  Then, if you will join us in an hour’s time we will see to the seating of those from within Gondor.”

       “A party comes from the North?”

       “Yes.”

       “It is important?”

       The King looked at him, his expression terribly serious.  “For me, Master Galador, perhaps the most important party that can ever enter the city of Minas Tirith.”

       “Who comes?”

       The King took a very, very deep breath.  “My bride and those who attend on her,” he said.  “It is likely an Elven lord will arrive soon at the Citadel.  I have given orders that should this happen he be brought here that we may plan the seating in more detail.”

       Galador hadn’t heard much past the first two words the King had spoken.  “Your bride?” he at last said in a strangled voice.

       Aragorn looked at him levelly.  “Yes, my bride, although you are now commanded to speak of this to no one.  Master Faralion and the Master of the Guild of Bards and Minstrels have been summoned; let them come in to join us when they arrive, please.”

       Few seemed to note the tall, slender, cloaked figure who rode sedately yet remarkably swiftly up through the ways of the city a short time later.  Until he swung down from his horse at the upper stable none appeared to realize this was an Elf, tall and regal.  He pulled back his hood and indicated he had word for the Lord Aragorn Elessar, and a guard at the bottom of the ramp accompanied him up to the doors to the Citadel where another awaited just such an arrival.  He joined the party within the Feast Hall of Merethrond, and refreshment was soon at his elbow as he and the rest discussed who should sit where.  When Galador saw the names inscribed on the slate for the guests arriving from the North he blanched, for they were names out of legend.  But no name was inscribed over the seat to the King’s right.  It was obvious the identity of the coming bride was to remain hidden to the last.

       That evening the King came briefly down to the guest house.  “My adar and others come tomorrow,” he told them.  “I will go down to the barrier at the gates to greet them.  Will you come with me?  Please?”

       Looking to one another, Hobbits and Dwarf agreed.  Never had Frodo seen his friend look so much in earnest, much less so nervous.  “Of course, Aragorn,” Frodo told him.  “The Lord Elrond comes to see you?  And will he give you the Sceptre of   Annúminas at last?”

       “Yes, Frodo; and something else I have awaited a very, very long time.”

       After he’d left Merry commented, “I wasn’t any too certain he’d not faint.  Whatever it is, he’s in a right state about it.”

       Early the next morning the King was out in the gardens with the gardeners and Sam, picking the best blooms available, indicating they were to be delivered to Mistress Gilmoreth and her aides to fill certain rooms throughout the Citadel.  Others were to be taken to the feast hall for decorations there. 

       But the very finest were marked for harvesting the day after.  “There will come some who will see to their placement,” he said.  “But they are to be cut just after dawn.”

       Those in the flower markets had also been sent orders for flowers to be delivered to the Citadel, and others to be made free to all who desired them on the day of Midsummer starting at noon, and again the funds provided were generous.

       By noon Mistress Gilmoreth and Master Balstador indicated that all was in readiness as the King had commanded.  Two hours later Aragorn was in the Hall of Kings, accompanied by the Lord Prince Steward Faramir, the Lord Prince Imrahil and his wife, sons, and daughter, the Lord Steward Halladan of Arnor, the Lord Hardorn and most of their kinsmen, Lord Elfhelm from Rohan who served as envoy from his land, the Lord Rustovrid from Harad as envoy from the Farozi of that land who’d arrived that morning with four others to speak about making a treaty between Gondor and his people, Lord Gawain of Dale who’d arrived as official envoy from King Bard’s court, Master Galador (whose face was quite strained), Master Faralion, and the Master of the Guild of Bards and Minstrels as well as Mithrandir and the rest of the King’s companions from the Fellowship of the Ring.

       All were watching the King who, dressed in the new green robe which had been delivered just that morning, paced nervously up and down the Hall, stopping now and then to examine the vases of flowers and greenery which now decorated it, seeing to it that the candles in the sconces were as ordered all new and ready to be lit, that the pages and servants to serve tonight and tomorrow were all at attention and impeccably dressed.

       “He’s nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” commented Sam in a low voice to Frodo, who stifled a chuckle as he nodded his agreement. 

       Gimli was watching Aragorn with amusement; Merry in his uniform attended on Lord Elfhelm; Pippin was standing on guard before the King, his uniform clean and his mail, helm, sword and sheath brightly polished as had been ordered for all of the Guard of the Citadel and members of the King’s personal Guard.

       A door opened, and a tall figure came through from the hall to the living quarters to join those who attended on the Lord of Gondor and Arnor.  Frodo looked to see who it was, and was amazed to recognize Gildor Inglorion whom he’d last seen in the Woody End in the Shire.  “My Lord Gildor,” he said, bowing deeply.  All others turned and joined in the bow, including, Galador noted with dismay, the King himself.

       “My beloved Lord Frodo,” the Elf said, returning the bow to the Hobbit.  The spots of color could be seen on Frodo’s cheeks, but this was one even he would not seek to correct.  Gildor came before Frodo and knelt to look into his face.  “You won through, enduring beyond all hope,” he said softly.  “I greet you and offer you and Lord Samwise and your kinsmen ever the honor of my people.”  He gently took Frodo’s hands, and the embarrassment the Hobbit felt faded as a fierce and unexpected joy filled him.

       “I’d not expected to see you again.”

       “I have come with Lord Elrond and others from the North to offer honor to the King of Gondor and to witness the surrender of the Sceptre of Annúminas to his keeping, as well as what is to occur tomorrow,” Gildor said.  “It has been a long time coming; but is the sweeter for the wait for him and the more dear to those who love him.”

       A light refreshment was provided, although Aragorn ate barely anything.  Merry and Frodo exchanged looks of amusement.  Frodo watched Aragorn closely and with a feeling of compassion.  Fit to burst, had Sam described him?  An understatement if there ever was one.

       At last the King indicated he was ready to go down through the city to the barrier at the gates.  The Star of Elendil shone on his brow; the Sword Reforged hung at his hip; the Elessar Stone reflected the light from the windows from its place at the neck of his robe.  Together they walked out of the Hall of Kings to the Court of the White Tree.  There the King paused to lay his hand on the stem of the young Tree, murmuring to it before he bowed and at last passed it to continue on to the ramp.  Sam looked at it critically.  “It’s taller even than it was yesterday, Master,” he murmured.  “I’ll swear as it’s at least a foot taller’n when he planted it, if that’s possible.”

       As he gave a bow of his head as he passed, Frodo had to agree.  At the top of the ramp Aragorn stopped, indicating he wished Sam on his left and Frodo on his right.  As they started down the way to the Sixth Circle he said quietly, “The ponies are ready for you at the bottom.  I know you don’t need them now, but I don’t want you, Frodo, overtired when we come back up.  I want you ready for the feast to come.  Are you at ease today?”

       “Oh, yes, Aragorn.”

       “Good.”

       The grooms were waiting with the two ponies Frodo and Sam had ridden before there before the stable, and soon the two of them were mounted and moving to take the lead at Aragorn’s gesture.  The streets were lined with many watching their King and his companions descending to the First Circle, going, it was said, to meet his bride.

       All watched with awe as he walked by, tall, regal, his face alight with joy and anticipation.  He smiled at those who called out to him, but did not speak.  All looked on those who attended him with interest, and watched as the procession moved down the main Way through each level of the City.

       The pony Frodo rode was somewhat tense, and it took concentration for Frodo to keep it steady at first until they’d made it down to the Fourth Circle when at last it walked more sedately.  That morning Frodo had spent here in Master Celebrion’s workshop, watching him craft a great bowl of the volcano glass.  Its main color was blue, although once it had cooled it had shown a full spectrum of tones and hues, and Frodo had been enchanted by it.  “I wish to purchase it,” he’d said with sudden decision.

       “I’ll give it to you freely, Master Frodo,” the glassblower had said, but Frodo had shaken his head.

       “No,” he said with certainty.  “It is to be a gift.  Will you deliver it to my guest house tomorrow morning?  How much do I owe you for it?”

       Frodo and Celebrion had argued over the price desired for a time, for Frodo wished to pay a fair price for it, that it be a worthy gift.  Finally they settled, and the glassblower, watching after as Frodo had left, had decided to add another gift for Frodo himself.  A smaller bowl did he blow, similar to the great one the Pherian had purchased, and when it was finished and cooled he carefully wrapped it and nested it in the larger bowl, saw it also carefully packaged, and prepared both for delivery the following morning.  Celebrion now stood near the bounds to the market with Linneth, and as Frodo and Sam rode by preceding the King he’d smiled, bowing to the two of them.

       They finally arrived at the barrier for the gates, and there all stood, waiting.  Frodo and Sam dismounted, holding the ponies and calming them.

       A choir now gathered, and musicians with instruments suitable to be played while walking.  The musicians began playing softly, a gentle piece written a century before in honor of the River Anduin, one well known and loved within Minas Tirith.  That was followed by another, longer piece which was older, one written to describe in musical tones the land of Gondor.  As the musicians finished this a horseman approached, dismounting to speak to the King before taking his steed through to the stable in the First Circle, and those who lined the way outside the walls could be seen straining their attention to the North.  Aragorn took a very deep breath and held it, then with a nod led the way out past the barrier.  Those who already waited there gave way as the King’s party took its place, and the choir took its place behind them.  Faralion raised a baton, and a note was played; he raised it again, and a song was begun, one whose tune was ancient and which had not been sung before the people of Gondor for over a thousand years.  It was the song by which all coming to wed the King of Gondor had been greeted to Minas Tirith since the days of Meneldil himself, it was said.  The questions as to the accuracy of the rumor were now laid to rest. 

       The party from the North approached.  First rode back the sons of Elrond, tall and proud and on guard.  With them were other Elven warriors, led by a markedly tall warrior whose long hair was bright as sunlight, as Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower rode behind his friend’s sons.

       Next came a party on foot, archers from the Golden Wood, and those of the Fellowship recognized several, including Haldir and his brothers Rumil and Orophir.  Behind them came Prince Tharen, who’d apparently separated from the rest of the party going North to await this party.  He led a party of mounted archers from Eryn Lasgolen.  Behind them was a tall Elf whose appearance was sufficiently similar to that of Tharen and Legolas it was plain this was indeed Thranduil of Mirkwood.  After him and his attendants came others Frodo, Sam, and Pippin recognized from Gildor’s people whom they’d met in the Shire.

       Finally among a group of mounted Elves from the Golden Wood rode the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien, followed by a group of mortal Men and women from Arnor, more of Aragorn’s kindred from his own land.  Last after lords and ladies of his House came Elrond of Imladris carrying a rod in his hands veiled in red velvet; and on his right on a white palfrey rode as a shining vision the Lady Arwen Undomiel, and at last Frodo understood.  He looked up at Aragorn’s face, shining with earnest longing, and saw there raw and finally unveiled the love he’d long held for the maiden he’d desired since first he saw her, the day he’d come of age, so long ago in Imladris.  Frodo heard Aragorn murmur, “Tinúviel come again,” as he finally moved forward to bow deeply to the party, and as he stepped to the stirrup of the Lady Arwen to assist her from her steed.

       The surrender of the Sceptre of Annúminas by Elrond to Aragorn and the acclamation by the representatives of Arnor of him as King followed, but all eyes were primarily on what would be surrendered fully to the Lord Aragorn Elessar on the morrow.  Now, Frodo realized, even the times of darkness within Gondor would be blessed, for the Evenstar would shine ever at the King’s right hand. 

51

       The procession back up the ways of the City was even more solemnly joyful than that which had come down it.  Again Frodo and Sam rode before the King, and Aragorn now walked with his new-come bride at his right hand.  Bouquets of flowers he’d ordered prepared for the women of the party, and now all carried theirs with gladness.

       The citizens of the city watched with awe as they first saw the face of she who would be Queen as of tomorrow, her eyes full of stars, her hair soft as the gentlest of night breezes, her skin as lovely as the light of the full moon.  A lady from among the Elves was to become the Queen of Gondor and Arnor?  A look at the face of the King, however, was enough to assure all that the Lord Elessar did indeed love this woman; and a look at hers whenever she turned to look at him showed she loved him in return.

       They came forward to bring flowers and sprays of greenery, pressing them on any who would take them.  And many there were who watched the procession, thinking of the tales told of those who in the past had united the peoples of Men and Elves.

       The choir and musicians went before all, now playing and singing the Lay of Lúthien, and many wondered to hear that lay--until they saw who walked by the King, saw the shining faces of Lord and Lady, soon to be joined before all to the joy of Mankind and the everlasting loss of the Elven peoples.

       Elrohir walked alongside Frodo’s pony, and noting Frodo turning about to examine again the joy shining from Aragorn’s face and beyond it the mixed expression on the face of Lord Elrond, he’d murmured quietly, “It is a sacrifice for us, to lose our sister to mortality; and our adar may never fully recover from the grief of it.  But it is a sacrifice she set in motion years past and which we now offer in joy and thanksgiving, for through it will the race of Man be renewed, and the Kingship strengthened.  Peace has been at last secured from the dangers offered by Morgoth and Sauron and their like.  The time has come for us to give over the lordship of Middle Earth to the stewardship of Men, and the Valar know that Aragorn is fully worthy.  I only wish that all were like unto him.  At least we know that while she remains with him our sister will know full joy and bliss.”

       “She takes on herself mortality?”

       “She did so four decades past, binding herself to him that he might have hope for the future beyond the darkness of Mordor.”

       Frodo nodded, understanding the hope Aragorn had borne for so long.  He turned back to the way through the city, thinking.  Here was a third who now moved him to enchantment with womankind as he’d not known since before he’d come of age.  Here was one he, too, could have loved.  But her love was already bestowed before he’d been orphaned, from what he could tell.  And seeing the joy in Aragorn’s face all hint of envy left him, filling him with joy for the one he loved as a brother--a much taller brother than he’d ever imagined for himself when young.

       But in the wake of that joy was a growing awareness that the emptiness he’d always hoped when younger to fill with wife and children would now never be fulfilled, and a single tear escaped to roll down his cheek, a tear of which he remained unaware, though Elrohir and Sam both saw it.

       The feast was both solemn and filled with joy.  Aragorn stood at his place as all others came in, Frodo and Sam among the first to be admitted to stand to offer honor to those who came after.  And when the Lady Arwen Undomiel was shown to her place at Aragorn’s right hand all cheered.  Frodo knew now his proposed gift was properly chosen, and he smiled to see the easing in Aragorn’s eyes whenever he caught the attention of the woman he loved.

       The feast was cut short in deference to the journey the bride’s party had made to come here and the ceremonies to be offered on the morrow.  Only two hours after its beginning the feast ended, and all retired to prepare for the next day’s solemnities.

       “Frodo, will you and Sam and Merry and Pippin and Gimli agree to remain with me in the Citadel tonight?  And Frodo, will you and Sam agree to stand by me tomorrow?”

       “You’d have Hobbits of the Shire in your wedding party, Aragorn?”

       “Who else?  And would this wedding have ever come to be if not for what you, Sam, and Sméagol achieved?”

       Frodo felt strangely moved by the mention of Gollum, the recognition that even that wretched creature had played an instrumental part in the destruction of the Ring.  He bowed his head.  “Since you ask it, how could I think to refuse, tall brother?”

       Aragorn smiled deeply, and knelt to embrace the Hobbit.

       The Lady Lothiriel, daughter to Prince Imrahil, attended on the Lady Arwen, as well as Lady Avrieth, the wife of Aragorn’s more distant cousin Berevrion, and Lord Halladan’s wife, the Lady Mirieth.  Galadriel and several others of the Elven ladies also went with her as she went to her provided room in the upstairs portion of the Royal Wing where she would spend one last night in company with her father, brothers, and grandparents before tomorrow taking her place fully as Aragorn’s bride.

       Elrond and his sons accompanied Aragorn and the groom’s party to the Royal Apartments to discuss the ceremony to take place the next day.  “You wish it to reflect the ceremonies of the Northern Dúnedain, Estel?” he asked.

       “Yes, Adar, for such is nearly identical to that of Gondor.”

       “How much have you prepared for this so far?”

       Faramir and Galador were surprised to learn that Aragorn, Halladan, Elrohir and Elladan together had worked out the marriage contract, which had some clauses to it which were strange to Galador’s eyes.  The twins had taken it with them to review with their sister during the return to Minas Tirith, and she’d proposed a few changes which Aragorn now reviewed, smiled over, and indicated were fully acceptable.

       Elrond shook his head.  “You Men and your desires to see all down in ink so it can be reviewed at length.”

       The King sighed.  “I would prefer to have an Elven marriage; but as I am now, as you indicated I must be, King of both Gondor and Arnor, I must meet the legalities of my peoples that my own marriage be recognized by those I now rule.  Certainly, however, this is one thing which Arwen and I have discussed at length, during the times we have been able to be together.”  He stretched, then went to the desk before the wall of shelves, bringing back a box that lay there.  He opened it and produced a cord woven of many colors, the marriage rings which had been worn by his parents and which had been given to him after his mother’s death, a candle in a glass holder to serve as the symbol of the presence of the Valar and the One at the marriage.  “Arwen and I have discussed how weddings are performed here, and she and I agreed long ago that we would use these rings as our marriage tokens.”

       He looked up and smiled.  “Mistress Gilmoreth will weave the wedding wreaths for us in the morning, and the bower is already being set up in the Court of the White Tree.  Many from within the city will come up to the Court of Gathering to watch the joining.  Halladan, Hardorn, Elrohir, Elladan, Frodo, Sam, and Faramir will attend on me.  The Lady Galadriel, Lothiriel, Avrieth, Mirieth, Lady Indiriel of Dol Amroth, Bethelrien of Lorien and Celebfiniel of Imladris will attend on Arwen.  And Gandalf shall stand witness for all,” he added, smiling into the Wizard’s eyes.

       “I am glad to be here for your joy, Aragorn,” Gandalf responded, his own smile lighting the room.

       “I’m a bit surprised he hasn’t asked you to join them,” Elrond commented.

       “No, let you do a bit more business here in Middle Earth,” the Istari said.  “I am nearly free of the need to help spark others to action, and for that I am glad.”

       “I would still prefer that you remain here to counsel us all,” the King said quietly, but Gandalf was shaking his head, for the arguments had all been said.

       At last Elrond, the twins, and Mithrandir withdrew, at which time Galador also left to return to his own chambers.  Aragorn looked around the table at his companions, at the four Hobbits, Legolas, Gimli, Faramir, Hardorn and Halladan, Prince Imrahil, and Elphir, and sighed.  “So much is now finished,” he said softly.  “And tomorrow I will be wed and know my hope is fulfilled at last. And yet we’ve not had the chance to spend time together alone, Arwen and I.  I thank you all for agreeing to remain when I would tell you nothing of what I prepared for, and for bearing with my moods over the last few weeks.  It adds to my joy to have all of you here.”

       All shared a glass of wine together, and then scattered to their quarters to rest in preparation for the next day.

*******

       Frodo woke during the night, and pulling a night robe about him slipped out of the room he shared with Sam to walk out in the gardens for a time.  He soon found he was not the only one.  On a bench sat Aragorn and Arwen, who apparently had also slipped out to share time together before the morrow.  Frodo was preparing to return back to his room when Arwen lifted her eyes to his and beckoned him to join them.

       “Welcome, Frodo,” she said softly.  “We’ve had so little time to speak, even when you were in Imladris.”

       “I know, Lady,” he said.

       “It means a great deal to both of us that you have agreed to be one of those who attend on Estel in the morning.  He loves you so deeply.  He will be grieved when you must leave here.”

       “I know, and I will grieve to go from his presence.  But we must go home sometime.  They need us in the Shire.”

       “I know, Frodo.”  She looked down at his hands, clasped together before him.  She reached out and took his right one, held it gently.  “What it cost you should not have been borne by any mortal,” she sighed.  She looked into his eyes, reached her other hand to caress his cheek.  “Oh, Frodo, how much we all owe to you.”

       He looked back into her starlit eyes.  “Tonight, my Lady Arwen, I find it was well worth it, to see you and Aragorn happy.”

       She drew him to her and embraced him, then let him go.  “I must return, or Adar and our brothers will come to drag me away to my rest.”  She rose, as did her beloved.  “Go now, Estel, and sleep.  It will not do to have the bridegroom fall asleep at the marriage feast.” 

       He laughed, but it was somewhat breathy.  He reached forward and kissed her.  “Until the coming day, beloved,” he said gently.  He watched with longing plain in his face as she returned within to the steps to the upper story, then he set his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  “Walk with me, small brother?”

       They walked out and through the outer gate, finally going around to the Court of the Tree.  The Guards smiled to see King and Hobbit come there and settle in the grass about the slender bole.  Together both touched it, and Frodo looked up, smiling.  “Sam swears it is at least a foot taller.  I think it’s grown more than that, myself.”  He looked to catch Aragorn’s eyes.  “It responds to you.”

       “And to you, Frodo.  I can feel a special pleasure in it when you come near it.”

       “Really?”

       “Pay attention.”  For a time they were quiet, both simply feeling the pulse of life to the Tree.  Finally Aragorn pulled his own hand away, and Frodo could feel a part of that pulse relax, but realized that there was still a feeling of warmth in the palm of his hand.  “There,” Aragorn sighed.  “It claims you, too, and Sam.”

       “I don’t know why.  I’ve no part in the royalty of Gondor.”

       The Man shrugged.  “Perhaps, small brother.”

       At last they rose and walked back to the gardens, and there they found Sam waiting for them.  He was yawning.  “Was wonderin’ where the two of you had got off to,” he said.  “The Tree happy to see the both of you?”

       Aragorn laughed.  “Yes, it was.  Now let’s see our brother here into his bed and back to sleep.”

       Frodo dreamt of White Trees and water that night, and singing on a distant shore.

*******

       Mistress Loren and Lasgon brought up the requested outfits early in the morning, and shortly after a light breakfast eaten at the table in Aragorn’s rooms Frodo and Sam found themselves dressing in the clothing which they’d worn at the Coronation.  When Gandalf opened the box carrying their circlets of honor Frodo had contented himself with a sigh.

       Faramir came in carrying what appeared to be a cloak over his arm.  “Ah, Master Frodo,” he said.  “I am glad you are dressed as you are.  Here, a gift for you.”  He held out the garment, and it proved to be a formal mantle of much the same color as the surcoat Frodo wore.  He gently settled it over the Pherian’s shoulders, then stepped back, obviously satisfied.  “Well, had the people of Minas Tirith seen you first, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, it would have been you who would have borne the title Ernil i Pheriannath, you know.”

       Sam was looking at his master with a twisted expression on his face.  “That’s so, Frodo.  As regal as Strider hisself you look.”  Frodo realized the gardener was holding back tears of pride.

       “And you are as regal as he is as well, Samwise Gamgee,” he said.  “Shall we go see if Aragorn has melted into a puddle of quaking jelly as yet?”

       Accompanied by Steward and Wizard they approached Aragorn’s door.  Pippin stood on duty at it, smiled.  “He’s just arrived back from the practice grounds,” he confided, and opened it to let them enter.  Hardorn and Halladan were both seeing to the King’s final preparation.  He wore the black robe with the embroidered representation of the White Tree on its breast he’d worn to his coronation feast, and he was standing quite still, similarly to the way he’d stood in the tent while Hardorn had armed him before he walked to accept the Winged Crown.

       Seeing Frodo, his solemnity lightened.  He looked back and forth between Frodo and Sam, and smiled in admiration.  “The two of you look so wonderful,” he commented.  “I feel so somber, wearing black to my own wedding, for all that this is so appropriate to my office.”

       Faramir, who wore white and silver, smiled.  “At least you look alive in that.  When I must wear black, I tend to look as if I were a corpse.”  He examined the embroidery once more.  “I have yet to meet your embroiderer,” he commented.  “Whoever it is has a superb hand with a needle.”

       The King’s face lightened more.  “I shall formally introduce you later today, if you would like.”

       “Then she is here in Minas Tirith?”

       “Yes, here indeed in the capitol.”

       “Will you wear the Star of Elendil again today?”

       Aragorn shrugged as Halladan moved to fasten the white mantle about him with the Elessar brooch.  “As a bridegroom, I intend to wear today the wreath of one rather than the Star.”  He moved to take the brooch from his cousin.  “You have come close to jabbing me with the pin twice now--I will do it myself to save myself an injury.”

       Halladan laughed.  “You had indeed best do it, for today I swear I am all thumbs.  I am more nervous for your wedding, I deem, than I was at my own.”

       “That is saying a good deal,” Aragorn said, settling the brooch against his breast.  “It was a wonder you didn’t try to sheathe your sword in your boot that day.”

       Hardorn looked to the ceiling.  “He brought me some of the Bride’s Ale and poured it in my lap, if I remember correctly.”

       “I did not.  It wasn’t the Bride’s Ale--it was a goblet of Turmandor’s blackberry wine.”

       Aragorn shook his head, closing his eyes.  “Ah, yes, I do remember.  It ruined that surcoat Gilmorien had made for you for the Midwinter feast, Hardorn.  She was quite angry about all that work wasted, if I remember correctly.”

       There was a knock at the door, which opened immediately to admit Belveramir.  “Mistress Gilmoreth has sent the wreath, my Lord,” he said, holding out a fine circlet of green leaves.  Faramir took it from him, and with a bow he approached the bridegroom.  He and Halladan shared a look, and the two Stewards between them lifted it to place it on Aragorn’s brow.  Aragorn stood now quite still, his eyes closed, breathing deeply. 

       “If you faint, Lord Cousin,” Hardorn admonished him, “I swear I shall pick you up and dump your form in the Fountain of the Tree.”

       A shaky smile lit Aragorn’s face.  “You would at that, I think.”  His eyes opened.  “It is almost more than I can believe, that the day has indeed come at last.  I have waited almost seventy years since the day when my heart first understood what it desired, and forty since she told me first she would bind herself to me.”  He looked down at Frodo.  “Ah, small brother, if only you, also, knew this joy.  I would move the heavens and Middle Earth itself to see you happy.”

       Frodo was unaware that behind him Gandalf looked down on him with compassion and great tenderness, although Aragorn and Sam saw it.

       The door opened again, and Elladan and Elrohir, dressed in robes of greys and golds, entered, then stopped to look into the eyes of the bridegroom.  “Well, muindor nín,” Elladan sighed, “if you don’t make a properly nervous bridegroom.  Are you ready, do you think, to go out?”

       “Almost.”  He sighed.  “It is so long since I was at a wedding--that of Halladan’s and Mirieth’s last, I think.  I only hope I do not make a mess of it all.”

       “You will do well enough, young brother.  And you apparently did it right for them, for look at how happy the two of them have been.”

       Frodo looked up with surprise.  “You joined them?” he asked.

       Aragorn looked down.  “Of course.  I was chieftain of our people, after all.  It is part of the joyful duties of the lords of the lands, to perform marriages.”  Aragorn looked at Frodo, suddenly saw a moment when it was Frodo who was performing a wedding, and when it was Sam and a woman from among the Periannath who stood as the wedding couple, saw the solemn pride in Frodo’s face, the intense joy in Sam’s face, the wonder in the eyes of the woman, the tenderness with which they held hands.  One other thing he saw--that Frodo was fading.  His own expression, he realized, reflected the grief that filled him, and he felt the tears fill his eyes.  He looked away quickly.  “Please,” he said quietly.  “I need but a moment alone with Mithrandir to settle me.  Please await me near the doors to the garden.”

       Frodo caught that Aragorn had foreseen something that had, for the moment, wiped away all thoughts of nervousness, something that grieved him.  He stepped to the Man’s side, reached up to take his friend’s hand.  “It will be well, tall brother,” he said. 

       “I know, Frodo.  But I need a moment with Gandalf.  Go.  I will come soon.”

       When the door closed behind all else, the King looked at the Maia.  “What did you see?” Gandalf asked.

       “Frodo performing the marriage of Sam and whom I must believe is Rosie Cotton,” the Man replied.  “And Frodo was dying, Gandalf--very slowly dying.  His heart was laboring from his joy.  He was thinner.  He was becoming so fragile a heavy breath of wind might break him.”  He took a deep, shuddering breath.  “Must I lose him so soon?”

       Gandalf’s face reflected his own pain for Frodo.  “Already he has come back from the Gates of Death once, Aragorn.  He is granted a respite, a time to see all he loves heal and begin to find peace and happiness, a time to reassure himself that all will be well once more with his land and people, a time to taste what would have been his had the Ring not come to him.”  The grief he himself felt was plain in his eyes, as well as the acceptance.  “He is mortal, Elessar.  You have given him heart and hope to remain for a time.  But too long did only the lembas sustain him, there in the darkest days.”

       “I was shocked to see them granted to us as we left Lothlorien.  Lembas for us, when all but Legolas were mortal?”

       “You all needed them.  But for Sam and Frodo--particularly for Frodo--they were in the end all that kept them able to focus on their task, all that kept his strength so that he did not die in the few moments of rest granted to him.”

       “And he longs now for Aman, though he does not know it.  He has always been Elf-like; now his spirit is drawn overwhelmingly to the Undying Lands.”

       “And beyond there, Aragorn.”

       Aragorn was weeping openly.  Gandalf sighed, went past him through his chamber to the King’s bathing room, found a smaller towel there, dampened it and brought it out with him to present it to the Man.  Aragorn buried his face in it.

       Gandalf embraced him, and through the Istari’s embrace Aragorn felt a peace enfold him from beyond here.  His tears dried.  He knew that Frodo was guarded all about with a Love beyond that which he himself felt for him, and he was grateful.  He clung to Gandalf, was aware of the core of Light which more properly reflected the Maia’s true nature.  He straightened and wiped his face, examined Gandalf.  “And this is part of why you, too, must go, that you might once again return to what you truly are.”

       One last time Gandalf assured him, “My tasks in the Mortal Lands are all but done, child.” 

       Slowly Aragorn nodded.  “Will you be able to stay by him, for the time he has left?”

       “No, not the full time.  He must go with the others back to the Shire, and they must do what is needful there themselves.  I have done all I can to prepare them.  But if I go with them, the victory will not be theirs as is right and proper; instead the folk of the Shire would honor me, as is not right and proper.  But I believe I will be allowed to be by him at the end for his soothing.”

       Gandalf straightened.  “So many mortals have I now seen grow to greatness and then leave, returning where I have bound myself not to go while Arda remains, Arathorn’s son.  At least when I see you again, I will know you go to your full bliss.”

       Aragorn slowly nodded.

       “And, speaking of bliss, my son, a part of it awaits you now.”

       Aragorn straightened, wiped his face again.  Gandalf straightened the wreath of the bridegroom that encircled his brow, and laid his hand on the Man’s head in blessing.  The bridegroom smiled at him tremulously, reached out as at last the Wizard pulled his hand away, captured it and kissed it, then pressed the towel into it.  “Thank you, my friend.”

       So saying, he at last turned to the door.  Gandalf went before him and pushed it open, and the royal bridegroom went out to join those who attended him of the wedding party.  They went not through the gardens, though, for that was the way the bride would come; he nodded down the hallway toward the way to the Hall of Kings, through which he would come to the Court of the White Tree.

       The statues of Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion watched in pride as their descendant paced passed them, surrounded by his attendants, passing to his marriage.  Briefly did his eyes meet the stone eyes of the statue of Denethor.  Ah, brother, it ought to have been you who walked with me this day, he thought.  But you raised two worthy sons.  I will continue to see this one brought to his full promise for you.  He turned his eyes back to the way he must go, saw the Guards bow, saw those who waited here bow also and turn to go before him, saw the last of the Hall and the length of the vestibule, saw the doors opened to allow them exit into sunlight, and then at last he saw the bower before the White Tree where he was to come. 

       The seven of his attendants encircled him, brought him to stand before his Adar, who today would gift him with a joy beyond price.  Beyond that circle all of sorrow was held away from him; and then he saw his Adar’s eyes and the branches of the White Tree, grown taller yet, he realized, in the night, reaching above the head of the Peredhel, the newer circles of white flowers shining gloriously in the light of day.  The wedding song began, sung by a choir.  Then there was movement, and he saw the second circle approaching, at its center the shining face of his bride, crowned with blossoms, dressed in softest green embroidered with white.  His eyes went beyond hers, for a moment, to the eyes of the Lady Galadriel, examining him with amusement, compassion, warning that he must not disappoint her beloved granddaughter, love.  No grief did he see there as he did in the eyes of their Adar before him.

       The circle came closer, and his own circle opened as Elladan and Elrohir stepped back to join with those from the bride’s circle, those nearest also pulling back to form a single boundary of purest caring for the both of them as he who had been Estel stepped to claim the hand of the bride who came to him in the fullness of her beauty and delight.

       The song finished, and Elrond raised his eyes to look at the throng that crowded the Court of Gathering, those of nobility from many lands and peoples who stood to each side, those from the Citadel itself who had come behind.  “Behold!” he proclaimed.  “This day have two come before us all, desiring to be joined together as husband and wife, here in the witness of all gathered, before the attention of Men, Elves, Dwarves, Periannath, Wizards, and the faces of the Maiar, the Valar, and the face of Iluvatar Himself.  If there is anyone who knows reason why Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen should not this day take Arwen Undomiel daughter of Elrond and Celebrían to wife, let that one speak now or forever remain silent.”

       Such was the threat in the voice of Elrond none perhaps would have dared to speak should such an objection been found.  After gazing about himself and even turning about in a full circle, Elrond at last turned his attention to bride and groom, daughter and son.

       “Then let us see them at last joined.”  He turned to the Man.  “You who were born Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of Arnor, and Gilraen daughter of Halbard, you who were known in childhood as Estel, the hope for the free peoples of Middle Earth, who was known in Rohan and Gondor as Thorongil, the Eagle of the Star, who was known as StarEagle in Rhun and Falcon of Stars in Harad, the Dúnedan, the Man of the West, now the King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, Elfstone, healer and renewer, the far-strider, child of the lineage of Elros Tar-Minyatar of Númenor and descendant among Men from the Peredhil, descendant of Beren and Tuor, Lúthien and Idril, of Eärendil and Elwing, you who served as captain in many armies in several lands, who led the Grey Company through the Paths of the Dead, you who wield at need the Sword Reforged from the Shards of Narsil; you who are descended from Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion, the King now of Gondor and Arnor and High King of the West, Elvellon--Elf Friend; Dwarf Friend as well; acknowledged by the Ents and the great Eagles; beloved by Periannath.  You who have been as my own son, and who have the Hands of the Healer, do you take this one as your wife in delight and joy and fullness of purpose, delighting in her, sharing your life and body and future with her from this day forth, shielding her as you can with your love, teaching her how to live in the moment as must be true of all who are mortal from now until the life you know must be offered back as is right with your kind?  Will you teach her to live with mortality and to face death with peace and faith?”

       “Adar, I take her as my wife in joy and delight, and will do all you ask of me in humility and with thanksgiving that she is at last come to my side.”

       “Arwen Undomiel, Evenstar of our people, daughter of myself and my beloved Celebrían, sister to Elladan and Elrohir, granddaughter of Celeborn and Galadriel of Lothlorien, granddaughter of Eärendil and Elwing, descendant particularly of Lúthien Tinúviel whom you so strongly resemble, mistress for long years of Imladris and beloved daughter of the Golden Wood, you who have chosen to leave us to strengthen the race of Mankind--do you take this one in joy and delight and fullness of purpose, sharing your life and body and future with him from this day forth, bringing his children to life, lightening his burdens, learning from him until the day he must offer back the gift of his life to accept the gift of his death, following him in trust and faith and peace?”

       “Long have I desired this, Adar.  Yes, I so take him.”

       Elrond looked on her with joy and grief mingled, and a pride past bearing.  “So let it be, then.”  He raised his head to the circle of those who stood round about, watching this marriage.  “Let all bear witness that, in joy and delight at their choosing, these two this day take one another full willingly, before Men, Hobbits, Dwarves, Elves, Istari, and all the children of Iluvatar, before the faces of the Maiar, Valar, and the Creator himself.  Let us all rejoice to see them joined.”

       Arwen gave the flowers she bore in her hands to Lothiriel of Dol Amroth to hold, and held out her hand to take that of Aragorn. Elrond took their hands, shifted the grasp of each so each held the wrist of the other, and he took from over his left arm the colored cord which had draped it, bound it about their joined wrists.  “Be bound now in love as you are with this cord,” he said, then turned them about so all could see.  “See them now bound together, body and spirit, before all, until they must be parted by the Gift of Iluvatar; and then may they find one another once more that in mutual joy they may offer thanks for what they have known together.  Do all see and agree this has been done?”

       Together, all who stood to see called out, “Yea!”

       The two of them turned at last to him again, and he unbound the cord.  “So let it be done.  Let you exchange your marriage tokens.”

       Faramir held out the smaller of the rings Aragorn had the previous night taken from the box from his desk.  Aragorn took it and placed it on her hand.  “Arwen, I take you as my wife, to hold you as my dearest treasure all the days of my life, as I have so desired for all the days of my adult life to this day.  And I pledge myself to you and you alone from this day forward.”

       Arwen took from her grandmother the second ring and slipped in onto his finger.  “Aragorn, I take you as my husband, the keeper of my heart, the teacher of my spirit from this day forward, the father of the children I will bear of my body for the memory of that which leaves Middle Earth and the hope for the future of what remains.  And I pledge myself to you and you alone from this day forward.”

       Elrond took a deep breath.  He blest them quietly, then lifted his voice to all others.  “Behold Aragorn and Arwen, Elessar and Undomiel, Elfstone and Evenstar, the new husband and new wife.  And let none seek ever to sunder these joined by Iluvatar Himself.”

       At a nod, the new husband reached out eagerly to take into his arms his new wife, and she reached out as hungrily, and they kissed before all of the company, their joy as a bright Light shining before all, the White Tree shining more brightly still as it reflected that joy back and throughout the entire level of the Citadel, and the bells of the city rang with joy, for their King had taken his Queen, and the whole of Middle Earth was strengthened that day.

52

       Frodo stood in the portion of the circle closest to the Court of Gathering, facing Elrond, clearly able to see his face.  Gandalf had chosen to stand somewhat behind the Lord of Rivendell, behind him and slightly to his left, leaning on his white staff, where he could focus his own attention on the faces of bride and groom.  As Elrond first named the Valar, however, Frodo had one of those moments where he felt himself to be standing just out of touch with his own body, and he saw several faces looking through the Wizard’s eyes all at the same time.  Frodo’s own face, although he didn’t realize it, had become distant, his mouth slightly open in awe.  He seemed to see a visage of a great Lord, of a pale-faced Lady whose own eyes, as with those of the Lady Galadriel and the Lady Arwen, shone with the Light of Stars.  One who looked through Gandalf’s eyes laughed, one wept, although the tears were now tears of joy and healing.  All watched the marriage of Arwen and Aragorn, all watched intently and with a level of triumph.

       Then Gandalf turned his eyes briefly to Frodo, and the Hobbit felt the weight of that attention focused on himself, felt the pride, the compassion, the love, the joy they felt toward him.  He stood transfixed until they turned their attention back to the marriage.

       At the moment Elrond offered his quiet blessing, Gandalf lifted his own hand, as did those who watched through him.  Frodo could clearly see the Light of Being for husband and wife and he who had been as father to both, as well as the Tree before which all stood.  As the Wizard raised his hand, however, an even brighter Light shone upon all, and Frodo felt himself taking in a deep breath as it illuminated him and shone through him, then enfolded him in a comfort of the spirit he didn’t quite understand but which he embraced greedily.

       Those who were capable of perceiving the Light of Being found themselves amazed by what they saw, particularly as the Light of Stars surrounded Lord and Lady being wed and shone also about the form of the Perian Frodo Baggins, who with it about him appeared to stand almost as tall as Aragorn himself.  What surprised them more was that a golden Light surrounded Samwise Gamgee, and he also appeared to stand tall and regal, and with as much authority as showed the twin sons of Elrond Halfelven.

       When the bells began to ring throughout the city all seemed to be taken by surprise, and all laughed and rejoiced with sheer pleasure.  When at last husband and wife pulled back from one another, they turned toward the company gathered to watch, and found their attention caught by Frodo and Sam, seeing clearly the joy each reflected, the pleasure, the fullness of them.  And it seemed to both that the two who watched were not Hobbits but Men--or at least it seemed that way for a moment.

       Aragorn was startled to a stillness of recognition, for there was one other moment when he had perceived Frodo as being a Man, in the brief moment during the Battle before the Black Gate when all had frozen into stillness as the Ring had gone into the Fire and they’d seen the shadow of Sauron standing over them shaking its hand toward the West, before the West wind came to blow it to nought and the might of Mordor was swallowed up by the earth itself.  Then, just for a moment, it had seemed that Frodo had come behind him and laid his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, demanding to know if indeed all was over, if Barad-dur had indeed fallen.  He’d turned and seemed to see Frodo there, not a Hobbit, but a tall and princely Man, white and wounded and ready to collapse.  Then the vision had faded as rapidly as it had formed. 

       Now he saw again the princely figure he’d seen then, tall and slender, fragile but strong of purpose nonetheless.  Aragorn felt himself tremble with awe and with a longing that went further into his past than did his desire for Arwen, for all his life he’d longed for a brother, had dreamed of having two, one a twin and one slightly younger.  In the figure there of Frodo as a Man he recognized the twin brother he’d dreamed of so frequently, whom he’d imagined so clearly, and he was shaken.

       Small brother, had he called Frodo?  Brother indeed!  And if the figure he seemed to see of Samwise Gamgee was any indication, there, too, was one recognized, the younger brother to himself and his imagined Gil-galadrion.  Light of Stars and Light of Anor surrounded them, and for a moment he felt ready to embrace them both--and again the vision faded, save this time Frodo and Sam remained, remained as they’d been born, two Hobbits, one of extraordinary beauty and determination, and one of extraordinary sense and responsibility.

       Aragorn took a deep breath to steady himself and looked to his bride.  She, too, was looking intently at the Hobbits, and took her own deep breath before she returned her attention to him--and thoughts of imagined and longed-for brothers were lost behind the wave of tenderness he felt for her.  As the choir began to sing a hymn to Elbereth, the vision was almost forgotten completely.

       There was need to do one more thing.  He held out his hand to her, and she took it.  Together they walked toward the crowd in the Court of Gathering, and those  in the circle of attendants gave way to allow them through.  Those in the court pulled to either side, squeezing to give Lord and Lady room to make their way to the end of the keel of the rock.  There the King and Queen of Gondor and Arnor showed themselves to those in the lower city who had been unable or unwilling to come up to the level of the Citadel, and from below they heard cheers and shouts of praise, and music from the lower circles of Minas Tirith.

       After several moments there, they returned to the White Tree, to the table which stood beside Elrond on which the Presence Candle burned and the marriage contract lay.  Arwen signed it first, Aragorn next.  They then looked at those who’d stood as attendants and primary witnesses, and with a gesture Aragorn summoned Frodo to sign first.  He surrendered the quill to Sam, who dipped it into the bottle and swiftly wrote his unadorned signature, and he gave it over to the Lady Galadriel, blushing furiously as he did so, ducking his head like an errant schoolboy.  She smiled in amusement as she took it and signed her own name in Tengwar lettering.  Once all had signed, Elrond took and rolled it, binding it around with the cord and knotting it carefully before holding it out for bride and groom to grasp, his hand one side of the cord and hers on the other.

       Elrond’s words to them were quiet and obviously intended to be private.  Then he reached out to draw the two of them to him, kissing each on the top of the head before letting them go, then drawing his daughter apart and holding her tenderly to him, murmuring in her ear while Halladan began pounding heavily on his cousin’s back until the Lady Mirieth forcibly drew him away.

       Finally Aragorn was able once more to capture his bride’s hand, drawing her to the White Tree, where both bowed respectfully and laid their hands upon it’s slender trunk.  The Queen’s smile of delight could be seen by many, as well as the look of satisfaction on the face of the King.  Frodo looked overhead at the cry of a great bird, and saw that once more one of the great Eagles circled over the Court of the Tree and those who stood in it. 

       Those who’d come up to attend the wedding now came forward in file to go past bride and groom and offer them their greetings and congratulations, then hurried down the ramp to join the festivities each on his own level. 

       Frodo was reminded of the Free Fair held at Midsummer in Michel Delving as several activities were now going on at once.  Tables had been set up in the outer gardens covered with a light repast and drinks for the wedding party and all who served in the Citadel and their families.  The King had ordered several bales of straw opened and formed into a hill within the training grounds, and children were led there by Gimli to search through it for the coins and small toys scattered through it on the King’s orders.  Songs were being sung in one area, dancing took place in another.  The wedding pastry was cut by bride and groom together and was shared.  And then the Lady stood with her back to the group of unmarried women and girls who gathered from among the guests and staff of the Citadel, throwing the sheaf of flowers she’d held over her shoulder to them; all applauded when they were caught by one of the servers, Airen daughter of Geril, whose solemn face was lit by delight at her prize.

       “I’ve not yet had the chance, Estel,” Arwen murmured to her new husband, “to see the quarters in which we will dwell, and I wish to see to unpacking some of what I brought with me.”

       “I think we can slip away now,” Aragorn whispered back, kissing her ear gently afterward.  He looked to catch the eyes of several, including those who’d served as his attendants and some of his kinsmen and Belveramir and gestured for them to come near.  “Be ready to stand interference,” he commanded them, “for Arwen and I are going to seek to retreat to our quarters.”

       In a few moments bride and groom had managed to disappear, and Frodo watched after them with laughter on his lips and some longing in his heart.  Not long after he indicated to Sam and Lasgon he wished to go down to the guest house to retrieve the gift he had ready.  Sam took a deep breath and shook his head somewhat.  “I must suppose as the gift of foresight’s involved here somehow.  Useful thing, that.”  Frodo laughed, and together the three of them made their way back down to their residence.

       The great bowl, carefully wrapped, sat upon the table in the dining room.  Frodo examined it and realized that there was something else within, and guessing what it was sighed and then laughed.  “Master Celebrion appears to have sent me a personal gift as well as the one I purchased for Aragorn and the one coming,” he commented.  Carefully Lasgon lifted it out, and at Frodo’s direction took it to Frodo’s own quarters where it was set on one side of the desk.  Then with the boy carrying the larger wrapped bowl, they returned back up the ramp.

       Elladan met them at the top of the ramp.  “Our adar sent me to assure you were well,” he explained.  “And what do we have here?”

       “My gift to bride and groom,” Frodo explained.

       “Who have managed to disappear from the wedding party, although at the moment few appear to have noticed or to care much.  However, considering how long the two of them have awaited this day I cannot blame them if they find they wish to begin on forging their marriage somewhat early in the day.”  He gave a somewhat twisted smile.  “It is hard to think that my beloved sister is now Queen of Gondor and Arnor,” he said quietly, “and that she will share the bed of our small mortal brother from now on.”

       Sam started to chuckle, and Frodo began to laugh outright.  The Elf looked down at them perplexed.  “And what have I said that is funny?” he demanded.

       “Your small mortal brother?” Sam asked.  “And you say that in front of us?  He’s the tallest Man in both Kingdoms from what I can tell, and quite looms over us Hobbits!”  Lasgon, who’d been holding in his own chuckles, now began to laugh as well.

       Elladan found himself smiling.  “You must remember, my dear pair of Ringbearers, that Elrohir and I always will remember how very small Estel was when he came to live with us.”

       “And for all that you’ve been fighting at his side for the last seventy years or so, in your minds he’s still somewhere between two and fifteen?” hazarded Frodo.

       “Precisely.  Now,” the Elf said, taking the package from the page, “I’d best carry this and allow this young Man to laugh more freely, or he will either stifle himself or drop it.”

       “We can’t have that,” agreed Frodo.

       Already there was a table set to receive gifts to the royal couple.  The Lady Galadriel stood by it for the moment, and watched as her grandson carried up the large circular object he held, Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee beside him, followed by the boy who appeared to attend on them.  “What is this?” she asked.

       “It is a gift I saw created yesterday, and which I wished to present to your granddaughter and Aragorn,” Frodo explained.

       “It is almost as large as you yourself,” she commented laconically.

       Frodo laughed.  “Perhaps,” he agreed, “but it is quite one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and I wish them to have it.”

       She smiled.  “Then I am certain that they will truly love it, Ringbearer.”  She examined him as she’d not had full chance to do as yet.  “Come walk with me,” she suggested, nodding a dismissal to the boy.

       Together they began to walk about the company, subtly working their way toward the gate to the inner garden, for she saw that Frodo was beginning to tire.  Seeing a table where two great bowls of drink stood she approached it.  “Is one of these just of juices?” she asked.

       The girl who served at it, whose face was alight with the joy of the day, gave a curtsey as she answered, “Oh, yes, my lady,” and indicated the bowl on the left, quickly filling three cups with it.  Galadriel took two and Sam the third, and she led them through into the inner garden where they found a low bench where she carefully sat, inviting the two Hobbits to sit beside her.  Gently she surrendered one of the cups to Frodo and watched as he sipped at it.

       Elladan had followed them carrying a goblet of wine, and he gracefully sat in the grass facing them.  The Lady looked down on her grandson and smiled deeply.  “You look magnificent, Elfling.”

       Elrond’s son examined her with an expression of affront, then turned to Frodo.  “You see how it is,” he said with an elaborate shrug.  “I have been in Middle Earth for three thousand years, and yet she still speaks to me as if to a child.  Can you not see how it is that I speak of my ‘small brother’?”

       Frodo had been sipping from his cup and almost choked in his laughter.  Galadriel quickly took the cup and set in on his other side while Sam was producing a handkerchief from the hidden pocket in his surcoat for Frodo’s use.  After wiping his face and the spots of juice on the mantle he wore Frodo pulled his knees to his chest and continued to laugh freely.  “Ah,” he finally said.  “I see why Aragorn loves all of you so.  It is so hard to think of him as small, particularly when he is almost twice my own age as well as twice my height.  And I am hardly young any more, although we Hobbits age more slowly than Men--or at least most of them.”

       Galadriel now saw clearly the weariness Frodo felt.  For all his apparent lightheartedness for the moment, the quest had cost him most dearly.  And her grandson was already well aware of this, was examining Frodo as a healer well acquainted with the Perian’s condition.  Frodo was ignoring the soft ache in his chest and the more constant ones in his shoulder and right hand, and the Lady of Lorien found herself admiring his desire to live in the moment.

       “Tell me of your life here,” she invited, and Frodo and Sam indulged her, speaking of mushrooms found in an empty yard, the children growing in the next house, those who crept up to spy on them, the finding of things to do, the visits by Frodo to those in the Houses of Healing and the work Sam did in the gardens, the comfort of Aragorn’s presence, the meals lately which had been built about one specific food or another, the skill Merry and Pippin had gained with their weapons, their explorations of the city.

       But more and more it was Sam who spoke, and it could be seen Frodo, now he’d sat down, was finding it harder to hold off the feeling of weariness.  Not exhaustion, she noted; but he clearly would do well to rest.  A quick unspoken exchange with Elladan, and the healer in him came fully to the fore.  “I think, small Master, that if you wish to attend the wedding feast tonight, you would do well to rest now.  Now, if you will allow me to accompany you to your quarters here.”

       Galadriel followed them with curiosity, and looked in approval at the quarters Aragorn had ordered made ready here in the Citadel in case he could convince the Hobbits to remain here.  Frodo was soon divested of his finery, his circlet of honor set in its box, the blue mantle gifted to him by Faramir that morning carefully hung on a stand, and Frodo lay down to rest and was swiftly soothed to sleep by Elladan, the remains of his juice set on the table by his bed. 

       The two Elves and the gardener returned to the garden bench.  “He is better than he was,” Elladan commented.

       “Mostly,” Sam said quietly.  “Mostly, but not as much as he lets on.  When he’s tired his shoulder’ll ache and he’ll be rubbin’ at it.  Then his hand will ache as well.  Let him get upset, and his stomach will act up, and he’ll have a time keepin’ things down.  Many days it’s as if food don’t taste all that good to him.  On the few when it does, he can eat too much and then he’ll just lose it all.  He has dreams of what we saw there, of what he members of it all.  Won’t speak of it usually, he won’t, but he can’t help memberin’.

       “But he’s able now to go through most of the city, if he keeps it slow.  His naps is shorter.  He won’t panic if water isn’t always by him.  He’s more easily distracted from his moodiness.  He smiles more, and it’s not as forced.”

       “That’s good,” Elladan commented.  “He is growing stronger--slowly, but steadily.”

       “Don’t know about steadily, but yes, he’s gettin’ some better, at least.”

       “And you, Master Samwise?”

       “I’m gettin’ better, too.  Much better.  But, when the memories hit me, it’s like as I was hit with a hammer, I swear.”

       “Yes, I would suppose it would feel like that.”

       After an hour Frodo came out again, straightening his surcoat.  “Master Belveramir has said he can clean the spots off the mantle so I can wear it tonight.”

       “It is very becoming on you, Ringbearer.”

       He shrugged.  “We Hobbit’s don’t often wear blue,” he commented.  “But it appears a color which is well liked here.”

       “Did you have the chance to speak with my granddaughter and her new husband?”

       Frodo smiled.  “No, Lady.  Pippin was doing a wonderful job of making certain none disturb their privacy, even refusing entrance to Belveramir, who came bearing a bottle of fine wine.  He was forced to leave it on a tray outside the door.”

       Galadriel laughed.  “Ah, bless the young Hobbit!” she said.  “And I cannot say that I blame them for wishing to do what they can as soon as they can, for it has been a very long betrothal, particularly for a mortal.”

       Frodo’s expression grew more solemn.  “That he loves her deeply is so plain.  He will never willingly hurt her, I’m certain.”

       Galadriel nodded, her own smile softening.

       Not long after it was time to prepare for the wedding feast, and Belveramir and Lasgon came to assist Frodo and Sam, brushing clothing, settling Frodo’s mantle again about him, making certain their circlets of honor were in place.

       “Wonder how often we’ll be expected to wear these things,” Sam muttered to Frodo.

       “Aragorn appears intent on making certain we remember we are nobles now,” Frodo sighed.  “I suppose we have no choice but to indulge him.”

       They could hear the Man and boy chuckling as the two stepped back and indicated they were now ready to attend the feast.

       Merry and Pippin entered, also now dressed much as they’d been for the Coronation.  Frodo smiled broadly.  “Meriadoc the Magnificent,” he declared.  “You even stand now more like a Rider of Rohan.”

       Legolas followed them into the room.  “As if you didn’t stand like a prince, Frodo Baggins,” he commented.  “All four of you are becoming accustomed at last to protocol, I think.”

       Pippin shrugged.  “I must suppose with me it’s the hours spent standing before Aragorn’s throne or whatever door he’s behind, or behind his chair or wherever.  Had anyone told me before we left the Shire I’d be spending so much time standing still I’d never have believed it.”

       “I can barely believe you do it now, and I’ve seen you do it,” Merry said.

       “Now to see if Aragorn and the Lady Arwen will agree to leave their rooms.  They have been in there for quite some time, you know.  Where is Gimli?”

       “Having a rather prolonged conversation with my father,” Legolas said.  “Adar was apparently shocked to hear from our people of my friendship with one of the children of Aüle, and decided to sound him out.  Learning that Gimli’s father was one of those we so lamentably hosted against their will at first appeared to add to the strain, but I think he’s softening now.  It’s difficult to remain aloof from Gimli for long, he’s learning.”

       Frodo tried to suppress his amusement, but Pippin laughed out loud.  “You say that, after all the pointless bickering the two of you did between Rivendell and Moria?” he demanded.  “You had even Aragorn annoyed at times, you know, and poor Boromir kept a wary eye out, certain the two of you would eventually employ white knife and axe instead of mere words.”

       Legolas answered with one of the magnificently lazy shrugs that Elves appeared to be masters at, and smiled loftily.  “If you say so.”

       “I do indeed, my Lord Prince Elf,” Pippin replied in a creditable imitation of the tone Aragorn had used at times as they approached Hollin.

       The rest laughed and moved out to the receiving room.  The door to the Royal Chambers, before which Berevrion now stood, finally opened, and King and Queen emerged, their eyes fixed on one another tenderly.  “It appears,” Merry commented in extremely low tones, “that the two of them have been very intent on exploring the more pleasant aspects of marriage.”

       Frodo gave him a look of warning and jabbed him with an elbow, and as they approached the Lady Arwen was blushing, but held her head high.  The Hobbits bowed deeply, and Merry murmured, “I’m sorry, my Lady.  That was not tactful of me.”

       “Not tactful,” agreed the King somewhat severely, “but an educated supposition.  And why do you bow?”

       “We do it in honor of our King and Queen,” Frodo responded formally, “both of whom we respect and love deeply.”  The four straightened, noting the amusement that couldn’t be quite masked behind Aragorn’s stern expression.  “And the two of you are sights to behold.”

       Aragorn and Arwen both were garbed in dark blue spangled with silver stars, Aragorn wearing over his long robes a formal mantle of silver.  The King wore the Star of Elendil on his brow, and Queen Arwen the woven net of gems she’d worn at the feast held in Rivendell when Frodo had awakened from the Morgul wound.  Sam gave a slight shake of his head in admiration.  “You brought these with you, Lady?” he asked, his voice slightly husky.  “I’d thought as this one couldn’t look more Kingly if he tried, but it appears as I was quite wrong.  Both of you are quite the most royal as I’ve seen you.”

       Legolas’s face had softened markedly.  In Sindarin he said with finality, “Ah, sweet Undomiel, if ever thou hast looked every inch thy name, it is now.  We must grieve thou shalt not now be with us ever as we’d once thought, but cannot deny thee thy bliss.”  He held out his hands to take hers, then gently kissed her cheek.  He turned to Aragorn.  “We trust you, brother, to give her no reason to ever regret her sacrifice,” he continued in Westron.

       Aragorn looked at his friend solemnly.  “Only one time do I expect to disappoint my lady, and over that I will be able to exert only a small amount of control, when the time comes.  But I will be there beside her when it is her own time to follow after me.”

       Arwen examined his face closely.  “You expect to precede me, beloved?”

       He gave the gentlest of nods.  “I have known all my life I must expect my own death at some time.  At most I expect to live little more than another hundred years, if I am not slain else.  I do not believe you will think to go, however, until I have shown the way, and you will follow after.  I only hope that when the time comes you will not regret your choice and your sacrifice.  The leaving will not be difficult for me, for I will know from my life with you what greater joy to expect; I hope it is the same with you, but doubt you shall see it as I do, for you have not lived ever in this awareness as I have done.”

       She pulled her hands from those of Legolas to take his, and he drew her to him with the fervency of one who knows that the current joy must be savored fully while it is yet possible.  “I have received the Lady Evenstar as my wife,” he whispered to her, “and never shall I dwell in hopelessness with her light to surround me.”  He pulled away.  “Are you ready, my lady wife, to face the noble guests who await us?”

       She laughed somewhat tremulously.  “I believe so, my husband.”

       At that word Aragorn shone with joy, and laughing he turned her toward the way to the feast hall, turning after to hold his other hand out to Frodo, wanting so to share his own delight with him while he could as much as the Hobbit could receive it.

*******

       Galador stood waiting in the private entranceway for the King, Queen, and their personal guests, clutching at his withered hand with his good one, his expression relieved as he saw them coming.  “My Lord, my Lady Queen,” he said, bowing deeply.  “I hope you find all as you would have it be this night.”

       “The one from Dunland is not to sit with us again, is he?” asked the King.

       “No, my Lord.  He was satisfied to accept the invitation of one of the folk originally from his land who dwells here permanently.  He is truly unaware of how much respect he lost last night from his behavior.”

       The King shrugged.  “I do not blame you for him having decided that Frodo’s seat was intended for himself.  Some there are who simply cannot appreciate that they do not stand at the center of the universe.  Have Eldamir and Mistress Linduriel accepted our invitation to join us this time?”

       “Yes, my Lord.”

       “Then I can see no reason to be disappointed with your ability to arrange this feast with your usual skill, Master Galador.  And we thank you ever for your service to us.”  He held out his hand to the Master of Protocol for the realm, who was so surprised to see this he automatically held out his in return, looking up into the King’s eyes with awe before he was totally overwhelmed and pulled his hand free, bowing deeply to cover his feelings of confusion.  But the King still smiled at him when he straightened, and with greater confidence he gave a more formal bow, and with a nod went out into the hall to tell the heralds and ushers that the King and Queen stood ready in their place.

       The door behind them opened again, and they were joined now by the nobles from Imladris, Lothlorien, the Great Forest, Gildor Inglorion, and Gimli.  Aragorn and Arwen joined the Hobbits in bowing deeply to those joining them.  “Adar,” Aragorn murmured, reaching out to embrace Lord Elrond as he straightened.  “I cannot fully express how much joy this day has brought to me.”

       Elrond’s solemn expression softened markedly as he examined his foster son’s face.  “I can see this is so.”  He kissed Aragorn’s brow, then looked deeply into his daughter’s eyes, seeing the deep, abiding happiness there as well, and sighed.  “To see you thus, sell nín, makes all worth it.  I pray you ever rejoice in your choice.”

       “Oh, Ada, how can I not rejoice?”

       The Elven lord’s face smiled as he held her, although the loss could still be seen.

       The meal was more elaborate than last night’s, and there was much laughter throughout the room, for the joy of Lord and Lady was infectious.  Frodo ate sparingly from each dish served, although he certainly wasn’t stinting himself.  Aragorn laughed often and with sheer joy, and the Hobbits responded in kind, Frodo smiling at Master Eldamir and Mistress Linduriel where they sat by him.  Eldamir was pleased to be able to speak again with Elrohir and Elladan, and was deeply honored to meet Lord Elrond as well.  Mistress Linduriel seemed somewhat bemused to find herself sitting amongst the Elves, but responded to their courtesy and interest by appearing to blossom before all.

       Many from Gondor looked up at the shining company seated about their Lord with a deeper awe than they’d ever known, even at the unexpected return of the King.  For generations beyond count Gondor had been a land which had known only Men and Orcs, with some trolls from time to time.  Elves had not openly visited Gondor since the days of Ondohir, and before that had come infrequently at best.  Now there sat about the King and his lady Queen the company of the greatest Elves remaining in Middle Earth, save for Círdan who alone of the great Elves had not come.

       Mithrandir came somewhat late, but was obviously greeted with respect and welcome by all among whom he sat, and his own laughter was frequently heard throughout the hall.  He sat by the Dwarf Gimli, and the two of them along with the Prince Legolas were the source of many quips and jests, keeping all in good humor.

       Lord Rustovrid of Harad sat with his people just down from the Wizard and Dwarf, looking on the face of the Lord of this land with interest.  His embassy had arrived at a time which was perhaps inopportune in many ways, for with the arrival at much the same time of the bride for the Lord King the government of Gondor wasn’t precisely in a situation to deal with his errand; but at the same time it afforded the Haradri the chance to see for himself the extent of the King’s alliances.  Elves, Dwarves, Wizards, and the odd small folk of the Pheriannath sat close to the King of Gondor and his new Queen, who indeed was herself one of the fabled Fair Folk.  He knew he’d been greatly honored to attend the wedding earlier in the day, and that this day of all days the King of Gondor would not hold to himself memories of enmity between his land and Harad.  Hopefully this would give his errand greater chance for success when at last it came before the King’s attention.

       One thing was certain--he was being granted all respect and courtesy, far more than the King’s embassy might expect in Harad.  The rooms his party had been granted in the Citadel were most comfortable, and they’d even been given the carved wooden head rests of their own folk rather than the cushions for the head preferred by those of the Northern realms.  They’d been included in both the feast last night and the marriage feast offered tonight.  The food was exquisite; the atmosphere was congenial, the company truly brilliant.  He had a feeling that as joyful as the Lord King of Gondor was at this time, he would accept Rustovrid’s messages with far more equanimity than might otherwise be expected.

       Cakes and fruit finished the meal, and at last the King rose.  “The Lady Arwen Undomiel and I greet all who this night have come to share in our joy as husband and wife this day joined.  Long in the reckoning of Men have I labored to bring this day about, and now I receive the gift of her love with thanksgiving to her, to those who have agreed to allow her to join with me, and to Valar and Creator who have granted this day might come.

       “I am descended through many fathers myself from the Peredhil; that to me might be granted as was given to Tuor and Beren to rejoice in a union with our Elven kindred was a grace I did not dare hope for when I was a young Man.  Yet the wonder has been fulfilled, and I am humbly grateful.  And to all who join us in our joy, welcome and may you always continue to rejoice with us.”

       All stood to applaud the King’s words.  The King stood to lead his wife to the far end of the room, and he prepared to lead the first dance.  Tonight, however, perhaps because his attention was more fixed on her than on his own lack of grace in dancing, he did well, the fullness of his delight in his partner adding lightness to his feet, and all sang.

       Laughter of joy and delight surrounded them.  Frodo stood where previously he’d sat at feasts, and together he and Sam listened to many discuss the changes for the better which had been seen in the realm since Aragorn had accepted the Winged Crown.

       A long table had been set near the dancing floor, and on it sat the two golden carriers for the Rolls of the Kings of Gondor and Arnor, Guards of the Citadel standing nearby in honor for them.  At last Halladan and Faramir moved to the table, opened the carriers, and carefully unrolled them.  Aragorn followed them, and having checked the quill provided made the necessary annotations, that on the day before Midsummer he had received the Sceptre of Annúminas from the safekeeping of the Lord Elrond Peredhel and had been acclaimed as King of Arnor as he was already King of Gondor; and that on the day of Midsummer the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor had taken to wife the Lady Arwen Undomiel of Imladris and Lothlorien, rejoicing she had agreed to leave her own people to the strengthening of the race of Mankind and the needs of Middle Earth once her own people had quitted the hither shores.

       Gently he sprinkled the drying sand over the rolls, then shook it off upon the parchment from which it would be returned to its box.  Then he carefully rerolled each of the rolls, returned them and the lesser rolls each to its own holder, then surrendered each to the appropriate Steward.  He then turned again to the company.  “Now,” he declared, “is all done in accordance to law and custom of both realms.  Rejoice with us, friends!”

       And all rejoiced.

       Elven musicians joined with their mortal fellows, and the music became more complicated and joyous as the evening continued.  Then, during one of the breaks in the playing Pippin approached the musicians, admiring some of the instruments the Elves had brought.  He was soon trying several, laying bow to viols, plucking strings of gitterns and harps, and finally accepting the offer to blow upon a flute.  He began to play some of the songs of his own land, and Sam, Frodo, and Merry began to sing to the delight of all.  Some of the songs which Aragorn had learned from Bilbo he joined them in, but many of these were songs with which he was unacquainted.  He saw the joy in Frodo’s face, and rejoiced in it as much as he’d done for the pleasure he’d seen in that of she who was now his wife.

       When the Hobbits had finished the last of a series of songs, some of those who stood by called out asking if they could be shown a dance of their people, and on looking at one another, Merry commented, “The dancer among us is Frodo.  Do you feel up to dancing now, Cousin?”

       Frodo looked at the King and Queen, and standing straight with that singular grace which was his, laughed.  “Yes,” he said.

       Pippin looked at him.  “The Husbandmen’s Dance?”

       Frodo glanced quickly at him.  “Why not?  I’ve not danced it save to teach some of my younger cousins for years, but I certainly can’t have lost the touch of it, can I?”  He unfastened the mantle he wore and removed the circlet from his head.  “Wouldn’t do to wear these while I dance,” he commented.  “Sam, will you keep them for me?”

       He moved to the center of the dancing floor, and all others took positions where they could watch.  Pippin began to play the introduction, and Frodo set his hands on his hips and prepared to dance.

       All watched with amazement as Frodo Baggins danced the Husbandmen’s Dance before the King and Queen of Gondor and Arnor, turning and swaying, his feet moving in the complicated steps, slapping the palm of his hand against the sole of his foot, stamping and spinning as the forms dictated.  Then the music quickened, and so did the steps.  Again the music quickened and the dancing quickened in response, the smile of the Hobbit brightening as he kept in cadence.  In the fourth repetition Merry began to sing the words to the accompany the tune, and in the fifth repetition both Elven and human musicians joined in. 

       And so it went to the end of the seventh repetition, when with a crash of tones the dance finally ended, and Frodo stood, straight and proud, his head high, pale but shining, and all broke into applause.

       But Sam saw that Frodo was winded as he’d never been before when he’d danced this before the folk of the Shire, and that there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.  He moved quickly to his Master’s side, and under the pretext of embracing him in congratulation he allowed Frodo to lean on him for support.

       Why must I have support to stand?  It’s never been like this before!

       Never?  Was it not thus when you danced at the first feast?

       But I’m stronger now!

       Stronger, yes, or you’d never have finished all seven repetitions.  But you are not likely to ever fully recover, as you’ve long recognized.  Rejoice for the grace to do what you have done, Iorhael.  It is more than enough for the joy of all.

       But Frodo could not help feeling disappointed as he moved through the room turning aside the words of praise for his skill and grace while barely hearing them, eventually aided by Legolas to escape for a time to a small room intended to offer respite for those overcome by the excitement of a feast.  There was a couch there, and the Elf helped him onto it and draped him with a light cover.  Gandalf came carrying the mantle and circlet he’d taken from Sam when Sam had moved forward to support Frodo, and he’d set them on one of the chairs which stood there.  Gimli brought him a cup of water.  And, when he could get away, Aragorn came to lay his hand on Frodo’s brow, offering all he could of his own strength and the power of the Elessar to his friend.  Frodo smiled up at him, but a part of his joy was gone, now he realized he’d not dance again as he’d danced tonight. 

       When he returned at last to the company, he was more sober than he’d been, and many there were who recognized it and mourned with the Hobbit.

       Frodo refused to remain in the Citadel for a second night, and he and the rest of the Hobbits and Gimli had gone back down the ramp to the guest house in the Sixth Circle.  Aragorn had watched after with concern.  Elrond, the twins, Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, King Thranduil and his sons, Lord Gildor, and Gandalf accompanied King and Queen back to their chambers.

       Celeborn looked with concern at his granddaughter’s husband.  “The Cormacolindor will fade, Estel.”

       “I know, Daeradar.  And I can do little for him beyond being there at the times of pain to heal as I can.  But I cannot cleanse away the damage wrought in him.”

       Galadriel commented, “I have never seen a mortal as graceful as he in dancing.”

       “He won’t agree to dance again,” Aragorn said with grief, “not after what he felt tonight when he was done.  I’d been told how gifted he was, how graceful, and we’ve seen hints the two times he’s danced at feasts.  But he feels stripped of yet another pleasure by the Ring, and I can’t give that back to him.”  His tears fell unheeded.  Arwen laid her hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his to cover hers.

       Finally he spoke again.  “He wishes to return to the Shire, and I know he must do that soon, and that their own people need the return of all four of them.  But I fear that once he leaves here the Sea Longing will grow stronger for him, he who was sustained so by the lembas.  And to know that that longing cannot be assuaged as he is mortal is a further wound to my own spirit.”  He looked up into Galadriel’s eyes.  “I myself feel it at times, I who have bound myself so strongly to Middle Earth by accepting the rule of Gondor and Arnor.  How much stronger it will be for him and Sam, who were dependant on lembas just for life as they labored through the Black Lands!  Even Gimli, child of Aüle as he is, feels it, particularly when he sees it calling to Legolas, whom he’s come to love as a brother.”

       Legolas dropped his own gaze to his lap, and the pain he also felt was clear to those who looked on him.

       “What would you have us do, Aragorn?” asked Thranduil.

       The King of Men shook his head.  “What can I ask of anyone save for the Valar and Iluvatar Himself, that he be allowed easing for his body and spirit, that he be allowed to know joy once more?  But I fear that cannot be given him this side of the Gates of Death.”

       He sighed.  “He is most likely to know disturbed sleep once more,” he murmured, “and tonight I cannot go out to him to ease it as I have done in the past few weeks.”

       Elrond laid his hand on Aragorn’s arm.  “We will go out and ease him as we can, if he will allow it, ion nín.  Let your heart be calmed for that.”

       “Thank you, my Lord Elrond.”  Aragorn turned to look up at his foster father, his own expression as solemn as that of the Peredhel’s, his bearing appearing even older for the moment.  The two clasped arms, and then Aragorn moved into his adar’s embrace.  “Thank you, Adar,” he murmured.

       Galadriel examined the figure of the woman escaping from the form of the tree, and looked at her granddaughter.  “Do you feel like that, child?” she asked.

       Arwen shrugged.  “Perhaps in ways, Daernaneth.  I have entered the world of mortals now, and at least for the moment I do not regret it.”

       “Then I will pray that you never do, Undomiel.”

       Celeborn asked, “Has he done well in trying to prepare for your coming?”

       Arwen’s smile was full and unforced.  “Oh, yes, Daeradar, full well indeed.  I can ask no more from anyone.  Come and see!”  And she rose to show them through the chambers and all Aragorn had done to prepare for her coming.

*******

       He stood in a barren place with the Light behind him, and he knew he could not fully return there again.  Too much had he lost to stand there freely once more.  Before him was a place where the Light shone on a patch of time, and he saw that Pippin, Merry, and Sam were emerging into that Light with Sam leading the way, Rosie Cotton’s form clearly before him, beckoning him out of the darkness.  But he could not follow, for there wasn’t enough Hobbit left in him to go all the way back into the Light there.

       He followed to the area of dusk between dark and Light, and looked on Sam’s recovering happiness.  Sam was smiling at him, assuming that he could finally cross over all the way given time, sharing with him what Light he could to strengthen him. 

       He was grateful, but felt compassion for Sam, realizing that in time Sam must accept that for Frodo Baggins there was no full healing, no full return to the Light, not that patch of it, at least.

       He looked slightly to one side and saw there Aragorn and Arwen standing, smiling in their own Light, reflecting it on realms throughout Middle Earth, and he rejoiced that this was so.  But he’d left them and couldn’t return there, either.

       He looked West, saw there waiting for him, just ahead of himself, Elrond and Galadriel, Gildor and others of their people he’d come to know, saw the Light there which surrounded them and led them further to the Light proper to them, the Light that lay over the Sundering Sea, the Sea which they would soon cross so that it sundered them no more from their proper place but from those who must remain behind.  He ached to follow after them, to find the peace he couldn’t know here on white shores and under golden and silver boughs.

       One tall and robed in turquoises and blues stood by his side.  “They would take you with them if they could,” that One told him.

       Frodo shrugged.  “I am a mortal.  That way is not for me.”

       A shining hand caressed his head, and he looked up into a glorious visage.

       He woke, feeling restless, hearing the crying of gulls come far inshore, away, he’d been told, from storms upon the Sea.  He ached for Legolas.  If he felt this way, how much more strongly must the Elf know that same desire, now that the Sea Longing had been awakened in him as well?

       When he couldn’t return to sleep Frodo rose and dressed himself, pulling the Elven cloak about him, and sought to slip out through the bathing room to walk alone in the night.  But Sam sat upon a couch in the day room, a book in his lap.  He’d been drowsing, but awoke as Frodo came down the hallway.  “Feelin’ like walkin’ off the dreams, Frodo?” the gardener asked.

       “Yes, I think so.”

       “Not bad dreams this time?”

       “No, just dreams of wanting.”

       “Wanting what, Master?”

       Frodo shrugged. 

       Sam rose and came out into the hallway, pulling his own cloak from Lorien about himself.  Together they slipped out into the night, walked to the ramp and up it to the Court of the Tree.

       They were joined by others, for Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, Thranduil, and Gildor had been standing out on the keel of rock, looking Eastward at the clear skies over what had been Mordor, rejoicing as Frodo often did at dawn that the Shadow no longer lingered over the place.  As Frodo settled himself under the Tree they settled around him, and when Sam began to yawn and pinch himself to keep awake Thranduil insisted on conducting him back to the guest house that he might rest, assuring him Frodo would do well with the company about him.

       The White Tree rejoiced to hear about it clear voices singing Elven hymns, thrilling as it felt echoes from its ancestor so far away.  And it offered what comfort it could to the small figure resting under it, letting the light of the stars fall on Frodo, Frodo’s own Light shining in response.

       He rubbed at his hand, as he’d been doing since they settled there.  Galadriel looked on him.  “It hurts you, Ringbearer?” she asked.

       “It throbs some,” he admitted, somewhat grudgingly.  “It’s not as bad as it has been and can be, though, for which I’m grateful.”

       “Let me ease it for you,” she offered, and she took it and ran her hand over it fully, finally running her finger around the outside of his hand from base of thumb to the base of the little finger beyond the gap.  She looked at Elrond, offering her own observations to him.  He nodded, moved to take the hand from her, gently did the same.  Finally he moved his hand to grasp the hand just below the severed joint, gave a slight pull, and a slight click could be heard.  Then he held the hand between his own, and his own Light encircled it, and Frodo felt a peculiar warmth surround the place, and he sighed in relief.  At last Elrond surrendered the hand back to Galadriel, who held it as the night remained, rubbing it gently with her thumb, often returning to rub the gap where the ring finger was now gone.  He slipped into a trance, and then into full sleep, resting with his head pillowed in her lap, his face turned up to catch the starlight through the branches, leaves, and flowers of the Tree.  After he awoke the pain in his hand was gone, to return only during the days in March he was to experience in the coming year, and when the shadow lay deepest on him.

53

       Frodo was quieter from that night, and the easing in his solemnity had ceased.  He still laughed at times, but the laugh was quieter once more, his eyes not shadowed as they’d been, but not full of light, either.  He watched his cousins and Sam continue to heal and find their joy once more and rejoiced for them, but with solemnity.  He watched the easing in Aragorn as he embraced his new role of husband and lover and rejoiced there, too.  But his own hope was diminished once again.

       After the third day Arwen could bear it no more.  Aragorn was telling all at breakfast of the finding of the White Tree upon the mountainside in the King’s Hallow, and afterward had commented on Ecthelion’s statement that once the great Eagles had come there to speak with those of the Kings most worthy of it, and she listened with attention.  Frodo, who with Sam and Merry had come to join them in the meal before they accompanied the King to his audience, listened with interest, but she saw that Frodo’s features appeared particularly pale today. 

       When Aragorn rose to prepare for the audience she went with him, murmured to him, “Estel, when you are done, if you will I would like to go up to the King’s Hallow with you.”

       He looked at her with curiosity.  “You feel the need to meditate, my heart?”

       She shrugged.

       “Since you so desire it, gladly will I take you, beloved.  I, too, find I need easing for my griefs.”

       She kissed him gently.

*******

       Rustovrid of Harad came before the King that day.  The days of holiday surrounding the King’s marriage must give way at the last, and the Lord Elessar had indicated he would do as much as he could now, for he and his Stewards must go North and Westward to Rohan with Éomer King’s people when they came at last to fetch away the body of Théoden as they soon would.  During their absence the Lord Prince Imrahil would sit upon the seat of the Steward and see to the leadership of the realm; but for now he would see the realm of Gondor prepared against that time.

       As the Herald announced “Rustovrid of Far Harad, Envoy from the Farozi An’Sohrabi of the realm of Harad,” there could be heard a murmur of concern from those who sat in the Hall.  Rustovrid stepped forward, ignoring the dislike he felt reflected toward his land, fixing his eyes on the King seated above him and on the two Men who sat on either side on the first of the steps to the throne.  The Lord Prince Faramir was apparently a young Man, but one who had plainly been under the wings of Death, his eyes showing the memory of that experience, not with fear but with added patience.  The other was older, but how much older he could not tell.  He was broader of chest than Faramir, the carriage of his head indicating this was a Man to whom battles and patrols had been a constant for decades.

       And there above all sat the King, his wife standing at his right hand, his great sword lying across his knees, the Winged Crown upon his brow, the Sceptre of Annúminas clasped in his right hand.  His head was held proudly, but with the pride of one who was well experienced in the ways of the world, not the false pride of youth and callowness.

       “We greet you with respect this day, my Lord Rustovrid,” said the tall figure who sat upon the high throne of Gondor.  “And we thank you for the patience you have shown in the past few days, your own coming having been all but lost in the coming of my bride.”

       “I thank you, my Lord King An’Elessar,” the envoy answered in careful Westron.  “I bear greetings from my Lord An’Sohrabi of Harad, who greets you as one sovereign to another, a brother ruler among Men.”

       The Lord Elessar bowed his head in acknowledgment, and sat still, waiting for Rustovrid to state his business.  The Haradri took a deep breath and began.  “Our own lands are now freed from the overlordship of the Death Eater,” he said, “and for most of our people this is a glad thing, particularly for our Farozi, who has ever bridled at having to send our young Men to fight and die at the whims of Mordor.  Already An’Sohrabi does his his best to cleanse our lands of Mordor’s blight, and he has ordered the throwing down of the temples which had been raised to the Eastern Lord and reestablishment of the practices of worship for our people as has ever been done.”

       The King answered, “This is good to hear, my friend.”

       Rustovrid continued, “I thank you, my Lord.”  He paused, wondering if what he had yet to say would be as well received.  “I was sent by An’Sohrabi to offer you congratulations on your having been accepted as ruler of Gondor, and now, I understand, of Arnor as well.”

       “Thank you again.”

       “I was sent to bring you letters of authority from the Farozi and his council to treat in his name for the benefit of our people.”

       “That is gratifying.”

       “I was also sent to bring you a warning, Lord An’Elessar.”

       “Warning of what?”

       “There are those among the lords of Harad who cannot accept that things are not as they once were, and who would seek to bring about warfare between our lands and yours as has been true for generations.  There are those who plan assaults on your borders.”

       “And you would warn us of this?  Why?”

       “Because this is not sanctioned by An’Sohrabi, Lord An’Elessar.  This is done contrary to his will.  He finds that his control over those who served directly under the Eastern Lord’s command is not yet great enough to keep them from such foolish and destructive behavior.  He would not have you blame him for what others would do, invoking his name without authority to attempt to make their assaults on your lands and peoples appear legitimate.”

       “I thank you for the warning.  As I suspect that much of what you would say is sensitive to your people and the sovereignty of the Farozi, I would ask that you remain a few day further to speak before the Council.  Unfortunately, I have other business which must be met this afternoon.”

       “I would be honored.”

       “Will you agree to eat with my Lady and myself when we return this evening?”

       “I would be deeply honored, my Lord.”

       Feeling much relieved, Rustovrid gave a deep bow, and indicated that those who accompanied him should bring forth the presents which the Farozi had sent.  The King looked on them and accepted them in the name of Gondor, then rose to bow deeply to Rustovrid.  “It is a matter of joy,” the King said, “to look at one formerly thought to be an enemy and to find there honor and discernment.  You are comfortable in your quarters, my Lord?”

       “Yes, indeed so, and we thank that so much has been done for us with signs of respect to our ways.”

       “I once sojourned in your land, many years ago, my friend.  I would return the welcome I found there, and moreso.  It is an honor to host you and your party.”

       With that the audience was over, and Rustovrid retired, feeling much heartened by his encounter with the King of the Northern lands.

*******

       After luncheon Aragorn and Arwen went quietly to the Sixth Circle.  Hardorn was unhappy they would not allow him to accompany them beyond the gate in the far wall of the Rath Dínen, but agreed to remain there.  The royal couple went themselves up the path to the King’s Hallow, finding themselves at last on the shelf high on the side of the Mountain at the foot of the first snow field.

       Arwen walked to the center of the Hallow and stood there, closing her eyes, bringing all her concentration about herself, while Aragorn stood near where he’d found the Tree, watching her.  Finally a shadow fell on them, and he looked up to see one of the great Eagles circling the two of them.  Gently it settled lower and alighted in the Hallow before them.  It turned its head to examine her closely.  “Lady,” it said solemnly, “you desired one of us to come to you?”

       “Yes, Lord Gwaihir,” she answered him, bowing low as did her husband.  “I have a boon to ask of the Valar.”

       “A boon?”

       “Yes.”

       “For yourself and your husband?”

       “No, not for ourselves.  For the Lord Frodo Baggins.”

       “What would you ask for the Cormacolindor, my Lady?”

       “That he be granted the right to take my place on the Ship now being built by Círdan when my father and brothers and grandparents quit Middle Earth.”

       “You ask that a mortal be granted leave to enter the Undying Lands?  You know that such as he would die there as he would here.”

       “No further than Tol Eressëa, which after all was once part of Middle Earth.  But he has been sorely wounded by his time bearing Sauron’s Ring, and so many of his sources of joy have been scoured away.  He survived on the lembas for so long, and already is the Sea Longing awakened in him.  He deserves to know the chance to have his wounds heal as best as they can, to have the Shadow cleansed away by pure Light, to have the chance to know pleasure and pure joy unbridled once more.”

       “He is unwilling to wait until he finds his way to the Presence when he leaves the bounds of Arda?”

       “He does not ask this and I have not told him I ask it for him.”

       “Then why do you ask this, knowing his easing will come in time when that day comes?”

       “I fear he will not wait until the proper time if he has no hope, my Lord Gwaihir.  I fear he may seek to speed that day when the black moods fall on him.”

       “He may yet seek to speed that day even with the hope granted, Lady.”

       “Yet even then he is more likely to stay his hand and know patience if he has the hope before him.”

       Gwaihir turned his attention to Aragorn.  “You, son of mortals, you ask this for him as well?”

       “I had not thought to ask any such thing, my Lord, for I have not the right to do so.  But I have asked for easing for him, for the weight of the losses is great upon him.”

       “Did you know why your wife asked you to bring her here?”

       “No, my Lord Gwaihir.  She merely asked that I do so.”

       “He speaks truly,” Arwen added.  “I merely asked he bring me here, and gave him no reason.  He asked if I felt the need for meditation.”

       The Eagle’s expression softened.  “I will see if I will be allowed to bring your petition before Manwë, although I can not promise any particular answer.”  The
Eagle examined both of them intently.  “He cannot live a life normal to his kind there, will never be able to marry or father children, or even to love another as one would desire.”

       “We know that, Lord Gwaihir.  But he could at least know Beauty and Light as his heart longs for without bounds, and we hope peace for his soul.  And we hope time to prepare for when he must indeed leave the bounds of Arda, that his full Light be restored before that day.”

       Aragorn had come closer to his wife, put one arm over her shoulder.  “I love him, Gwaihir, as I would love the brother of my body.  He was scoured to the core of his soul by what he endured.  He will not live long at all if he remains in Middle Earth, and may indeed seek to destroy himself if he is granted no sign of hope.  I would not desire to see him kill himself at a time of deepest pain and despair when he is turned from the Light and cannot find his way, and when I cannot be by his side to offer him guidance.”  He gave a shuddering breath.  “If I must lose him, I would rather it be by way of Tol Eressëa than by the horrors of suicide or by the loss of hope and withering of his spirit.”

       “You think this is possible?”

       Aragorn’s voice was solemn, his eyes downcast.  “After seeing how he was after the dance he gave the other night, I am certain of it.”  He raised his eyes to those of the Eagle, and the pain in them could not be denied.  The Eagle raised his wings over the pair before him, then lifted them to rise off the shelf on which they stood.

       They watched after, and remained a time after his leaving, their arms about one another while each was intent on the thoughts and desires within his or her own heart.  At last Aragorn looked into the face of his wife, and she returned his attention.  “One thing I rejoice for, beloved, that you were granted a hearing.  It was a bold request to make, and one I never foresaw.”  He smiled at her, leaned forward, and kissed her tenderly.  Then together they turned to go down the mountain again, Hardorn looking on them with relief when they again entered through the back gate to the Rath Dínen.

54

       Frodo did not recover his lightheartedness between the time of the wedding feast and the return of the Rohirrim.  He remained solemn and courteous, would smile at times, but was distant and abstracted.  He was not ill, but neither would he say he was well.

       He didn’t go as often up to the Citadel save to accompany Sam when Sam went to work in the gardens.  He continued his visits to the Houses of Healing, and those he visited rejoiced to see him, but now he sat listening quietly more often than speaking on his own part.

       On the eighth day after the wedding he, Gimli, Aragorn, and the Lady Arwen were invited to a special feast in the Third Circle, given by the artisans and soldiers who had worked on the wheeled chair in the camp in Ithilien.  They now felt they had very much perfected their contrivance, and certainly the model shown to them was a vast improvement over the one wheeled by the paralyzed Man through the camp.  It was lighter, the wheels sturdier and now with a special ring allowing the one seated in the chair to sit and wheel himself without having to touch the rim of the wheel and the dirt it must gather as it rolled on the pavement.  Eight of these so far had been crafted for Men who’d lost limbs or the use of them in the War, and two for children who were also unable to walk.  Those who gave the feast were those who’d continued to work on the project and four of the ten who so far had been outfitted with one of the chairs, and attending were all those who’d taken part in Ithilien.

       Healers and some of those lords who’d begun considering how others who’d been crippled, blinded, and otherwise incapacitated in the wars might be helped were meeting regularly with artisans, teachers of children, specialized healers, and some of the soldiers who’d been injured in the many fights which had taken place against the forces of Sauron, and now ways were being found to assist first this individual and then that one, with many of the techniques, tools, and training developed now being applied to children born with such conditions or who had developed such conditions due to injury or illness.  Frodo had attended two of these meetings already and had offered his own suggestions; now he reported by letter to Aragorn that more and more those who’d been injured were themselves taking over primary responsibility to find means to aid themselves and one another, again with their discoveries beginning to be shared with those who were so hurt in peaceful pursuits.

       The day after the feast of the wheeled chair the Elves from Eryn Lasgalen left to return to their forest, and Legolas watched after them, having announced he would remain in Gondor until the Hobbits were at last ready to return to their own land. 

       And then there was the memorial.

       “He wants what?” Frodo asked.

       Pippin gave a great sigh.  “Aragorn wishes a monument of statues done of the four of us.”

       “Why?” asked Sam.

       The youngest of the four shook his head.  “I’m not certain whose idea it started as, but he says the main reason is to remind the people of the land that for all everyone worked together to defeat Sauron, yet we four Hobbits, as small as we are and as unready as we were, did the most to see him thrown down.”

       Merry shook his head.  “That’s all anyone needs, statues of us knocking about the place.  Can you imagine how they would make them?  As tall as Aragorn himself and twice as unlikely, probably!”

       “That’s what I’m ’fraid of,” Sam agreed, “that we’d end up lookin’ unnatural.”

       “I don’t want any statues done of me,” Frodo stated flatly.  “There’s no reason I can think of anyone needs any statues of me.”

       Actually, the other three felt that the one of them who truly deserved to have a monument done of him was Frodo, but they agreed also that he was the one most likely to disagree with that idea, so they decided not to suggest just that to Aragorn. 

       In spite of their arguments Aragorn was most stubbornly insistent, so they found themselves one day at the Citadel having their portraits done with studies for possible attitudes.  Each of the three artists who did studies of them was considered one of the premier sculptors for the realm, or so they were told.

       “Why would you want me to stand like that?” Merry asked one sculptor when he was asked to hold his hands in a particular position.

       “It is a common attitude for a heroic monument,” the sculptor assured him.

       “But I’ve only seen one Man who’s ever stood like that, and all consider him affected.  Is it from your idea of a heroic monument the Man got the idea to stand that way?”

       Before the sitting was done the Hobbits were all ready to draw the swords they’d been told to wear and use them on the artists, while at least one of the sculptors had a very strong urge to take one of the swords from one of the Hobbits and use it on Sam particularly, who was not being especially cooperative in any case.

       The results were a dismal failure, for which the Hobbits, at least, were grateful.  Sam was looking at the clothing in which they were depicted by one artist and asked, “And where in Middle Earth did he think them get-ups might come from?”

       Pippin was looking at another set of drawings, and broke into peals of laughter.  Frodo, who’d been fighting a headache much of the day and wanted only to lie down with a cool, damp cloth over his eyes, examined the picture of what was evidently supposed to be one of them that Pippin held out to him, and fastened his attention to the feet.  “Shoes?” he asked, shaking his head.  “What could ever possess him to draw us wearing shoes?”

       Aragorn entered the receiving room for the Royal Wing where the Hobbits were gathered with the studies and a glass of ale for each, his face somewhat harried, saw the expressions, and gave a particularly deep sigh.  “They’re not acceptable, are they?” he asked in a defeated tone.

       “They’re awful, Strider,” Pippin insisted.

       Merry held out one picture.  “This is supposed to be Frodo, and looks nothing like him.

       “The clothing this artist did is fantastical,” Frodo complained, “and that one not only drew us in Gondorian dress but put shoes on us.  If they won’t depict us as Hobbits of the Shire, I certainly won’t agree to any of these!”

       Sam was looking from one to the other picture he was holding,  “We don’t even stand natural,” he said, shaking his head.  He looked up to the Man’s eyes.  “They are horrible, Strider.  I suppose as you mean well enough, but if they can’t even make us look as we are, I won’t agree to none of this!”

       “Master Iorhael could do a far better job,” Merry said.

       Frodo shook his head.  “He’s not a sculptor, for which I’m very glad.”

       “But at least he could do a picture of you that would look like you, Frodo.  I’ll ask him tomorrow.”

       Two days later Merry brought Aragorn the suggested portrait executed by Master Iorhael.  He’d wanted Frodo to do portraits of the rest of them to use as the basis of the statues Aragorn wanted, but Frodo had gone totally stubborn himself.  Indeed, he’d forbidden them all, including Lasgon, from telling the King he was any kind of an artist.  “I’m having nothing to do with this,” he insisted.  “I don’t want any monument to myself done anywhere, and I’m not going to have any more hand in anyone making fools of you.  I couldn’t carve the statues myself--in spite of what my dad did, I’m no carver.  Once those fools got the pictures, they’d still put us in unnatural attitudes with those stern expressions on our faces wearing clothes we don’t even wear here, and I’m not having any part in the process.”

       It was one time when Aragorn couldn’t manage to outstubborn Frodo, Sam commented later.  In the end he surrendered the picture by Master Iorhael of Frodo to Sam, who commented quietly to King and Queen that this was the only time he’d seen a picture of Frodo that actually looked like him.  Seeing the tenderness in Sam’s eyes, in spite of the fact he wished to have at least a picture of Frodo to remember him by, Aragorn let the gardener have it.  He was disheartened by the pictures which had resulted, which he had to admit were grotesque, and upset by Frodo’s own continued opposition to the idea of the memorial he wished done.  He kept the other pictures which had been made, but assumed that this was the end of the project, for the Rohirrim would be returning soon to fetch King Théoden’s body back to Rohan, and the Hobbits and others from the North would be starting on the homeward journey at that time.  There was simply no chance now to find another sculptor and start over.

       Frodo was continuing to have dreams of the Shire:  of looking out the study window in Bag End and seeing not the honeysuckle vine trained about it but a wooden shed wall; of walking down a lane he knew well and seeing the ash trees which had lined it lying cut and abandoned on either side; of Will Whitfoot, thin as a wraith, a bruise on his face and his eyes haunted by fear, sitting in a dark place, listening with terror for the approach of footsteps.

       He woke one day from a nap in which his dreams were overwhelmingly of such images and walked up the ramp to the court of the White Tree where Aragorn and Arwen sat, the Queen doing handwork and singing a hymn of the Blessed Lands, Aragorn totally at his ease such as Frodo had never seen him.  Frodo had been drawn forward by the song, for it spoke to the longing he himself felt in his heart, and he’d joined them under the Tree, kneeling to be of a level with Aragorn and Arwen, his eyes closed, listening intently, drinking in the images and peace promised by the song.  King and Queen exchanged glances once the song was over, for they could so clearly see how strongly it had called to his spirit.  For long moments Frodo knelt there, his hands on his upper thighs, even after the song was done.  At last the Queen asked gently, “What is it you wish, Ringbearer?”

       Regretfully, Frodo opened his eyes and explained he felt strongly it was time for them to go home.

       Aragorn looked up regretfully at the branches over him and said softly, “Indeed, the tree grows and blooms best in the land in which it was first planted.”  He sighed, for he didn’t wish to have Frodo leave him.  He held out his hand and took Frodo’s in his, wishing he could keep Frodo ever thus, here beneath the White Tree where he so appeared to belong.  But, if Arwen’s plea was successful, there would be another, greater, far older White Tree to shelter the Hobbit, one he could think on whenever he came beneath this one.

       He explained that word had come that Éomer returned within days now, and that they would be leaving the day immediately after to accompany the Riders of Rohan back to Théoden’s funeral and the handfasting of Faramir and Éowyn.  “The great Elves, Halladan and many of my kinsmen will be going Northward also,” he said quietly, “and we will ride with you to the Gap of Rohan, at least.  In this way you do not ride alone and unprotected through the wild, and we can at least see you fairly far along the way.”

       His other concern, which he didn’t voice, was that he didn’t wish Frodo to make that long journey without a healer by him.  He saw Frodo’s relief that they would at last start on their way, and saw that the relief was mixed with regret, and felt selfishly glad of that. 

       Arwen reached up and unfastened the gemmed pendant she wore on a silver chain about her neck, held it quietly in her hand for a moment, invoking the Valar, particularly Ulmo, Estë, and Nienna, to bless it to Frodo’s easing.  From her conception it had been foreseen that Arwen would be one to assist much of the world to healing and renewal, which had been the reason her mother had given her the Elessar stone before leaving Middle Earth.  The Evenstar gem was also a stone of healing, one by which the wearer could more clearly perceive the portion of the Song that had brought a particular individual to be, and to help bring that Song into harmony with the Light of Being and the Breath of Life.  It had come from the Lords of Gondolin, and it was said it had originally come to them from Valinor itself.  She’d often used its power when working as healer alongside her father and brothers, or in Lorien.  She then turned to Frodo.  “Take this to remember Arwen and Aragorn, Undomiel and Elessar.  For I would give you a gift.

       “I will not sail with my father on the ship now being built in Mithlond, in the Grey Havens, for I gave up that right to cleave to my love.  But I would have you go in my place.  And when the memory of that great shadow lies over you most strongly, this may offer you ease.”

       “I am a mortal, my Lady, and may not go that way.”

       “Perhaps, Frodo.  But I have laid my plea before the Valar, that you might go in my stead.”

       “You would have those there see a mortal’s death?”

       “If the plea is granted, you will probably never go beyond Tol Eressëa, Frodo; and I suspect strongly many, many there are well acquainted with the deaths of mortals as well as of those they have loved who are now bound to the Halls of Waiting.  It will be nothing new to them.  But it would ease us both, Aragorn and myself, to know you could rest there for a time and find full healing.”

       Frodo looked at the two of them, his eyes confused, so wanting that gift, so knowing that, as a mortal, it wasn’t his right to claim, so not wishing to bring the taint of his life to that place.

       “At least,” Arwen said, “this is fully in my right to give you, to help in those times when all seems darkest.”  She rose to her own knees before him and fastened the pendant about his neck.  She watched as his hand rose to touch it, and Aragorn was strongly reminded of all the times he’d seen Frodo lift his hand in just that way to touch the Ring.  At least now what he wore was wholesome.

       His eyes seemed relieved immediately, and he looked at the Queen with mild surprise, his thanks in his expression.  Finally he said, “You won’t tell the others about--about the other, will you?”

       “No, we won’t.  We’ve said all about it that we may, Frodo.”

       He gave a small nod, then rose to his feet.  “I thank you for word we go home at last,” he said.  He gave his graceful bow and turned and left, back down the ramp.

       There was now a great deal of sorting going on in the guest house, for they certainly couldn’t carry all they now had with them back to the Shire.  Sam, being practical, packed several of the sturdiest and plainest outfits he owned in the saddlebags which had been sent down to them by Aragorn, whether they were of Shire or Gondorian fashion.  “Don’t matter all that much,” he said, “for what’s good cloth remains good cloth for all it may appear odd in the Shire.”

       Frodo packed the three Shire outfits he had, intending to wear Gondorian dress on the way and discard it perhaps in Bree.  “I’ve had enough in my life,” he commented, “of folks thinking me odd.  Let them see me in what people wear here and they’ll have no question.”

       Merry and Pippin, however, hadn’t bothered to have much in the way of Shire fashions made, having one outfit each, so indicated that the folk back home would have to accept them the way they were once they got back until they could have new wardrobes made.  “Mum,” Merry commented, “will be fit to be tied.  I mean, she’d just had all new clothes made for me shortly before we left, and it cost a good deal.  Now I’ll not be able to wear any of it.  Wonder if Beri or Brendi could fit it?”

       Pippin just whistled as he put several of his best surcoats into his bags.

       Gandalf watched with amusement as the Dwarf set all his own newer finery in a big kist.  “I won’t need this for a while,” he commented, “not until I come back.  Hopefully my father will have convinced Thorin to allow many of us to keep my promise to Aragorn.”

       Legolas did much the same.  “At least my father has already assured me I may lead many of our folk here both to work in the city and to settle for a time in Ithilien by the River,” he said,

       “My father agrees--it’s King Thorin we must convince, although he’s less testy than Dain was,” Gimli replied.

       Much of his Gondorian clothing Frodo placed in the kist he’d been given when they came to live here, knowing there was no way he could carry most of it home with him.  Gimli announced, “One thing, Hobbits, I hope to come first back here and then up North perhaps in the early spring.  I’ll bring you anything you’ve had to leave behind that you want.”

       One of the hardest items for Frodo to make a decision on was the bowl given him by Master Celebrion, for although he loved it dearly he knew it was unlikely to survive the trip to the Shire, even in a Dwarf cart.  In the end he carried it next door and gifted it to Mistress Linduriel.  “I wish for you to have it to remember us by,” he said.

       Linduriel had been overwhelmed, for such an object was far beyond her budget to acquire.  She thanked Frodo gently and set it with honor on the dresser in the dining room where ever after she kept it as one of her greatest treasures.

       All Frodo found he couldn’t fit in his saddle bags he bade farewell to, having decided he would most likely not see any of it again.  But the wind rods were taken down by Gandalf himself and placed in a special pack in which he himself stowed many items he knew the Hobbits would most miss if left behind, and he set it with the saddle bags by the door.

       The only one with his original pack was Sam, although it had been all but empty when they were found and rescued.  Prince Faramir came to bring him a special gift--a set of nesting pans such as those used by the Rangers of Ithilien during their patrols; and with great ceremony and satisfaction Sam settled these in the bottom of the pack along with his precious box of salt and a coil of hithlain rope.  After filling his saddle bags and the pack with his own things and clothing he wished to take back with him, including a bracelet of enameled roses as a promise gift for Rosie, he began going through those things Frodo had indicated he was leaving, rescuing the fine steel pen given him by Master Iorhael, some of his better charcoal and graphite drawing sticks, a stock of the paper, a set of silver shirt studs Aragorn had ordered made for Frodo which Frodo had felt was too fine for the likes of himself, and other similar things Frodo had overlooked or had decided he wouldn’t take as he felt he carried too much as it was.

       On the morning the Rohirrim were due, Sam went down through the city to Master Celebrion’s shop to pick up a gift he’d decided to have made for his Master, a delicately shaped bird blown of the volcano glass intended to hang in a sunny window.  He intended to keep it until either Yule or possibly his birthday and give it then, and hang it in the window in the study where Frodo could see it whenever he was reading or writing there.  He took it back to the house and engaged the aid of Gandalf, who’d just returned himself from his own unstated errand, in seeing to it the thing was carefully packed and stowed with the wind rods.

55

        “Will you ride out to meet the Rohirrim?” Merry asked.

       Frodo shook his head.  “No, for I’ll get enough riding all too soon.”  He examined Merry’s form, as he fastened his sword belt about himself.  “You look every inch the Rider of Rohan today.”

       Merry smiled.  “Thanks, Frodo.  This time tomorrow we’ll be off home at last.”

       Frodo nodded.  “At last.”

       “Strider wants for you to wear the mithril as we travel, Frodo, the mithril and Sting.  He wants for folks to give us a wide berth if they see us in the wild.  Pippin and I now know what we’re doing, at least, as you know Gandalf does as well.  But once we leave Rivendell it will be just us five, you understand.”

       “Yes, I know.”

       “You’ll agree to wear it?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “If he wishes.”

       “Good.”  Merry was glad he could carry this report to Aragorn, but was concerned that Frodo had given no argument.  He was worried when things went too easily with Frodo Baggins.  A Frodo who was this compliant was either depressed or had another worry he was seeking to hide, and it was impossible at the moment for him to figure which was true.

       After Merry left, Frodo was the only one left in the lower story of the guest house.  Pippin was on duty today, and would ride out with Aragorn; Gimli and Legolas had indicated they, too would accompany the King.  Gandalf had left the house early, and Sam had claimed an errand in the lower city.  Frodo had given some of Master Celebrion’s beads as a gift to Mistress Loren, and a book on animals of Harad to Lasgon, who’d found it fascinating; those two were upstairs preparing the quarters for the last night of occupation by the Fellowship.  Now he found himself restless, and decided to walk one last time down to Master Iorhael’s shop.

       As he started for the Fifth Circle, however, he remembered that Master Iorhael wasn’t there, for it was his son’s birthday and all were riding to Lossarnach for the day.  Not wanting to return to the quiet guest house, he turned about and went up the ramp instead, heading now for the White Tree.  Lady Galadriel was already there.

       He was almost reluctant to join her, and he couldn’t say why.  He paused, considering his options.  She looked at him, apparently amused, and beckoned him closer.  “Come, Ringbearer,” she said.  “We’ve seen little enough of you in the last several days.”

       “My Lady,” he said as he finally moved to answer her summons.

       “You are restless?”

       He shrugged and turned partially away.  “I suppose I am eager to set off home at the last.”

       “Estel and my granddaughter were most pleased with your gift.”

       “I am glad.”

       “And all were delighted with your gift of dancing.”

       What little animation he’d shown completely fled his countenance as he looked down at the hands he held clasped in his lap, the left closed around the right.  “Thank you.”

       For some time they sat thus, the Lady examing him, Frodo contemplating his hands.  She reached out a single shapely finger and tipped his face up toward hers.  “And so,” she said softly, “you have found another joy It robbed you of.”

       Finally he gave a very slight nod, slowly adding, “What joy is it to dance if I know that I may not finish the whole, and if I manage it I am so drained I can hardly move?”  He straightened and pulled away.  “And so it is, Lady Galadriel, with almost everything.  Each time I begin to forget myself and reach out in pleasure again I am brought up short.  I cannot eat freely or I will become ill.  I tire so easily; and although I am clearly better than I was when I awakened I still have no endurance, and can neither walk nor dance in sheer joy any more.  Suddenly, for the first time since It came to me, I can see the beauty of one such as the Lady Éowyn or the glassblower’s daughter or your granddaughter without the--without the urges It sought to teach me, and I know that I cannot look to ever take such a one for myself.  It is not just my finger I was deprived of.”

       He turned himself, looking Southwest toward the distant gleam of the Sea.  “I am restless, as you said, but cannot tell you for what I seek.  I have been emptied, and cannot be restored, not in Middle Earth.” 

       She could see the tears that slipped from his eyes.  “I will return to the Shire,” he continued, “but it will not be the same, for I am not the same.  A shadow lies on me still.  I look at Sam, and I find myself almost hating him, for although he, too, was hurt, yet he can look forward to living again.  He will go back to the Shire and will ask Rosie to have him, when he believes all is well with me, and he will take her to wife and be able to rejoice in it, and they will bring forth their children, and all I will be able to do is to watch.  Pippin will return and finally reconcile with his parents, and will go on to be the greatest Thain the Shire has known, and I will sit in my study and write about it but not be able to do.  Merry will resume his responsibilities as the Master’s heir and will breed fine ponies and race them, and I shall sit as guest at his table and nod my appreciation, and that is all.  And the longing I know and that I can barely describe will lie on me, and I will not have the strength to go in search of what it is that calls me.”

       “Is that why you have avoided us?”

       “Perhaps.”

       “Tell me your dreams.”

       He gave a ragged laugh.  “Dreams?  The images Sam saw in your Mirror, only worse.  There is evil besetting our home--I can feel it, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it at the moment.  And what if that evil teaches my people to become like those we have seen who know only fear, anger, suspicion, and the desire for vengeance?”

       She remained still, and at last he continued.  “I still have dreams of being sought by the Eye, but they are confused now where when I actually had It they were clear and straightforward.  When there are storms I seem to hear the clash of arms in the orc tower and imagine my friends are trying to rescue me and are being slaughtered.  When a shadow of a cloud falls on me I almost expect to feel again the pain of the spider’s bite and the poison being forced into my neck again.  When I awaken and hear voices it is as if I just awakened again from the poisoning, and I think the ones talking are the orcs arguing over the mithril shirt once more.  If the wind strikes me at just the right angle on the side of my face it’s as if I were in Mordor again, and if I turned my head I’d see the Mountain or the Tower in the distance.  When the wind blows just so between the houses in the Sixth Circle I hear Sméagol calling ‘Precious!’ as he fell.”

       He turned to look at her.  “I have to have water with me always.  Did they tell you?”

       “Yes, they did.  But are all your dreams of darkness and loss?”

       He shrugged and turned slightly away again.  “No, not all.  I see the curtain of rain roll away and the light of the rising Sun falling on white sand touched by blue water, smell flowers growing I cannot name, hear songs being sung I seem to recognize, though I’ve not heard them before.”

       She sat in quiet for some time.  Finally she asked.  “When did these dreams begin?”

       He sat still, not seeing the distant horizon, she realized.  Finally he said, “Long ago.  I’ve had such dreams off an on all my life, but the first time it was definite was....” 

       His voice trailed off.  Unwilling to sift his thoughts, she waited for what he said next, certain it would be about the time they left Lothlorien and he’d begun to consume the lembas.  “The first time it was definite,” he resumed after a long pause, “was just after we left the Shire, when we spent the night in the house of Tom Bombadil.”

       It was all she could do not to show her startlement.  He’d had the Sea Longing for so long?  And it was definitely not due solely to having been exposed to lembas!  Just what was it that Iluvatar had wrought, allowing this one to be born into the body of a Hobbit of the Shire?

       She reached out and caressed the dark curls, and he looked back at her, and she saw the grief for what he’d had revealed to him and knew that he, as a mortal, could not have.

*******

       As they stood waiting to be called to their places in the Hall of Merethrond, Éomer looked after Frodo, who was being ushered to his own seat at the table.  “The Ringbearer is one of the most solemn of folk I have ever seen, brother,” he commented quietly to Aragorn.

       Reluctantly Aragorn nodded his agreement.  “His heart had begun to lighten markedly until the evening of our wedding feast,” he explained.  “He danced an exhibition dance of their people for us, and it was marvelous.  But when it was done he almost dropped from exhaustion and he realized he will not dance again.  He’s been like this ever since.”

       “He danced again?  I wish I’d been here to see.”

       “You cannot be everywhere at once, brother Éomer.  But it was the most wonderful dance to see.  Never have I seen any save Elves dance as well, and the Elves of Middle Earth have not danced freely for many years.”

       Éomer nodded, and returned his attention to the face of the Lady Arwen Undomiel, the admiration he felt for her plain on his face.  “And to see such a one as your Queen, my friend--I would envy you, were I such a one to draw such love to myself.”

       “You will yet draw a worthy love to yourself, Éomer, one to sustain and delight you.”

       “I would hope so.  But now I understand the fascination that the Dwarf Gimli knows for the Lady Galadriel, for I feel it myself, but toward your Lady; although I find there is no hint of desire in the worship I would offer.  It is a strange realization to find such in myself.”

       Aragorn laughed.  “I had felt such fascination toward several of the Ladies I met in Adar’s house when I was a youth, but never desire until I saw Arwen for the first time.  I did not understand what desire could be until that day; from then I have never been free of it, and always fixed on the same object.”

       The King of Rohan examined his friend’s face.  “It is still a wonder to me to see the legends of our childhood shown to be not legends after all, and to find Elves indeed perilous, but not in the manner to which we’ve been led to suppose.”  He again looked beyond his friend to the Queen of Gondor and Arnor.  “Greatest beauty has been granted to you.  I see it and honor and even, as I have said, worship it; but I do not find myself coveting it.  Nay, it is best bestowed on you, my brother, for you understand best how it is to be cherished.”  He looked out at where Frodo’s face could now be seen, looking up at the one who’d led him to his seat, listening, apparently to a question.  “Now, if only that one would accept proper cherishing.”

       Aragorn nodded his agreement.

       As Éomer himself was being led to his place he found his attention caught by the young woman who was to sit by himself, just this side of Prince Imrahil, an auburn-haired woman with eyes of clear grey-green, and he again smiled.  Aragorn saw and sighed, then set himself to searching the room for Galador.  It appeared that his Minister of Protocol was once again playing at matchmaking.  Galador himself was peeking through the door from his own office, and seeing the expression on the face of the young King of Rohan he smiled with satisfaction, and sipped at a goblet of his own wine in self-congratulation.

       During the feast, Frodo sat by Elrond, who sought several times to engage the Hobbit in conversation.  Frodo, however, spoke relatively little, shrugging frequently and then asking his own questions of the Lord of Imladris, many of them of Bilbo, for Bilbo had not come with the party from Rivendell.  He learned that once the Ring was destroyed Bilbo had begun to show signs of rapid aging, and spent much of his time fighting the urge to slumber.  “However,” Elrond said with a shrug, “other than that he is well enough, and waits for your return.”  He did not speak of Bilbo’s frustration that his frequent naps disrupted conversations and his grief that he had not been able to stay awake long enough just to pack for his intended journey here to the wedding, seeing the concern in Frodo’s eyes that appeared all he wished to reveal of himself tonight.

       Frodo ate lightly, and refused the rich dessert offered.  After the meal Aragorn and the Lady Arwen again led the dancing, the first of which was relatively slow.  The Lady Galadriel looked down at Frodo, by whom she stood.  “Will you join me in the dance, Ringbearer?” she asked.

       He shook his head.  “No, Lady, for I’ll not dance again.”

       She looked at the resigned expression in his eyes and sighed.

       Frodo took his leave early, pleading the need to rise early to travel the next morning, and all watched after him with concern.

       Soon Merry and Pippin went back to the guest house with Sam, while Legolas and Gimli stayed behind with Gandalf at the side of the King and Queen, discussing with Éomer the arrangements for the coming days.  Elphir, Erchirion, and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth would travel to Rohan with their mother and her ladies and selected Swan Knights to represent Dol Amroth at the funeral of Théoden King and the handfasting of the Lord Prince Steward Faramir of Ithilien to the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, for one of the three greatest Lords must remain in Minas Tirith for the administration of the realm according to the law, since they had received official warning of a potential assault on the realm.  Aragorn saw the look of appreciation on his brother king’s face at this announcement and the way Éomer’s eyes followed the young Lady Lothiriel with admiration.  Aragorn and Arwen exchanged glances.  Was it possible that a second active tie between Rohan and Gondor would soon be forged?

       Once again the time spent in the Hall of Merethrond was cut short in deference to what would happen the next day, and lords and ladies took leave of the King and Queen and their guests and returned to their homes.  The past two and a half months had been markedly exciting as they’d seen the Kingship restored, their new King married, and the coming of so many parties from Northern climes to the capitol.  How dull it would seem with the King and Queen leaving the realm for Rohan for a time, and many looked to count the days between tonight and the King’s return, praying that he would not take it into his head to disappear back into the Northern wilderness from which it was said he’d come.

*******

       Galadriel walked out upon the keel of the great stone with Celeborn, Glorfindel, and Gildor, and together they looked North, East, and finally South toward the distant hint of the Sea.  “It calls to me strongly,” she said with a sigh, “and at last I am allowed to respond.  I will go when the ship Elrond has commissioned from Círdan is finished and return to Valinor once more.  Will you come with me, my husband, or linger yet a time?”

       Celeborn shrugged, remaining silent, his hands fixed on the stone balustrade before him.  Finally he spoke.  “I was born here, my lady wife, and so far miss little that is in the Undying Lands.  It would be a great wrench to lose all of the beauty of Middle Earth with which I am so familiar just when it might once again flower without the threat of the Shadow overlying it.”

       The Lady sighed.  “Lothlorien will begin to fade, beloved.  The mallorns will continue to live for several more centuries, perhaps; but without the power of Nenya to sustain it I can no longer partially withdraw the Golden Wood from the time of Ennor nor keep it hidden.  Our daughter is there awaiting us, as are so many whom I once loved dearly, who must anticipate my return now that it is at last permitted.

       “I will go before you, then, and ready all for when you must at last follow.  Know this--that I will anticipate that day, awaiting the time I might introduce to my family the one who finally won my heart.”

       His expression softened, and he placed one of his hands over her near one.

       Gildor looked at the two by him with thoughtfulness.  “I will take ship also, now that the danger to Middle Earth is over.  For too long have I fought the Sea Longing, fearing that without us the lands would fail to bloom.  There is less need for our guard.  I only pray Men will not destroy all of beauty in their desire to shape the world to their own purposes.”  The others nodded their agreement.

       “What of the Ringbearer?” asked Glorfindel.

       “What would you seek for him?” asked Gildor.

       “All of Ennor owes its freedom from that great fear to him.  What shall he know of reward for his service to all?”

       “He does not easily accept the honors granted to him,” Celeborn sighed.  “The lordship bestowed on him embarrasses him.  He has avoided us much of our stay, and the weakness of his body causes him distress with the knowledge his time is even more limited than is common to mortals.”

       “Yet he does not fear his passing,” the Lady noted.  “Instead he knows a quiet rage he must be lessened from what he was before it is proper for his kind.”

       A shifting of light from the distance of the Citadel drew their attention that way, and they saw that Aragorn and Arwen were walking out to join them, accompanied by their adar and brothers, Mithrandir, Gimli, and Legolas.  All remained still while the King’s party drew near.

       “Estel,” Celeborn greeted the husband of his granddaughter.  “Do your other guests sleep in their own quarters?”

       Aragorn shrugged.  “Éomer and his party have withdrawn to their own chambers for the remainder of the night, at least.  Whether or not they sleep I will not speak to, as you can more easily discern that for yourself than can I.”  The two exchanged soft smiles which faded away all too quickly.  He looked out at the world from the height of the city, then looked down at the Sixth Circle below him, the concern he knew clearly discernible to the eyes of all who surrounded him.

       “You worry for him?” asked Galadriel.  There was no reason to speak Frodo’s name.

       Aragorn nodded.  “He grows quiet once more.  Each time his body reminds him he is less than he was it deepens his grief; and he realizes he continues to change and cannot see to what he will come.”

       “You foresee his nature changes, youngling?”  Celeborn seemed surprised.

       Aragorn looked at his wife’s grandfather sidelong.  “After spending so much of my life in Imladris, do you think I could not tell, daeradar?  I know the intent of the Morgul knife--to convert his Light of Being to the Dark Fire and deny him the Gift, tying him ever to the Shadow World as a reluctant lesser slave to the holder of the One Ring.  But, as Sauron could not create but only twist the laws and processes and creatures of Eru from their intended purposes, I must question what form of transformation Sauron and his dark servants twisted to form the evil magic used in empowering the cursed blades.”  He looked down at the darkened houses below again and sighed.  “Not that he is likely to live long enough to know its benefits.  No, he fears the changes he perceives.  After all, he saw to what the Ring brought Gollum, and was but steps from wraithdom when at last Adar found and removed the shard of the Morgul blade.”

       Gandalf loosed a soft breath.  “He will not come to evil, Aragorn.”

       The Man turned to examine the Wizard.  “You think not?  What if he seeks to destroy himself?”

       Gildor was shocked.  “You think the Cormacolindor would even consider such an act, Elessar?”

       Arwen answered for her husband, “Yes, my Lord, he would indeed consider it.”

       Galadriel examined the eyes of the others.  “You, young Leaf,” she invited Legolas.  “What say you?”

       The son of Thranduil sighed.  “I fear this is true,” he agreed.  “What he has known has been almost more than any could bear, much less a mortal such as Frodo Baggins.  He is currently less than he was, and knows not enough any more of Iluvatar to appreciate that he might well become more if he has patience--and sufficient endurance and time.  His time in Middle Earth grows short, and this he must appreciate.  That he might live long enough to finish the changes now begun and see to what he comes in the end even I despair of.”

       They were surprised when Gimli spoke up.  “Is there any way in which he might--might go with you, my Lady Galadriel?  To know the great beauty of that land, whose loveliness he must respond to, would ease his heart and help him greatly to accept his end.  He has not a warrior’s heart, to find death in battle an acceptable way to pass from Middle Earth.”

       “Yet he would have leapt from the stone of the Sammath Naur into the Fire, had the Ring allowed it,” Elrohir noted.

       “He did not appreciate that such an act would have destroyed Samwise as well, or that it would not have spared Sméagol,” Elrond said, shaking his head.

       “Still the deaths of those three would have achieved the same end for the Ring,” his son pointed out.

       “Iluvatar sent him means to know the grace of rescue,” Elladan noted.  “That the Creator would grant him the ability to appreciate that his nature has begun to change and yet not the realization that he does not diminish in it but that he will be fulfilled in the end does not seem consistent with Eru’s own nature.”

       Gimli persisted, “Is there no way in which Frodo might be granted the chance to go with you, perhaps know sufficient time to learn to be grateful for it?”

       Arwen smiled solemnly at the Dwarf.  “I have petitioned the Valar to allow him to go in my place to Tol Eressëa,” she told him.

       Galadriel’s eyebrows lifted.  “When did you do this, sell nín?”

       “Some days ago.”

       “How did you place this petition?”

       “I asked Gwaihir to bear it before Manwë.”

       Celeborn shared a glance with his wife before fixing his gaze intently on his granddaughter.  “And he agreed to do so?”

       Aragorn answered him, “Yes, although he cautioned us that he could guarantee no specific answer.”

       Gandalf’s lip began to twitch, and suddenly he began to laugh and threw back his head in delight.  “And all believe we of the Istari seek to bend the Valar or the world or both to our own wills!  Ah, daughter, you have done full well--perhaps better than you have realized.  And you have given him the gem you’ve worn all these years for his easing as well.”

       Elrond straightened, his eyes surprised.  That he’d not noted his daughter no longer wore the pendant she’d worn for most of three thousand years shocked him.  “I will not begrudge that gift,” he said with an even deeper respect for her, “nor the petition you have tendered.  But that you ask it for a mortal....”

       “Does the fact that such petitions were offered for your own father as well surprise you?” Gandalf interrupted.

       “They were?” asked Elrond.  He considered.  “Yet he was of the Peredhil before the choice was laid on us, his sons.  Was it as a result of those petitions that in the end the choice was offered to Elros and myself, and then my children?”

       Gandalf weighed his words before answering deliberately, “Yes, in part that is what inspired the offering of the choice.”

       “I see.”  Elrond looked at the Maia consideringly.  Finally he straightened a second time.  “Then I ask you to inform the Valar that I make the same petition as has my daughter.”

       Galadriel and Celeborn exchanged glances and an unspoken question, both knowing their answers were identical.  “We ask the same,” Celeborn said with quiet determination.

       Legolas began to laugh.  “I, too, beg this of the Valar,” he stated. 

       Gildor lifted his head proudly.  “So do I.”

       Gimli straightened purposefully.  “I know the desires of a Dwarf may well count for nought,” he said, “but I add my own petition to those of the others.”

       All turned to Glorfindel, who throughout almost all had remained quiet.  He examined the face of each with neutral interest.  Finally he gave a small smile of satisfaction.  “Then it appears the fact that I have already made my own plea for him is supported by all of the rest of you.”

       Aragorn smiled as he bowed low to the rest.  “I, too, have asked this, although as one who was born mortal and has accepted it cannot be otherwise for myself I have perhaps no authority to make such a plea.”

       Gandalf glanced all about the group gathered there.  “You all ask this, then?”

       “Yes,” Elrond declared, “so we all ask.”

       Gandalf fairly glowed with satisfaction.  “I, too, would desire such a gift for Frodo, and add my own name to the list of petitioners.”

       Legolas nodded, adding, “Then I will inform my father and brother and our people and ask them to make known their will as well.”

       And so it was that the plea offered the Valar for Frodo Baggins was made, and seconded by all among the Firstborn.

       Meanwhile the proposed beneficiary of that plea knew a surprisingly restful night, rising near dawn for his last look on the now familiar eastern view of the Mountains of Shadow under a clear sky and a glorious sunrise.  And his heart seemed lighter somehow this morning once more, knowing that it would be so often thus, unlike how it had been for so very long.

56

       Mistress Loren had prepared a light first breakfast for the Hobbits, and all were grateful to her.  Of all they’d met in Minas Tirith, she and Lasgon were among those they’d miss the most.  Lasgon watched the four Hobbits gather their baggage and bedrolls together (new ones for all of them, again much through the agency of the Lord Prince Faramir) with a distinct feeling of loss in the pit of his stomach.  So long had he now spent with these, and now they were to go, and it was possible he might never see them again?  More he was inspired to join the Guard, the King’s own personal Guard if possible, so that he might travel abroad with the King and perhaps one day visit the land of the Pheriannath himself.  He would speak to his friend Bergil, who, after all, was friend to Pippin as well.  Both were determined to one day be allowed to travel North in that manner.

        At least, Lasgon thought, he had the pictures given him of the members of the Fellowship by Master Frodo, as well as the few he’d found that Frodo had failed to get into the fire of Gollum and other subjects.  He would never have reason to forget them, he knew.  But as he watched Frodo shoulder his fine saddlebags which had been given him by the King he grieved.  He honored all of the four; but his deepest love and respect and compassion had been won by Frodo; and he realized that of the four it was Frodo whom he was most likely never to see again. 

        He offered to take Frodo’s bags for him, but the Hobbit shook his head.  “No, I’d best accustom myself to such things again, Lasgon, for I’ll not have you along the way, and refuse to allow Sam to do all for me as he would if he were allowed.  I must take responsibility for myself once more.  But, I thank you, and will remember you always.  May the Creator continue to aid you to prosper and know joy.”

       Frodo looked up into the boy’s eyes, gently brushed the hair out of Lasgon’s eyes, then pulled his head down to kiss his forehead.  The boy hugged the slight form to himself fiercely for a moment, then gently pulled away, his embarrassment at how deeply his emotions had taken him fading swiftly at the sight of Frodo’s beautiful smile.  “May the Valar watch over you, Master Frodo,” he said.  “And I’ll write to you.”

       “I’d like that,” the Hobbit said quietly.  “Keep a good eye on the Lord Elessar for me, will you?”

       Lasgon straightened to attention and gave a salute.  “I will, sir,” he said formally.  But as the four turned to go up the ramp with Gimli, Legolas, and Mithrandir to their joining of the King’s party he found himself weeping.  Mistress Loren had embraced and kissed each of those who’d housed themselves here, had accepted their small gifts, and now stood beside him.  She pulled the boy to her side in comfort, and as much for herself as for him, Lasgon realized as he saw she, too, was already feeling bereft as she watched them leave the guest house for the final time.

       At the foot of the ramp grooms came forward to take their saddlebags, bedrolls, and other goods, settling them over special rail and bench set to receive them.  Frodo thanked them courteously, then turned away to go up the ramp for the last time, looking one last time at the beautiful lines of the Citadel through the branches of the White Tree, which was now almost five feet taller than it had been when found on the side of the Mountain.  It wasn’t the same view as he’d had the first time, but was, he realized, nonetheless perfect.  He smiled unconsciously, glad to have had the chance to see the renewal of this land, the beginning to Aragorn’s reign, the joy of the Tree.  The others saw his smile, including Aragorn and Elrond, who’d come to meet him, and rejoiced to see the moment of joy for him.

       A last meal was served to them by the staff of the kitchens, and Mistress Gilmoreth took pleasure in seeing them eat the pastries and cold meats and selected fruits.  They would miss the four Pheriannath in the Citadel, and all grieved to see them go, could see the sorrow in the eyes of King and Queen as they looked to see so many go back to their own lands.  But although they would be gone for a time, yet the King and Queen would return soon enough; and it was impossible to think there had been a time so shortly before when there was no King in Gondor.

       Frodo ate little enough, but appreciated what he was able to accept.  After all were done the staff came out to bid farewell to the King’s guests, Pheriannath, Elves, Dwarf, and Men.  The Hobbits were appreciative of the caring they’d been shown, and made their own goodbyes with grace and with every indication they would truly miss those to whom they now bade farewell.  The King and Queen also gave their own farewells, and the Lord Elessar officially handed over authority to Elphir until his return, which should be in about six weeks all were told.

       Master Faralion came forward now, taking leave of the four Hobbits particularly, wishing all of them well.  Frodo pressed on him a number of pages on which he’d copied down the lyrics of several of the songs the minstrel had learned from the Hobbits.  With a profound bow, Faralion accepted it, and embraced each.

       Then all was ready, and all rose to go down the ramp to the Sixth Circle.  The wain on which Théoden’s body would rest stood in place near the gate to the Silent Street, and the Warden and porter for the Royal Cemetery stood by it to admit those who must go within to bring forth Théoden’s bier.  Merry walked between Éomer and Prince Faramir as they led those who would bear it out of the tombs, and he noted the stiffness in Faramir’s bearing as the approached the House of the Kings, close by the remains of the House of Stewards.  Rubble from the fire had been carried away; already masons were carefully rebuilding the walls which would support the central dome under which a new embalmer’s table would be placed.  Fortunately, most of the tombs and tables in and on which the honored dead lay had not been seriously hurt; and a lidded sarcophagus had been brought in by the Warden to house what the fire had left of the remains of Denethor son of Ecthelion.  Faramir gave a stiff bow of respect toward that building, then another, deeper one to the House of the Kings, whose door the Warden opened, standing aside as his assistants held out lighted torches to bear into the tomb.

       Théoden’s bier had been laid on the embalmer’s table, where it had rested since its placement here.  Éomer carefully lifted the King’s arms and gave them to Merry to carry, then he and Faramir and four others together lifted the bier, with two before and two behind bearing the torches.

       Aragorn and Arwen remained outside the tomb with Prince Imrahil and his wife and children; all bowed deeply and turned to follow the bier out of the Rath Dínen to the waiting wain; there it was carefully laid and secured, and Merry climbed the steps provided to settle the King’s arms in the provided place beside it, then sat on the tail facing back, holding the King’s helm cradled in his arms.  It was not the helm Théoden had worn in the battle, for that had been crushed in the fall of the King and then that of the fell steed ridden by the Lord of the Ringwraiths.  This was a finer helm which had been worn by the King on days of memorial, and was fit to lie by him in his tomb.  The other helm had been given by Éomer to the Halls of Memorial in the Citadel to lie beside the twisted remains of the iron circlet which the Witch King of Angmar had worn as a token to all of the fall of such greatness alongside such evil.  Then with a lurch the horses started forward, carrying the bier on its slow way down through the city to the road north and then west back to Edoras.

       Grooms came out of the upper stable leading four ponies, one each for Frodo, Sam, and Pippin, and a fourth a sturdy grey so dark as to be nearly black to serve as a pack pony.  “Sir Meriadoc’s pony was taken down to the outer stables yesterday with the other steeds which will serve as spares should any fall lame,” the head groom told them.  “We took the liberty of fastening the saddlebags and bedrolls to each of the ponies brought yesterday by the Lord King Éomer for the Pheriannath.”

       Frodo examined the pony brought to him, his eyes wide with surprise.  This was not the pale golden pony he’d ridden before, but a fine bay, its long mane carefully braided with golden ribbons.

       Aragorn stood nearby.  “I asked Éomer to choose for the four of you a pony he felt appropriate for each, and this is the one he chose for you.  This is now your own steed from this day forward, and my final gift to you, Frodo.”

       “Oh,” Frodo said quietly, reaching up to pat its nose.  “It is beautiful.  A gelding?”

       Éomer smiled, seeing he had indeed chosen properly for the Ringbearer.  “You are indeed correct,” he answered.

       “Has he a name?”

       “No, that is for you to give him.”

       Frodo gave a sideways look at his friend and laughed as he reached forward to scratch the animal’s nose.  “Then, I shall call him Strider, for he will travel far.”

       Aragorn laughed aloud.  “Strider he shall be, then.”

       “And I hope that the saddle will be comfortable for you,” Éomer added.  “Our saddlers have been pressed to see to it that you all are properly mounted.”

       Saddle and bridle were works of art, stirrups and pommel each worked with an inlaid eight-pointed star, the reins and bridle worked with more, a silver star on the headstall and each cheekpiece.  On the grey intended for Sam the main sign worked into the leather was a sun in glory; for Pippin it was a silver tree.

       Each of the three Hobbits checked his girth, then swung up into the saddle easily enough.  In moments the grooms had adjusted stirrups for them.

       “And for you, my Holdwine,” Éomer smiled, “Stybba now sports a saddle and bridle worthy of you, although we shall carry it for now in the stores wagon.”

       With the three Hobbits riding before them, the party now moved to ride out of the Sixth Circle.  Many of those who lived there had gathered near the gates, Mistress Linduriel holding her babe, standing by Tergil and his sister, her parents by her; Eldamir with several of those from the Houses of Healing who were able to walk out to see the King walk by; families of servitors and healers on all sides, bidding farewell to the Ringbearer and his companions.

       The ponies had more the look of smaller horses than mere ponies; and Frodo soon realized his had a smooth, even gait and a proud carriage to its head.  He’d never ridden a better animal, and the pony quickly developed a deep affection for him.

       Éomer walked for a time between Frodo and Sam, watching them ride with a discerning eye.  “You have an excellent seat,” he commented to Frodo.  “Yes, this one was well chosen for you.  He suits you admirably.  We have brushes and cooling blankets for you also, in the stores wagon for now.

       And so they passed through the city, all gathered along the way to watch King and Queen and their guests prepared to begin their journey.  The flowers and sprays of leaves this time were mostly tossed into the wain to lie on the pall over Théoden’s body, although the Queen, Frodo, and Sam appeared to garner most of those presented to the party; yet all the women, especially the Lady Lothiriel, appeared to gain their own bouquets quickly enough.  Aragorn looked up at Frodo, indicating where Éomer now walked by Imrahil’s daughter, engaging her in talk of Dol Amroth.  “It appears, small brother, that interest has been awakened there.”

       “Will Lord Elphir be able to hold it in check, do you think?”

       “There’s been a change in plans.  As it is his nephew who is to be handfasted to the Lady Éowyn, the Council has determined that Imrahil should go and Elphir  remain behind to rule in my stead.  They and Galador insist that as Faramir’s closest and highest ranking relative Imrahil must witness the trothplighting.”

       Frodo shook his head.  “I don’t know if I will ever completely understand the laws of Gondor,” he commented.

       “I studied Gondor’s laws during my last sojourn here, and more so in the last few months for the sake of necessity; I begin to wonder if I will completely understand them,” Aragorn returned.  Frodo gave a soft laugh.

       In the Fourth Circle Master Celebrion, Linneth, and young Meneldil stood together, watching them, waving, and Frodo bowed his head in acknowledgment and farewell, knowing he would not see them again in this world.  Linneth hurried forward with something in her hand and held it out to him as he rode by, and he accepted it with quiet thanks.  “You will remember us, won’t you?” she asked.

       “How could I ever forget you, Linneth?” he asked.  “Give my love to your father and young Meneldil--and don’t let him dangle too long.”

       She laughed as she slipped back through the crowd.  He looked at what she’d given him--a set of glass buttons with flakes of gold in them strung on a stout silk thread.  He smiled as he placed them in his pocket.  He’d have a waistcoat made when he got home with them on it, he thought.  He looked back, saw the loveliness of the girl, the love for her shining in the eyes of the youth, the pride of the father and craftsman. 

       Fruiters came forward and gave to each of the four Hobbits bags of fruit, it having become well known that the Hobbits were much given to such; one came with a bag of mushrooms which was pressed on Sam, whose eyes lit to receive it; as they went through the Second Circle the innkeepers for the Dragon’s Claw and the King’s Head, who’d converted rooms for use by Hobbits and Dwarves and Elves should they visit the city in the future, came out and gave the Hobbits bags of seedcakes to carry with them.

       Gandalf came forward to walk between Frodo and Sam.  “It appears, my dear Hobbits, that your appetites have become legendary within Minas Tirith.  Can I take those for you and stow them in one of the spare packs on the pack pony?”

       “If you please, Gandalf,” Frodo said.  “I’ll have to sprout more hands in order to carry all of this, I think.”

       “Well, we can’t allow that--it would necessitate the purchase of a whole new wardrobe, you know.”

       Frodo laughed and gladly gave the bags he now carried to Gandalf to place in the spare pack, and the others quickly followed suit.  Frodo looked at Pippin.  “And where did they get the recipe for seedcakes, I wonder?  They smelled surprisingly like Bilbo’s secret recipe, you realize.”

       Pippin gave his most guileless expression.  “Do they indeed?” he asked.  Frodo gave a deep sigh and shook his head, then laughed again.

       They reached the barrier at last, and the head of the City Guard and Captain Gilmaros together came forward to salute all.  “Go well, our Lord King,” the Captain of the City Guard said formally, his stance proud, “and return soon to our comfort.”

       The King nodded, his attitude equally formal.  “I count the days until I must return.  Keep well the city, which I leave in your hands and those of our Lord Prince Elphir while we must be gone.”

       Pippin dismounted and saluted Captain Gilmaros.  “Captain Peregrin Took of the Tower Guard, going on leave, sir.”

       “Your duty for this time, Captain, is to attend on the Lord Frodo Baggins to his home and to see to his safety and the security of your own land.”

       “And so I shall,” Pippin said, with a deep bow.  “I will return when the time is right.”

       “So we expect, Captain.  Go now, and may the Valar guard and guide you back to your homeland, then in the future bring you back to your duty here.”

       Pippin stepped back, saluted again, then turned to remount his pony.  He swung up into his saddle smartly, then turned to look up at the King, who indicated he should go before them.  The barrier was lifted aside, and the party passed out through it, the Elves smiling indulgently.

       Most of the Riders who’d returned with Éomer’s party and those who’d remained recovering in Gondor waited now outside the city with their mounts and the supply wagons, and grooms came forward with the mounts for the rest of the party, Elves having seen the mounts for their own people prepared.

       The stablemen were pleased to see that each one in the party checked over bit and girth, while those among the Elves who rode without tack spoke still to their mounts and saw to it they were indeed ready for the long ride ahead of them.  The Lord King aided his wife onto her palfrey while Legolas and Gimli together mounted Arod.  The Lady Galadriel brought her mount near Frodo, who was rubbing his leg.  “You are uncomfortable, Ringbearer?”

       He looked up at her ruefully.  “I knew I ought to work at this more and build up my endurance, but I did not.  But I will grow accustomed to it again.”  So saying he turned his pony’s head northward, Sam following after.

       In a surprisingly short time the party was mounted and all took their places, detailed scouts of both Gondor and Rohan going before and scouting eastward.  Now Éomer took command and indicated his vanguard should go before all. They were finally on their way.  At the gate to the Rammas Echor Elphir and his mounted Swan Knights took their leave, falling back to the city to take up their duty during the King’s absence.

       They rode relatively slowly, and didn’t go extraordinarily far that first day.  In late afternoon the King ordered the scouts to find a camping place for the night, and well before sunset tents and pavilions were raised and cooking fires built.  For Frodo a low cot and featherbed had been brought, which embarrassed him greatly.  The King came to the tent set for the four Hobbits and saw Frodo’s thighs rubbed with a soothing ointment, his back also rubbed gently, and then suggested he rest for a time while the meal was prepared.  That night, however, Frodo was restless until at last, near midnight, he carefully rolled his bedding and brought it out of the tent, placing it somewhat apart from most of the camp beneath the low boughs of a tree, where he rested more peacefully for the rest of the night.  He may not have slept a great deal, but at least he was able to know the night in stillness.

       This was reported to the King, who nodded his understanding.

       The second night in Anorien again the scouts were sent out early, but specifically instructed to look for trees under which they might rest.  Frodo again chose to unroll his bedroll under a tree, and this time the other Hobbits unrolled theirs nearby.  The tent was set up with the cot, and there Elrohir saw to the soothing of the thighs for all four Hobbits; but when all began retreating to their beds for the night the Hobbits slept beneath the tree.

       Frodo woke once to smell a faint odor of pipe smoke; he turned to find Aragorn sitting nearby, leaning against the tree’s trunk, pipe in hand.

       “You are comfortable, small brother?” Aragorn asked.

       Frodo smiled.  “Comfortable enough, tall brother,” he answered softly, so as not to disturb the rest.  “And why are you not by your lady this night?”

       “I was restless, and so she sent me out with orders to smoke and air myself before I returned to her.  You feel confined within the tent?”

       Frodo gave a small nod.  “I find I rest best when I can see the stars.”

       “Much as it was in Ithilien, then.”

       “Apparently.”

       “The smoke doesn’t bother you, does it?”

       “It was comforting, waking and smelling it, when the wind blows it mostly the other way.  And why did you choose to smoke over here?”

       The King smiled. “I found it comforting to me, somehow, to watch over the four of you as I so often did when we left Rivendell.”

       Frodo gave a soft laugh.  Aragorn reached down his hand and took Frodo’s.  Frodo was smiling as he drifted back into sleep.

       As he made to return to his own tent, Aragorn paused near where Elrond sat near the edge of the encampment, looking out at the night.  “Adar,” he said quietly.

       “Aragorn,” the Elven lord returned.

       “You have been able to ease his hand.”

       “Yes.”

       “Thank you.”

       “I only wish I could ease more.”

       “I wish the same, although he is eased enough for the moment.”

       “For the moment.”

       Aragorn placed his hand on Elrond’s shoulder, and the Elf covered it briefly with his own.  “Rest well, Adar.”  He withdrew and bowed deeply, and returned to his tent.

       The third day they came to the bounds of the Forest of Druadan, and there the King ordered a stop.  After a time of discussion, Aragorn, accompanied by the remainder of the Nine Walkers and Éomer, along with their standard bearers, rode to the edge of the forest while certain others took positions along the line of trees.  All was apparently quiet; yet from the depths of the woods they heard heavy drumming, now here and then answered there.  The four Hobbits looked at one another, for Merry had told the others of the meeting with Ghân-buri-ghân and how the Riders of Rohan had been led by the Woses by way of the old road now lost deep in the forest.  Still Pippin afterwards commented that the drumming made the hair on the back of his head stand right up.  Aragorn gave a signal, and those of both the Rohirrim and the forces of Gondor who carried horns raised them to their lips and gave a long and compelling call.  The hidden drummers gave deep flourishes, and then quieted as if the trees themselves were intent on hearing the words of the descendant of the Sea Kings.

       “Behold,” Aragorn called out, his voice carrying far and wide, “now is come to the Forest of Druadan the King Elessar, Lord of Gondor and Arnor.  Hear my words!  We grant this forest to the folk of Ghân-buri-ghân, to be their own forever; and hereafter let no man enter it without their leave!”  Others serving as his heralds stood at intervals along the borders of the woods and repeated his words.  As each fell silent drums could be heard near their positions, telling their tale to those deeper in the woods.  Then came an answer back, a deep, triumphant rolling of beats, repeated on the hidden drums all along the newly declared frontier.  A last loud, satisfied drumming, and all fell silent once more.

       At the King’s signal all who’d stepped forward for this duty gave a profound bow to the forest, then turned back to their horses, mounted, and very ostentatiously rode along the edge of the woods going Westward toward Rohan.  In the late afternoon they camped a good half mile from the borders of the forest.  A half hour after they began erecting their tents and pavilions and setting the horses to graze, one of the sentinels nearest to the forest paused in his patrol of the boundaries of the camp, surprised, and called out.  Several, including Captain Hardorn, King Éomer, and King Elessar himself, came to see.  A great buck had been laid there in the sentinel’s path, obviously quite deliberately.  It was freshly killed and gutted.

       Hardorn looked on it with suspicion.  “And what is this?” he asked.

       Aragorn smiled.  “A gift, it appears, from the people of Druadan.”  He knelt down, then lifted the deer up so it could be clearly seen.  Again he bowed deeply toward the forest, then placing the deer over his shoulders as would any hunter he carried it back to the camp.

       The fourth morning of their journey Frodo appeared somewhat testy, and his face was rather drawn.  He drank the morning draught brought to him, but his face made it plain he wasn’t particularly happy to receive it.  He saddled Strider himself, and appeared to fuss over the headstall.  Sam was watching with concern, and Merry quickly gave up trying to find out what was bothering his cousin.

       Frodo had eaten barely anything for breakfast, and little enough of the waybread the Hobbits had been given by the camp cooks to tide them through their morning ride.  As Aragorn and Éomer were considering where they’d stop for the noon meal Frodo pulled out of the line and rode behind a hedge.  Aragorn swiftly dismounted from Roheryn to follow, and found Frodo kneeling on the ground, retching miserably, his pony standing nearby, watching with apparent interest.  He was swiftly joined by Sam.

       Frodo carried a waterskin over his shoulder, and now used it to rinse his mouth.

       “Any idea what sparked this?” Aragorn asked.

       “No, not really.  I’ve been restless since last evening.”

       “Do you hurt anywhere?”

       “No, although my neck feels hot.”

       Aragorn and Sam exchanged looks, and Aragorn pulled away the hair at the back of Frodo’s neck.  Sure enough, the site of the spider bite appeared inflamed and swollen.  “It looks as if the wound is once again getting ready to open and drain,” Aragorn commented.  “This could be a very sensitive place, and could certainly spark feelings of nausea.”

       He turned to the young recruit who’d followed him and ordered that the Perian’s cot be brought out and set in the shade of certain trees, and then ordered luncheon be prepared and that water be set to boil and be brought to him there beneath the trees.

       Once he’d brought Frodo there, he was immediately joined by his brothers and Elrond, all of whom examined the raised wound with concern.  “The bite of one of the great spiders?” Elrond said, his voice suspicious.  “That causes me worry.”

       “It has filled, opened, and drained before,” Elrohir commented, “yet between times doesn’t appear to cause him distress of any sort.”

       Hot compresses steeped in herbs were set over it, and soon it opened on its own.  Elrond cleansed it and bandaged a spent athelas leaf over the wound, then helped Frodo into a clean shirt.  He ate some broth and appeared to keep it down, and at last indicated he was ready to ride once more.

       They camped later in the afternoon than they’d done earlier, and once again Aragorn checked on Frodo.  The wound had refilled with some more matter, but didn’t appear to be causing as much pressure as before.  Frodo ate rather more for dinner, then went soon after to his bedroll.

       It was yet an hour or more before midnight when he sat up suddenly.  Elladan had taken it on himself to sit on watch that night, and so was the first to come to Frodo’s side, although Aragorn quickly joined him.  The wound had refilled again, and was draining heavily.  This time the wound appeared painful as they tried to draw the worst of the thing out. 

       “It hurts, Aragorn,” Frodo murmured through clenched teeth.

       “I am sorry, Frodo--I do the best I can not to cause worse pain.”

       At last it again appeared empty, and Aragorn again set a spent athelas leaf and a clean dressing over it and began to wind a clean bandage over all to hold it in place.  Elladan brought Frodo a draught to drink which he accepted with a grimace; he went to lie down, his face still reflecting some discomfort, and Aragorn set himself to sit nearby.

       Frodo hadn’t been lying down for more than a quarter mark before he suddenly sat up, the whiteness of his face plain even in the darkness of the camp.  Aragorn rose swiftly and helped him to the edge of the camp where once again Frodo became ill.  Frodo rinsed his mouth from the water bottle brought to him by Elrohir, and after a few moments tried to drink some.  He promptly lost the water also.

       Elrond finally came near, noting how the discomfort had spread to the stomach.  He and Aragorn together placed their hands over Frodo’s belly, and at last he felt an easing of the muscles there and an end to the cramping.  When he again was offered water he was able to retain it.  After some moments more Frodo accepted some more, looking profoundly eased.  “Thank you,” he said.  “I don’t know why I continue to have such distress from time to time.”

       Elrond shook his head.  “You are better than you were when you were found, or so all tell me.  However, your ordeal was prolonged and intense.  That you would have long-term effects is to be expected.”

       “So all tell me,” Frodo answered discontentedly.  “It is distinctly unpleasant.”

       Sam had awakened during the bout and had done what little he could.  Now he saw Frodo back to his bedroll and once again covered and resting, sitting by his Master for much of the rest of the night.

       Aragorn came before dawn with the morning draught to find Frodo was already awake and in a dark mood.  “Bad dreams, muindor nín?” he asked.

       Frodo shrugged, his face scowling.  “Too dark,” he muttered.  He accepted the draught and drank it, making a nasty face once he’d drained it.  “I grow tired of draughts,” he complained.

       “It’s no more than you’ve had for some weeks, Frodo,” Aragorn pointed out, immediately realizing Frodo Baggins was in no mood for being reasoned with.

       “I ought to be done with draughts by now,” Frodo growled.

       “When the damage is as deep as it has been with you----”

       “I don’t care about how deep it is!” Frodo said, rounding on Aragorn.  “I’m tired of being ill and being treated as one who is ill!  I wish to be done with it all!’

       “Frodo, all the draught does is help to keep all more even and calmed for you.”

       “And what if I don’t accept the draughts?  Will it get worse?”

       “It may indeed get worse.”

       “And may it get better?”

       “Perhaps.”

       “But you don’t know for certain?”

       Aragorn took a deep breath, trying to hold his own temper.  He had long experience with those who were chronically ill, and knew well enough how in time the condition was resented and the treatments also were resented, as well as those who saw to it the treatments were followed.  “No, Frodo, we cannot know for certain; but my experience tells me that it is likely you will need these draughts for the rest of your life in order to live fairly comfortably.”

       Frodo turned abruptly away.  “Comfortably?  And what comfort did I feel last night?”

       “This draught is not intended to assist with the effects of the drainage.”

       “But I still grow nauseous so easily.”

       “Nowhere as often as you did even a month past, small brother,” the Man pointed out.

       The Hobbit gave a sigh of acknowledgment.  “True enough; yet it still happens all too often.”

       “I am so sorry, Frodo.”

       Again, plainly the wrong thing to say.  “Sorry, Aragorn?  Then why didn’t you let me go through the Gates, then?”  Frodo turned to face the King fully.  “You let Halargil go.  Why not me, too?”

       “It was not yet your time.”

       “Yet I could have gone through them?”

       “Of course!”

       Frodo’s face was haunted.  “You ought to have let me go.”  He started to turn away.

       Aragorn set his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, although the Hobbit didn’t turn around.  “Frodo, I called to you, yes; but it was your own choice to turn back.”

       The Hobbit kept his attention fixed on what could be seen of the horizon.  “I saw your Light,” he whispered, as if impelled to admit why he’d turned back then.  “I saw your Light on the Way.  I wanted to find myself by it.”

       Aragorn gave Frodo’s shoulder a squeeze of assurance, and Frodo looked briefly back, his mouth working slightly, then he turned away again.  Aragorn loosed him, and Frodo walked away into the small copse of trees.  Sam followed after him, only to be stayed by a gesture.  He turned and looked his question at the King, who could only shake his head in reply.

       After a time Frodo returned and allowed Elrond and Elrohir to check the drainage of the neck.  Little more had drained in the night, and they cleansed it once more and rebandaged it again with a spent athelas leaf over it.  He ate lightly of the dawn meal, and after seeing to the saddling of his pony mounted and readied himself for the next leg of their journey.

       By nightfall the drainage appeared to be done, and the bite again was beginning to heal over.  Elrond looked on it with continued suspicion.  “If this were not in the neck I would probe it and seek to find what has caused it to build up as it does.”

       “Why not there?” Sam asked.

       “The neck itself is a narrow and delicate place,” the Elven healer explained.  “Let the probe go slightly wrong, and it can cause permanent paralysis.  I do not like to probe such a place unless it is more damaging to allow the wound to remain as it is.”

       “I see,” Sam said.  “Well, so far it’s built up and drained twice, but doesn’t appear to cause no problems between times.”

       “Then Estel has been right to allow it to remain undisturbed so far.  We don’t wish to cause more distress in the healing than in the letting be.”

       Frodo nodded his understanding.

       By the next day the discomfort appeared to be past, and Frodo began joining in the singing that Pippin was leading among the Hobbits.

       They were approached by patrols of Riders as they rode through Rohan, some of whom joined the procession bringing the body of Théoden King back to the Mark for proper burial.  Local lords offered them food as they passed--more than one butchered cattle or swine for them; many brought vegetables or eggs. 

       At last they saw in the distance the hill on which Edoras was built.  Frodo was amazed as the approached it past the farmlands that supported it and the paddocks in which younger horses were worked.  “I thought that Minas Tirith was a marvel,” he commented, “and yet this is as much a marvel, although plainly nowhere as large and complex.”

       They were greeted with ceremony, and on the following day the King was laid to rest with respect and grief.  The chanting of the harpers and the riding of the Rohirrim moved Frodo deeply; the funeral feast and formal recognition of Éomer’s rule was somehow more intimate than had been that which marked the coronation of Aragorn, and was, Frodo thought, equally moving for all he was not intimately involved as he’d been before.

       The chanting of the names of the Kings of the Mark was followed by the trothplighting of Faramir and Éowyn, and Frodo found it again more intimate than had been the wedding of Aragorn to Arwen.  Yet all were moved.

       “Our uncle, who was ever as a father to the both of us,” Éomer said, “would not begrudge that this night we witness the handfasting of my sister to the one she has come to love and accepts as her husband.”

       The response was a general cheer from the company gathered for funeral feast and Kingmaking.

       Éowyn and Faramir came to stand together before Éomer and Aragorn together, Imrahil, Erchirion, Amrothos, and Beregond standing by the groom while Lothiriel and her mother stood by the bride along with three of her friends from the court of Meduseld.  Aragorn had written the marriage contract which had been reviewed the previous evening by Éowyn and her brother, and it now lay on the table beside the throne of Rohan, before the candle which burned there.

       “Let all here know that here has come Faramir of Gondor, Steward of that realm, Prince of Ithilien, seeking to take the Lady Éowyn of Rohan and Edoras to wife.  Does any here take exception to this match?”

       When none voiced any objections, then Éomer smiled.  “Let us see the marriage made then.  Faramir, you would take one of our own from this her own land to live as your wife.  What do you promise her as her husband?”

       “I build for her a home which she shall rule as Lady of Ithilien.  I offer her the love of my heart and body for as long as I live, the support of my position and the work of my hands, the honor due her as my lady wife and as Princess of Ithilien as well as being the White Lady of Rohan.  My land, my home, my horses--all shall be hers from this day forth; and she shall never want for anything--food, housing, companionship, or love.”

       “And you, Éowyn, what do you promise him as your husband?”

       “To support him however I can, to rule his house and bring forth his children and see them raised well and happily; to teach him how to rejoice in my companionship; to support him however I can; to rejoice in his love and offer him my own, both of my heart and my body, from this day forward until we must part through death.”

       “What tokens do you exchange as the signs of this marriage?”

       He gave to her a necklace of garnets as his marriage token; she gave him a collar of golden links set with emeralds.

       “So be it.  Then let you be handfasted now.”

       Faramir grasped Éowyn’s right arm with his left hand, and Aragorn bound their wrists together with the woven cord he’d brought with him, while Éomer accepted the wedding cup from Elfhelm.  He held it out to them by its base.  “It is through cooperation and learning to work together that you must live from this day forward,” he said.  “And so it begins now.  Let you each drink from this cup and feed one another at the feast to come so bound that you may know the truth of the bond between you as of this night.”

       Each took one of the handles of the cup; she helped him to drink of it, and he helped her to do so after, back and forth until the cup was empty; they kissed one another in token of the marriage between them, then took their places together at the feast beside one another, and throughout must each feed the other as they remained bound together.

       Only when the meal was over was the cord finally loosened, and they came before Aragorn to sign the marriage contract, it being witnessed by those who had stood by bride and groom.  Once that was done the evening became one of joy and delight, music and drinking and dancing.  Frodo was pleased to be allowed to sit at a table on the side of the room and watch until he became fatigued, and a lady of the hall led him to the room where he and the other Hobbits slept during their stay.  He looked out to see the stars through the high window, and after changing to a night shirt he lay down and slept swiftly enough, waking to find Gandalf sat watching over him; waking again to find Sam lay to his right and Pippin to his left and Merry beyond Pippin, much as they’d slept throughout their journey Southward.  Reassured, he again slept deeply, the light of the stars shining on him.

57

       Their stay in Edoras was not long.  The most difficult time was the day that the Lord Elrond and his daughter went up into the mountains surrounding the city to speak their goodbyes.  Aragorn’s face was solemn and filled with unspoken grief, for he understood as well as any mortal might how difficult this separation would be for his foster father; even though Arwen had spent many years apart from her father in Lorien, yet there had always been the knowledge that the separation was not permanent, that soon she would return or her father would come to her.  Now there would not be another reunion until the ending of Arda. 

       Long Aragorn stood outside the gates of Edoras, looking after the way they had gone.  Frodo and Sam went out after him while Pippin stood on guard; but although he smiled on them and gave them a few words, his attention was given to the distance for the most part.  Finally Frodo went apart.  He’d found himself wanting to write down the words to a song he’d heard sung at the feast, and Sam had proudly brought out paper and drawing sticks out of his pack.  Frodo had smiled and was now busily writing out the words when he looked up and found his attention caught by Sam and Aragorn where they sat together now on a great log.  Frodo looked at it and wondered from where it might have come, for it was far greater than any of the trees he’d yet seen in this land.  Then he looked at Sam and Aragorn, saw that at last the Man was speaking intently.  Their attention was fixed on one another, their expressions soft.  Aragorn was, he realized, beginning to weep gently, and Sam produced one of his ever-present handkerchiefs and gave it to the Man.  They turned back to look out at the distance in the direction which father and daughter had taken, and moved to sit close together, their arms around one another in comfort.  Frodo was moved, and taking a fresh sheet of paper he drew what he saw, the image of these two he felt toward as brothers, and entitled it “The Greatest of the Great.” 

       They were soon bidding goodbye to the King of Rohan and his sister and her new husband.  There had been joy as well as grief here, and the stark beauty of a land of fields and great herds of horses led Frodo to think tenderly toward it.  The Lady Arwen would remain here, having already taken her farewell from her father.  Her brothers intended to return to her before they left Middle Earth; her father had made it clear he would leave Rivendell again only when he went to the Grey Havens to take ship.  He offered her his last blessing and kissed her forehead, then turned away to leave Rohan.

       Arwen watched after her father with carefully controlled grief, then turned her attention to Frodo as he approached to take his leave.  “Ah, small brother,” she said gently, and he smiled to hear Aragorn’s title for him from her lips.  “I pray all goes well for you.  Remember that this will aid you if you will allow it,” and she gently touched the gem she’d given him.  “And remember that if it is allowed I would have you go with my father and grandmother and find the healing which cannot come to you here.  It will be difficult for my beloved, for his love for you is deep; but he would have you know that peace.”

       Frodo wasn’t certain how he could respond.  He held her hand and kissed it gently, then murmured, “I thank you for the wish,” and turned away.

       Aragorn took gentle leave of his lady and entrusted her care to young Amrothos, and after offering his blessings to Faramir and Éowyn he led those who continued on out to their horses.  They rode now Westward once more until they came to Helm’s Deep where they would spend the next two nights.

       “Welcome,” old Gamling said as they rode up the causeway..  “Our Lord Éomer sent us word you should be here today, and asked we make things ready for you.  We have prepared rooms where all should feel safe and comfortable.”

       The room prepared for the Hobbits, however, did not achieve either end.  Built on the third floor of the tower, although it was comfortably appointed it was totally contrary to the usual accommodations for Hobbits; and considering Frodo’s last experience with a room in a stone tower, he found himself feeling tense when he entered it and growing worse as the night progressed.  Finally he could bear it no longer and rose and left it near midnight, Sam waking immediately, throwing on his own clothing, and following after as swiftly as he might.

       Legolas stood outside the tower singing softly, and didn’t appear surprised when he was quietly joined by the two Hobbits.  He merely continued the song he’d been singing until he finished it, then held out his hands to them.  “You are abroad late,” he said quietly.

       Sam laughed, “And the same could be said for you, too.”

       “As an Elf I need less sleep, and stone towers aren’t our preferred resting places any more than they are for Hobbits.  Shall I tell you of the battle which was fought here?”

       They were joined by Gandalf as Legolas recounted what he remembered of the battle, and they walked about the fortress as he described what had happened where.  Now and then Gandalf would ask for some specific clarification, but listened to the Elf’s tale as avidly as did the Hobbits.  Gamling’s grandson was on guard. and told of what he’d seen; and near dawn they were joined by Aragorn and Gimli, who added their own stories.

       Frodo found himself seeing the entire battle as if he had been there himself.  “I’d never thought to understand the tactics so clearly,” he commented.

       “It was a complicated enough fight,” Aragorn sighed, “and as with all such fights it was chaotic enough at the time.  But the general goals were simple enough--for us to live through the night if possible, and for the enemy to breach gate or wall if they could, both of which they finally managed.  But dawn brought a new day as we rode out to mow them down and Gandalf arrived with Erkenbrand’s forces and the Huorns of Fangorn Forest to threaten them from the rear.  And so, just at the moment when Saruman’s forces felt they had the upper hand, they were thrown into confusion and were defeated.”

       A morning meal was served in the hall, and after Legolas and Gimli went down into the depths of the caverns to explore their beauties Aragorn spoke quietly with the four Hobbits.  Neither Merry nor Pippin appeared much more rested than were Frodo and Sam, and at their admittance that they’d felt uncomfortable in the tower room, and seeing the slightly haunted look Frodo’s eyes showed at its mention, he withdrew to speak with Gamling.  And so that afternoon a tent was raised inside the walls and fitted with four low cots, and the Hobbits slept there that night far more deeply than they had in the tower room the previous one.

       As they traveled onward Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas told the Hobbits of the rest of the war against Saruman’s forces, and even Gandalf told far more of what he’d done and what he knew than was his wont.  Gandalf also described the battle of the Pelennor Fields in more detail than they’d heard so far, Pippin adding his own descriptions and then Merry describing the ride of the Rohirrim and the charge on Sauron’s army from behind.  Frodo listened intently, beginning to understand better how the battles had been planned and lost by the Enemy.  The information which he was eventually to use in describing the battles in the Red Book he was now learning.

       Two days after they left Helm’s Deep they arrived at Isengard.  Frodo found his first look at the tower of Orthanc breathtaking, and mostly because he’d dreamt of it when in Tom Bombadil’s house and had seen it again in the vision in Galadriel’s mirror.  But in neither had he seen it as he did now, with the beauty of a clear sky shining down on it standing as on an island in the midst of the lake which now filled what had once been the Vale of Isengard, surrounded by trees which Pippin had quietly warned him were most likely Huorns who’d colonized the Vale on the suggestion of the Ents. 

       Aragorn had begun explaining how Orthanc had been originally built by the folk of Anárion and Isildur when Frodo suddenly had a vision in which he saw the Vale with groves of flowering trees about it, then with the trees pulled down and the ground riddled with rifts and shafts, gantries and workshops, no trees or trace of grass left to give any hint of beauty.  The evil will he sensed behind that last vision was especially frightening for he’d sensed it focused at the Shire in his dreams of his homeland.  But how in Middle Earth could Saruman threaten the Shire?  He’d know of it, of course, for Gandalf had long been interested in it; and he knew of Gandalf’s habit of smoking pipeweed and frequent visits.  Suddenly he seemed to see Merry and Pippin poking through the flotsam floating on the dreary waters that had first covered it in the wake of the Ents’ assault on the place, a barrel of Longbottom Leaf held between them.  He stood, transfixed by the vision, then was jerked back to the present.

       “Frodo?  Are you all right?”  Merry’s voice was concerned, but not quite to the point of being truly worried as yet.

       “There’s nothing wrong--merely taken by a thought,” he said; but he had the realization that neither Wizard nor Lady was reassured by his words.

       “You’ve had more than your share of ‘thoughts’ in the last few months,” Pippin grumbled, “each accompanied by you usually going white as linens as if you are seeing some great evil.”

       Gandalf gave the Took a sidelong look.  “Certainly your cousin has had his full share of awareness of just what evil can do, Peregrin Took.  And he’s heard enough of the treachery of Saruman to look on his lair with concern.”  He turned to go forward, looking for Treebeard.

     “He’s not here,” Frodo murmured quietly to Pippin.  “Saruman’s gone, I think.  I don’t feel ill will here now.”

       Merry looked about, considering.  “I doubt the Ents would let him escape,” he pointed out.

       Sam just looked at the black tower with suspicion.  He’d had more than his share of reason to distrust such places and those who dwelt in them.

       Frodo shook his head.  “It feels wholesome enough now.  There’s power there, yes; but no will to direct it toward evil; and without that it has turned once more toward good.”

       Galadriel looked on him with consideration.

       “There he is!” exclaimed Pippin, his attention diverted by having spotted Treebeard’s approach.  “And over there--I think I see Quickbeam!”

       Several Ents came close enough to observe the party which had come from Gondor and the small escort from Edoras.  Frodo could tell that they held deep respect and reverence for the Elves and Gandalf, tolerance and amusement for himself and the other three Hobbits, a respectful surprise toward Gimli, and suspicion toward the party of Men, although they were most definitely keeping that suspicion in check.  As Aragorn spoke courteously to Treebeard, however, their attitude was relaxing and was becoming more that of honor.  Even the Ents, he realized, sensed that in Aragorn was a deep center of grace worthy of the same respect commonly given the Firstborn; and the knowledge that Aragorn’s own honor kept that of the other Men to the fore was recognized by all.  Suddenly Frodo was intensely proud of his friend, feeling deeply responsible for him.

       Only briefly did the Ents turn their attention to the two new Hobbits, and Frodo realized that they felt toward Sam and himself a respect bordering on awe.  The one Pippin had identified as Quickbeam appeared to be examining him thoroughly, and after Treebeard drew Merry and Pippin apart the younger Ent came forward to speak to the rest of the party.  “Ringbearer?” he asked Frodo. 

       Frodo gave a nod, then with a bow he introduced himself, “Frodo Baggins, at your service.”

       Sam followed suit, “And Samwise Gamgee, Master Ent.”

       An indulgent smile played around the Ent’s features as he bent low in return to Sam.  “One who loves growing things, I sense.”

       “Yessir,” Sam said, flushing.  “I’m a gardener by trade.”

       “By trade and nature,” Quickbeam noted with approval.  “It is an honor.”  He looked between the two Hobbits.  “We wish to thank the two of you.  We feared the withering of all forests had finally come, but we see it is not to be--not now, and due mostly to your endurance and great will and faithfulness.”  He noted as Frodo’s face paled but the two spots of color appeared in his cheeks.  “No matter what you feel toward your own doings, Lord Frodo,” he said quietly, “yet still you persevered and so were in a position that the Creator of all could intervene on your behalf and for the good of all.  We must honor that.  And again we thank you and bestow on the two of you our respect and best wishes.”

       Frodo bowed again, murmuring thanks, but drawing back.  Quickbeam turned to Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, and Celeborn.  “Long has it been since we have been blessed by the presence of the Firstborn, and Middle Earth will be the poorer for your leaving, for even if one or more of you chooses to remain for a time, yet I sense that it shall not be long in the reckoning either of Elves nor Ents.  May I speak quietly with you?”

       Together they pulled away from the remainder of the Elves and the party of Men, Aragorn watching after them with controlled curiosity and the rest with respect.  Quickbeam gave Aragorn a long look, then turned back to the Elves.  “I’ve not seen such as he since Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion returned to Middle Earth,” he said in Sindarin.

       “That is so,” Elrond said.

       “You did not pause in your Southward journey to speak with us.  What of your daughter?  She does not return to Imladris with you?”

       “She remains in Gondor and in Middle Earth.”

       Quickbeam returned his attention to Aragorn, then looked back to Elrond.  “She has made the choice of Lúthien, then?”

       “Yes.”

       The Ent examined the determined face of the Peredhel, his controlled grief.  “It will be long and long, then, Lord Elrond, ere we all meet together with her in the Presence.  But he will not allow her to languish long.  He will be by her in spirit when it is her turn to follow him.  He will show her the way.”

       “I know he will, but still this is a great loss to me now.”

       They paused, and Quickbeam again looked at those who waited, and suddenly realized, “He understands us--the Ringbearer.”

       Galadriel laughed.  “Ah, yes, he does--and he understands Quenya as well.  He was well taught, far better so than any of us realized.”

       Elrond’s somber mood had lifted.  “His teacher, after all, was Bilbo Baggins.  Bilbo made certain he was well prepared and far better educated than most Men.  Both he and Master Samwise are almost as well educated as Estel himself.”

       Celeborn was smiling.  “Even the Lord Samwise understands us, you will find, although he is less apt to allow others to know than is his brother.”

        “Brothers, are they?  Yet they do not look overwhelmingly alike, even for mortals.”

       “Brothers of the spirit they are, the three of them, Frodo, Samwise, and Aragorn, for all that they were born of different parents and of two different races.”

       They pulled further away from the party.  Quickbeam looked at Gandalf.  “What is to be done for him, the Ringbearer?”

       “The Valar have been petitioned to allow him special healing.  How did you know that Frodo and Sam had been ennobled?”

       “Gwaihir and Radagast have let us know.  We approve.  What they did was of as much benefit for us and our trees as for all other races.  Whatever petition for special healing has been made for him, we support it, Mithrandir.”

       Gandalf smiled.  “I will let this be known, my friend.”

       Again Quickbeam looked back at the rest of the party, his eyes resting on  Frodo briefly before turning to Legolas and Gimli.  “And there is another odd pair of brothers of the spirit.  A sign of the good of the times, or so I take it.”  He smiled.  “Hoom, Mithrandir.  We will miss you when you return to your place.”

       “My tasks are all but done.  But Radagast will remain for a time, seeing to it that plants and animals are again flourishing ere he returns West.”

       Treebeard, Merry and Pippin could be seen returning.  “You must go upon your way,” Quickbeam said with a sigh.  “May the Valar watch over your party.”

       “And may your woods grow strong,” Gandalf returned.  All bowed to the younger Ent, then returned to where the rest waited.  At last with their final goodbyes spoken they resumed their mounts and rode North.

       “I like it not,” Aragorn said quietly to Gandalf, “that the serpent and his creature are free in the wilderness.”  Frodo looked from the King’s face to that of the Wizard.

       “There’s nothing to be done about it now, Aragorn, save to be wary and prepared.  I suspect he has a tooth left still in his mouth with which he might indeed do some damage in a mean way.  But at least he can no longer cast his poison across all of Middle Earth.”

       One last afternoon they rode with the King’s party, and Frodo found himself staying close to Aragorn’s side as much as possible.  He dreaded leaving the King’s presence.  Finally the Man looked down on him.  “Are you determined, Frodo, to make yourself my shadow?”

       “And why not, Aragorn?  Would I even possess my own soul if it were not for you?”

       “The same could be asked of you, and by all, small brother.  I will grieve to have to remain behind this evening

      “No more so than we to leave you.”

       “I will be coming North in a few years, for there will need to be conferences between the various peoples of Arnor, both of Eriador in the West and Rhovanion in the East, of those who remain of Elfkind, of Dwarves, Men, and Hobbits.”

       Frodo looked away.  The probability that he would linger for such conferences, he knew, was small.  He finally said quietly, “I had a dream the other night, Aragorn, of Bag End.  It was much as it was, but also quite different.  There were many, many small changes--repairs to woodwork and walls; walls painted just slightly different colors; the tiles of many of the floors had been changed to slate; the carpeting was distinctly changed.  Yet it seemed familiar for all that, as if it had been thus for some time.  Sam and Rosie sat in the parlor with several of their children about them, and Sam was sitting in the Master’s chair, the one that was Bilbo’s and then mine.  For all his happiness with them, there was the grief in him that I was gone.”  He looked up at Aragorn.  “I won’t live all that long now.”

       Aragorn felt his heart twist at that bald statement, and he had to hold back his tears.

       Elrohir and Elladan came near to ride on either side of them.  Aragorn smiled up at them solemnly.  “At least I can look to see you again before you go.”

       Elladan looked to his brother, then back to Aragorn’s face.  “Yet we find ourselves reluctant to go just now, when we could see how well you and Arwen and young Éomer and so many other might order your realms.”

       Elrohir added slowly, “And, muindor nín, there will come the time when you must go.  Who will stand by our sister then, when you take her Light and her heart before her?”

       “You also foresee I will precede her?”

       Elrohir gave a solemn shrug.  “How can it be elsewise, brother?  It will be by fading she will leave this world, I fear.”

       Aragorn gave a small nod of affirmation.  Frodo lifted his hand, and the Man reached down and took it, held it tightly.  After a time Frodo drew away and fell back with the rest of the Hobbits for a few minutes.  Aragorn turned to watch.  Once he was certain Frodo was too involved in his conversation with Pippin to hear he said quietly in Quenya, “I fear I shall never see him again, not in Middle Earth.”

       Elladan looked down at his hands.  “I fear you are correct, Estel.  He is strong enough now, but I although I see the others by your side at different times and sometimes together, I see this not for the Ringbearer.”

       “He sees himself gone all too soon from the Shire.”

       “May he choose to go by way of Tol Eressëa, then,” Elrohir said.

       Aragorn gave a look behind him at where Frodo was stayed from his return to the King’s side by a question by Sam, and he nodded.  He held out his hands to his brothers, and for a few moments they rode, the three sons of Elrond together.

58

       It had been difficult enough saying goodbye to the Lady Arwen and those of Rohan at Edoras; saying goodbye to Legolas and Gimli as they parted at Isengard had been a wrench, even if they did look to see the Dwarf coming to the Shire in the early spring.  But to say goodbye to Aragorn was one of the worst moments of Frodo’s life, worse even than when years before he’d spent his last evening in the Shire with Bilbo.

       The Wizard had followed the twins by the King’s side, and Frodo had done his best to give them time alone for words of parting to be said.  Then as they paused at the hill where Aragorn indicated he would turn back, finally Elrond had ridden his horse to his foster son’s side.  There was little left to say, for they’d spoken long in Minas Tirith, and they had often ridden by one another along the way, although they’d said little.  Aragorn looked solemnly into his foster father’s eyes.  “Ada,” he said quietly, “I would have you and my brothers know a gentle voyage and a joyful reunion with the Lady Celebrían.  I would have you remember me with pride and not grief.  I know I would not have become the Man I am without your love and guidance.  I so regret that I am the cause of your great grief now, and so rejoice that you have yet entrusted me with Arwen’s love and Light.  I know that you remain in my heart forever, and I will bear that love with me when I must leave the bounds of Arda to rejoice to present it before the Presence when that day comes.”

       Elrond did not speak, but he embraced his foster son and the husband of his daughter, giving him a kiss of blessing on his forehead before turning his horse’s head North and going on, cutting the ties as cleanly as he could.

       Elladan and Elrohir each clasped his hand.  “Before we go we will return at least once, Estel,” they promised him.  Glorfindel clasped wrists with him and pulled back with a silent bow.

       Halladan came to give Aragorn his farewells.  “I go to take my brother’s place, my Lord Cousin.  And I bear back the joyful word that once again Arnor is a realm under the rule of the rightful King, and part of the greater realm that was and has at last been renewed.  Take care of Hardorn--don’t allow him to work too hard.  And remind him that Gilmorien awaits him.”

       “I will do my best.  I have every trust you will do well by Arnor in my name and for your own part as well.  It will be a few years before we will be able to come North for the conferences that must happen; but I suspect it will take at least that long to convince the likes of Butterbur and those of the Breelands and the Shire that there is again a King and that their own lands are indeed part of Arnor.  And I will ask you at times to come South.  But as the greatest population is there in Gondor and it is there that the realm will be most vulnerable, I must be assured that all is stable there ere I leave it.”

       “You are right, Aragorn.  The Valar guard and guide you and your Lady.  That we have such as you two to lead us is a blessing.”

       Mirieth, Berevrion, and Avrieth parted with him warmly while Halladan spoke with Hardorn one last time, and the remainder of the Grey Company and those who’d come South for the wedding saluted him as they prepared to return to their own lands. 

       Gandalf smiled at the King in parting and they shared a clasp of hands for some moments ere the Wizard turned to follow Elrond.

       But then it was time for the Hobbits at last to part from him.  He had warm words for Merry, and reminded Pippin that he had not been freed from his duty as one of the Guards of the Citadel and of the King’s own Guard.  “You carry, Captain Peregrin, the dispatches to be shared with Barliman Butterbur, the Thain, the Master, and the Mayor.  I expect you to deliver them once you are certain those have time to read and appreciate them for what they are.”

       “Yes, my Lord King,” Pippin had returned, saluting, and at that Aragorn had clasped his shoulder, then that of Merry. 

       But for Frodo and Sam he could say no more.  He took Sam’s hand and held it, trying to convey to him as much love and strength as he could.  That Frodo would either die or leave Middle Earth forever and soon would be very hard for the gardener to deal with, he knew.  Sam couldn’t help but see that this was true, but would also do his best to convince himself it was otherwise until Frodo weakened markedly.  As for Frodo....

       They held their hands clasped.  Finally Aragorn murmured, “The Valar watch over you, small brother.”  Frodo nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  “I will come North soon enough,” he added to the four of them, “and I will look to see those I can then.  And Gimli will come to you, probably as he has said in the spring, bringing word to you and what he can of what had to be left at this time.  But you are always welcome in Gondor, and I pray that when you can you will come South to us in Minas Tirith.”  He loosed Frodo’s hand, his glance bidding him his last farewell.

       Celeborn and Galadriel both paused by Aragorn and blessed him as well.  “Elfstone, through darkness you have come to your hope, and have now all your desire--save for the health of Frodo.  Use well the days.  We will care for the Ringbearer as he allows us,” Galadriel murmured to him quietly ere she parted from him the last time.

       “As he allows you,” agreed Aragorn.  “Namarië, my Lady, my Lord.  I would have you stay, but know, Lady, you have bound yourself to accept the return to your own people at this time.  Stand by my adar, please.”

       “I will do so, Elessar,” she promised.

       Celeborn sighed.  “Kinsman, farewell!  May your doom be other than mine, and your treasure remain with you to the end!”

       Aragorn nodded his head solemnly.  “Yet it is but a short time in the reckoning of Elves I will remain here at all, and soon enough you will be restored to the love of your Lady, even if by that time I am gone from the bounds of Arda.  I only ask that there remain at least one to stand by Arwen when my own time comes.”

       Reluctantly Celeborn nodded in return, clasped Aragorn’s hand, then turned to ride North after the rest.

       Aragorn sat on the hill, his mounted Guard about him, his white mantle reflecting the glory of a red sunset.  He removed the Elfstone and held it up, praying the Valar grant its virtue to Frodo to carry him as far as it might.  As the party rode North and crested the next rise the four Hobbits paused and looked back, as did all of the Dúnedain and the sons of Elrond, seeing the green glory of the Elessar shining in the King’s hand; and Frodo felt as if he were wrapped in a mantle of that renewing Light for much of the evening’s ride and most of the next day as well.

       By the third day from the parting with the King those who led the ride North realized that Frodo was beginning to flag sooner than he had before.

       “I don’t understand why he is tiring so much sooner now,” Celeborn murmured.  They’d stopped over an hour before sunset, and already Frodo lay in his bedroll, asleep with Merry on one side and Sam on the other while Pippin had gone with those who were gleaning for foodstuffs for the evening meal in search for mushrooms to tempt Frodo’s appetite.

       Gandalf looked toward where the two Hobbits sat alongside the third, then looked back at Celeborn.  “He has parted from Aragorn and can no longer draw on the Elessar,” he said quietly.

       Celeborn was startled.  “He has done so?”

       Galadriel looked toward Frodo with greater consideration.  “He is almost as gifted at drawing on power as is Aragorn himself.  He is learning to use the pendant given him by our granddaughter, although he does not fully understand what it is he does or how the stone’s power works.  But he draws on our presence to keep himself grounded to recognize his darker dreams as dreams indeed and not reality.”

       Celeborn asked, “Did Estel realize that the Ringbearer drew on the Elessar?”

       Gandalf nodded.  “Yes, and he gave him free rein to draw on it as he needed.  It is only now that we are so far from him and it is so long ago he gave Frodo his last blessing that Frodo is beginning to flag.”

       Elrond looked at Frodo, his expression solemn.  “He has barely spoken since we parted from Estel, and he has pressed himself not to drag on the company.  But tonight his strength has taken him as far as it can today.”

       Frodo awoke as the meal was prepared, and ate what was given to him, which wasn’t more than he could accept.  A couple hours later he was given fresh bread one of the Dúnedain had purchased from the holders of a farmstead they’d passed, and he gladly ate it spread with honey, and then he slept again.  The next day they rode for three hours, then broke for over an hour; then another three hours again with a break; finally another hour before they paused for the night.  And so the pattern was set.

       Often Merry and Pippin took their turns on guard, although none would allow Frodo or Sam to do likewise.  The Elves would often gather about Frodo after he’d fallen asleep to sing the songs of healing for him.  However, he’d not accepted the draughts since they’d parted from Aragorn, and was adamant that as it could not be proven such helped him overmuch he would not remain dependent on them, particularly as he would have to convince a healer of the Shire to aid him in preparing such in the future if he were to continue to use them.

       “And how would that work?” he’d demanded of Elrond.  “Will any in the Shire begin to understand what I’ve endured, or how it affected me?  Most believe Bilbo made up his story of great spiders and the Dwarves being bound in their silk.  If Sam tells of having unwound me from such stuff, they won’t believe it.  I doubt any will recognize the bite on my neck as a spider bite.  And as for my shoulder and left arm----”  He shuddered.  “It will be difficult enough trying to convince them that there’s a King once more, much less that we are personal friends with him.  Once they learn he was one of those grey-cloaked folk who used to ride the Road and were seen wandering the borders of our lands, they’ll just laugh us to scorn.”

       He looked at Pippin and Merry.  On the trip to Isengard Merry had described the encounter with the Witch King of Angmar, and afterwards he’d rubbed at his arm and hand until Frodo realized they were almost as cold as his own when the Morgul wound pained him.  He’d had nightmares that night, eased by a combination of Frodo’s and Aragorn’s attentions.  Then after they parted from Aragorn Pippin had commented that the place was very close to where he’d peered into the Orthanc stone; he, too, suffered nightmares that night.  Frodo looked at the two of them, then at Sam.  “Aunt Lanti and Uncle Pal aren’t going to understand it when Pippin has nightmares at home, and Merry’s going to find it difficult to explain why the passing of a bird’s shadow is likely to set off times when his right hand goes cold.  Pippin’s not going to be able to bear a Yule bonfire for a couple years at best; look how hard it was for him to come to terms with a simple campfire when we left the city.  And I doubt Sam’s going to find it easy to explain the scars on his forehead and his temple.  Think how much harder it will be to talk--to talk of--of It to those who know nothing about It.”  He gave a ragged laugh.  “You know what I’ve been through, and more of--of It than almost all others, and I can’t even speak easily of It to you.”

       Elrond understood, but was still frustrated.

       The morning of the sixth day dawned, and Frodo was troubled.  His rest in the early morning hours had been disturbed, although he wouldn’t say what kinds of dreams he’d experienced.  That he had true visions and dreams of the future was becoming more evident to all, although he’d spoken only to the Lady of some of the visions he’d had, particularly those of the past year.

       He’d eaten some of the remains of the dried fruit brought with them and some lembas offered him by Glorfindel, and had drunk only water.  He’d accepted the filled waterskin offered him by Elrohir, but had saddled, bridled, and mounted Strider with a preoccupied air.  Finally Sam asked, “What’s botherin’ you, do you know?”

       Frodo had shaken his head.  “Malice,” he said cryptically.  “I sense malice.”

       “Where?” Merry asked.

       “Ahead of us,” Frodo had answered.  “Nothing dangerous, or not as yet; but it’s nasty enough.”

       Elladan and Elrohir had listened to the interchange with interest and reported it to their father and Gandalf.  Gandalf raised his eyebrows, but said nothing of what he thought might be ahead of them.  But they rode with a measure of caution for all the appearance of ease.

       The sight of the two ragged beggars ahead of them as they came out of a wooded area was greeted by a distinct hiss of indrawn breath by the Wizard, who gave a concerned look at the four Hobbits before he steadied himself for the coming encounter.  Galadriel was still as if watching to see what would happen and how it would play out, and Elrond looked from Wizard to his wife’s mother and back again, then shook his head as he recognized the taller of the two forms as they turned at the approach of hoofbeats.

       Saruman also gave a hiss of indrawn breath, but his was as distinctly snakelike as had been the description of him given by Aragorn when he’d discussed the fallen Istari’s release with Gandalf.  Gandalf looked on him and asked, “Well, Saruman.  Where are you going?”

       The encounter was nasty as Saruman turned aside the offer of aid and comfort and offered his insults and dark prophecies to Gandalf and the Elves.  “A grey ship, and full of ghosts,” he predicted for the Lady, whose expression appeared to be weighing his words and finding them wanting.  But the cracked laugh he gave afterwards somehow wiped away the concern his initial prophecy had raised in Frodo’s mind.  Yes, here was the source of the malice he’d sensed; but it was baseless in what he’d spoken so far to Gandalf and the Elves.  Saruman had fallen too far to truly offer either offense or curse to them.

       Then Saruman had forced Wormtongue to turn about and they’d passed down the line of the party.  Saruman pointedly ignored the rest of the Elves and the Dúnedain, definitely looking away from Glorfindel; but his attention swiftly focused on the four Hobbits, and particularly on Frodo.  “So you have come to gloat, too, have you, my urchins?” he grated.  “You don’t care what a beggar lacks, do you?  For you have all you want....”

       His comments about lack of leaf and the Hobbits’ supposed lack of willingness to share any with him were directed right at Frodo, and Frodo found himself feeling somewhat amused, as he’d not desired to smoke for many, many months.  “I would, if I had any,” Frodo responded, but Saruman looked unconvinced, although his sneer had failed.  Frodo found himself remembering how on the trip to Edoras he’d been ready to take all Aragorn said as a healer amiss; clearly Saruman was intent on doing the same with all offers of charity.  When Merry had dismounted to rummage through his saddlebags to share the last of the leaf he’d found in the wreckage of Isengard, Saruman had been relieved to turn his attention from Frodo to the Brandybuck, and had grasped the leather pouch greedily and swiftly stuffed it inside his ragged clothing.  His last insults had been given to Merry, calling him a thief and making it plain he’d keep the pouch and wished ill on the Shire; but his last looks had again been at Frodo, with a fury aimed at him the Hobbit couldn’t understand.

       When they stopped for the night Frodo still found his thoughts filled with images of Saruman’s hatred.  Gandalf stood nearby running a brush over Shadowfax’s coat while Frodo groomed Strider.  Finally the Hobbit looked up at the Wizard.  “He was resentful of all of us,” he said, “and I can understand why he would be so of you and Elrond and the Lord and Lady, for all of you were of the White Council which he betrayed, and you took his former place as the White.”

       Gandalf merely nodded in response, his expression carefully neutral.  “Yes,” he said.

       “He had pipeweed from the Shire, and among the best we produce, in his stores in Isengard, for Merry and Pippin found it there.”

       “Yes.”

       “He clearly knows about the Shire, claims that the pipeweed was dearly bought, and wished ill on the Shire and on the Southfarthing in particular.”

       “Yes.”

       “And the main focus of his malice was myself.”

       Finally the Wizard looked on the Hobbit with concern.  “Yes, Frodo, that is true.”

       “Why?”

       “Why do you think?”

       Frodo shrugged his shoulders, looking briefly away from Gandalf as he thought.  Finally he hazarded, “Because since I had It he couldn’t lay his hands on It for himself?”

       Gandalf searched his face closely before answering, “I suspect that is indeed why, Frodo.  He sent his Uruk-hai to waylay you at Amon Hen, only for them to grab away the wrong Halflings altogether.  You left at exactly the right time to deny him his desired prize.  He was convinced that you would continue to put off the decision to leave on your own long enough to allow them to capture you.  You can only thank Boromir for having broken when he did, for had he not done so you would have been with the rest when they were attacked, probably arguing still as to which path you should take.  You will find, Frodo, that Eru uses even our weaknesses for His purposes in promoting our greater good.”

       Frodo shivered slightly as he thought on that statement, pulling his Elven cloak more closely around him.  “I don’t find that thought particularly heartening, Gandalf.”

       Gandalf gave an unexpected laugh.  “No, I would be surprised if you did.  To realize that we have become so predictable that the Creator can use our own responses for His own ends is particularly humbling.”

       “And you don’t find me particularly humble?”

       “Ah, my dear Frodo, you are such a wonderful mixture of pride and humility that I’m quite delighted to know you, although there are others who find you most perplexing indeed.”

       The Wizard’s expression sobered.  “You are right to be concerned for Saruman, but know this--you cannot help him more than he will allow you.  He wanted for us to turn on him, and none did, save at the end when Merry bade him return the pouch.  Only then was he able to raise the response he wanted.  He hates himself, and so seeks proof all others do so as well so as to blame us for hating him instead of owning his personal self-contempt.  Yet blame and hatred are not what he needs.  You can understand his hunger for the Ring, for you have known it yourself.  He does not want to be understood, Frodo.”

       “I do not understand--or not completely.”

       The Wizard’s smile was compassionate.  “Be glad you don’t--not completely.  But your understanding as you can give it is what he needs.”

       The dreams that night were perplexing, and full of Saruman’s contemptuous eyes and damaged heart.  And then Frodo saw himself, and wasn’t certain what he saw, for it wasn’t the Hobbit he’d known all his life in his mirror.  He awoke, his shoulder aching, and he clutched at the gem he wore as he’d once clutched at the Ring under his shirt, and closing his eyes, he sensed the Light soothing him.

       He was changing, somehow still changing.  At times he looked at his left hand and it appeared somehow insubstantial; then he looked at his right and saw the gap where his finger was gone and he’d shiver, but feel real again.  He hated the pain and cold he felt at times, but at least they reminded him he was still alive.

       When they paused on the borders of Hollin Frodo was glad, for somehow he felt decidedly odd.  He looked up at the peaks of Caradhras and seemed to be up there in the freezing snow; he looked at the mountain itself and seemed to be in the eternal dark of Moria; he looked Eastward beyond the peak and could feel in his heart still the shock and grief as he’d watched Gandalf fall, as he’d walked away from the others on the mountainside outside the East door, the tears streaking his face.

       He looked at the Lady’s face and seemed to breathe the air of Lorien and ached for it, and yet not for it, but for what Lorien echoed.  But what did Lorien echo?

       The great Elves and Gandalf moved apart from the camp and went into the wilderness.  Frodo would sometimes slip off alone to look at them, sitting so still and unmoving, looking from mind to mind, remembering times past, planning for times to come, concerned for what they left behind, reassured that those they left would care for what remained in Middle Earth.  At first he saw only the immobility; it took a time to realize he often caught glimpses of their thoughts, particularly when they focused on himself or the others or on Aragorn or Arwen.  He felt the great love they felt for all, and the pride and concern.  He saw glimpses of Rivendell and Lorien, of a shining city beyond the glory of Minas Tirith, the beauty of a White Tree of great antiquity and yet utterly full of life, of the Light that permeated all.  He heard snatches of hymns and songs of joy, and of the rhythm of the Sea, and his heart ached for it.

       The Dúnedain hunted and discussed how they would pass word to various lands and peoples of the changes which had been wrought in the world.  Halladan spoke with the four Hobbits of how the Shire was ordered and their place within it, and how they would pass the dispatches to Thain, Master, and Mayor.  He and Berevrion and some of the others in the Grey Company described how Gandalf and Aragorn had directed the guarding of the Shire and the Breelands, and spoke of the ruins of Annúminas and Fornost in the North, of how the roads would now be rebuilt and patrolled.  They discussed the Quick Post service within the Shire and how it would now be linked with messengers riding the Greenway between the two capitols.  “I’ve had my own visions of the rising again of Annúminas,” he said quietly, “and am honored I shall be the primary one to see it done.”

       Sometimes Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond would join the twins’ father and grandparents and Gandalf outside the camp, but mostly they stayed with the rest of the party, particularly seeing to Frodo’s comfort.  Frodo was experiencing recurring headaches toward evening, and they began preparing an herbal tea which he strongly suspected was a thinly disguised draught; but as it eased the headache he decided not to complain.

       Sam found a number of edible plants and mushrooms to add to the meals, but the Hobbits found they desired to go home and experience normal meals in Hobbit-sized homes and sleep in their own beds again.  Frodo once again strengthened with the rest, and when at last Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel indicated they were ready to return to their own realm Frodo found himself eager to be off, feeling a sense of urgency.

       With sorrow Frodo watched as the party from Lothlorien rode off into Eregion, and they watched for quite some time, until at last they saw no more of them until suddenly there was from afar a great shining light as of a star, and Frodo realized that the Lady had held aloft her Ring in token of farewell.  He grieved, for he didn’t expect to ever see her again.

       The days of September were golden; but at last came the day the party from Rivendell turned off, heading Northeast toward the Elven fastness at the feet of the Misty Mountains, and they bade farewell to Halladan and his party.

       “Will you stop in Bree?” Frodo asked the Northern Steward.

       “No, not on our journey North,” he said.  “We will pass it and go up into the Angle, then return probably in early October to resume our usual patrols.  However, the need is first to pass the word amongst the Dúnedain as to the new order and to hear the reports of enemy activities while we were gone.  After all, orcs and goblins and trolls are not totally dependent on the presence of Sauron for their existence, and the folk of Angmar sent forces South to fight for Mordor.  They have ever been our fiercest foes from the North.”

       Frodo nodded and watched as the party of Men continued up the Greenway; then the party bound for Rivendell set off on their own road through the wilderness.

       The weather was becoming somewhat blustery when they reached the Vale of Imladris at last, and Frodo was glad, for the sense of urgency was even stronger; yet he wasn’t certain whether it was focused on Bilbo or on the Shire.  He’d done his best not to hold the party back and had ridden for several full days before Elrohir noted he was pushing himself unduly.  They rode to the door of the House of Elrond on September 21st, and immediately they went in search of Bilbo.  Yes, he’d been aware they were returning and had been advised they’d entered the Vale.  He’d obviously intended to meet them at the door, but was so prone to dozing lately....

       Bilbo was in his room.  He’d settled a shawl over his shoulders and had his silver-headed stick in his hand; and he was dozing in his chair, obviously paused on his way to greet them.  Frodo looked on his beloved cousin with relief and grief, for it was obvious Bilbo had aged markedly in the last year and had not a great deal of time left him.

       And Bilbo, realizing Frodo was there opened his eyes to look on his younger cousin and heir, and knew equal grief, for he saw the haunted look Frodo was almost successful at hiding, saw the lines of pain, and over the days of the stay heard Frodo’s more whispered nightmares.  Each realized that time for the other was very limited, and was intent on seeing to it the other was granted whatever aid could be found.

59

       She’d been born Philomina Goold, youngest daughter of Isembold Took and a niece of the Menegilda who’d married Rorimac Brandybuck, who in time became the Master of Brandy Hall.  The Goolds were not a remarkably prominent family, although they were not declining in the numbers bearing the family name as was true of the Bagginses and had happened to the Sackvilles.  They had a family farm in the Northfarthing, one in the Marish, and a farm and pipeweed plantation in the Southfarthing where they grew Goolden Lynch, not a markedly popular variety but one which was preferred by some connoisseurs.

       Mina Goold had met Willeden Whitfoot at the Free Fair in Michel Delving, and it had been love from their first dance together.  Now, the Whitfoots were anything but a prominent family.  They’d been working class for almost the entire history of the Shire; now there were two family farms, but they’d been scrimped and saved for for quite some time, and they were becoming very successful, for the Whitfoots were an ambitious and steady lot.

       Mina convinced her parents to allow her to marry somewhat early--she was only twenty-eight when she and Will were married in Michel Delving by old Doro Burrows, who’d been Mayor before Will.  Doro had groomed Will to follow after him, and had been pleased to nominate Will to run when Will was still quite young, only forty-two, after all.

       Mina was only thirty when her first bairn was born, young Fenton, on August 28, 1368.  Not quite a month later her cousin Primula gave birth to the one of her five children who lived, on September 22.  It was her third pregnancy, and it was greatly feared she’d lose this one as she’d lost the first two and as she later lost two more.  Young Frodo was born over a month early, and there was a good deal of concern shown as to whether this bairn would survive to adulthood.

       Fenton Whitfoot was two and a half when his sister Aster was born.  They were a dear pair of bairns, and Mina doted on them.  Fenton was broad and strong and very sweet, with a wicked sense of humor and a marked level of loyalty.  He wasn’t anywhere as clever as his second cousin Frodo Baggins, but all signs were that he would accomplish a good deal in his life, and that he just might well follow his father’s path and become Mayor one day.  He was a good Hobbits’ Hobbit, after all, was friendly and knew how to read folks well, and had an instinct for what was needed.

       When Primula and Drogo Baggins died suddenly when Frodo was so very young Mina and Will had made the journey to Buckland to attend the funeral, and both Fenton and Aster tried to comfort Frodo as they could.  However, Frodo was too shocked by his loss to appreciate their overtures; and neither Rory nor Gilda encouraged him to reciprocate the attempts at friendship.  Frodo remained in Brandy Hall as Rory and Gilda’s ward, being fostered by their son Saradoc and his wife Esmeralda, Esmeralda Took as was.  The friendship Mina Whitfoot had hoped for between her children and Frodo Baggins just never materialized.

       Then came the sudden revelation in 1390 that old Bilbo had suddenly insisted on exercising his responsibility as Head of the Baggins family to see to his younger cousin’s raising, and was bringing Frodo to live at Bag End in Hobbiton.  Once again Mina hoped that perhaps a friendship would rise between her son and her cousin’s son, and certainly they appeared to get along when Bilbo brought Frodo to join the Whitfoots for breakfast on the second day of the Free Fair.  Mina convinced Bilbo to come to Michel Delving for Fenton’s birthday in August; but when Frodo’s birthday came that year Fenton was already scheduled to travel to the Long Cleeve in the Northfarthing to attend a birthday party for an aunt on his father’s side who’d married a North-Took.  Mina hoped to arrange for the two lads to spend at least part of Yule together when a pestilence ran through the Shire in late fall and early winter, and folk here and there throughout the Shire became ill with colds, ague, and the lung sickness.  Both Fenton and Frodo fell ill with the lung sickness at the same time.  Frodo finally began to recover after coming very close under Death’s wings, it was said; Fenton seemed to be fighting it well, then suddenly died one night.

       Mina Whitfoot had a soft spot in her heart for her cousin’s son; yet at the same time it was difficult for her to spend a great deal of time in his presence as doing so reminded her so much of her own losses, first of her cousin, whom she’d admired deeply, and then of Fenton.

       Aster married a Sandheaver from Whitfurrow and moved with him to his family farm.  Will enjoyed being Mayor well enough, but really wanted to do some farming of his own.  He tried to convince old Bilbo to take over as Mayor, but the wily old Baggins had refused.  “You don’t want me, Will,” he insisted.  “Why, you’ve seen nothing until you see Lobelia at her worst, and she’d get to that all too quickly if you even breathed my name as a possible candidate.  She’d have the few Sackvilles and all of the Bracegirdles in the Shire out with their whispering campaigns; and if it became known you were backing me you’d be tarred with my brush.  She and Otho are as acquisitive a pair as ever breathed, and they’ve done all they can to try to get hold of Bag End; while Otho would do anything to get the title of Baggins family head.  He’s quite taken with the idea of becoming family head of two families at the same time, you know, not that the Sackville family is anything to be proud of.”

       Precisely how the fact that Otho and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were acquisitive by nature had anything to do with their willingness to begin a whispering campaign against Bilbo Baggins and her husband Mina didn’t properly understand, but the threat of such a thing was enough to cause Will to simply agree and forget the idea of drafting Bilbo as Mayor.

       Both Bilbo and Will, however, were all for the idea of perhaps drafting young Frodo as Mayor at some time in the future.  There was no question he was intelligent and that no one knew the Shire and Buckland and their folk better than he, save perhaps Bilbo alone.  He had family and business ties throughout the Shire to families both prominent and humble.  He had a sterling reputation throughout the central Shire where his willingness to aid others however he could was well known and attested to.  His ability to dance and sing and tell stories was widely known and admired by folk all through the Shire and Buckland.  His relationship to Thain and Master and to future Thain and Master as well was well known--he’d have less trouble getting things done than had any previous Mayor.  His history as one who’d made a reputation as one of the worst scapegraces in the history of Buckland when a teen even worked to his advantage, for it was proof he wasn’t just a prodigy of virtue who was trying to be above himself.

       His sense of justice and responsibility, however, was what made Will favor him the most as a possible successor.  Frodo had shown himself a protector of those who were weak and vulnerable and didn’t tout it about, yet this was a fact that had managed to make itself well known throughout the Shire.  Once he became aware there was anyone or any family that was in need he’d do his best to see to it they were cared for either through his own generosity or by bringing them to the awareness of others for aid; and few people would even think of trying to back out of aiding those he championed.  He was regularly seen helping others--helping children sweep their walks; aiding in the reroofing of houses damaged by storms; carrying purchases by gammers and gaffers; watching and entertaining groups of children so their mums and dads could get things done; encouraging children and teens and tweens to behave responsibly; helping watch sheep; aiding local farmers.  Bounty from the Baggins gardens and orchard regularly made its way into the smials and homes of those who were ill or otherwise in need of aid throughout the Hobbiton-Bywater-Overhill region, whether they were neighbors or relatives or just someone who needed or deserved a bit extra.

       He was equally polite and helpful to working blokes, servants, and gentry, children. adults, and the elderly.  His courtesy toward others was legendary, as was his wit.  And all who knew him feared the Look, which he reportedly had inherited from the Old Took himself.

       Baggins responsibility, Took curiosity, Brandybuck initiative, Bolger intelligence, Boffin love of the land, Proudfoot pride, Chubbs sensitivity--Frodo was the best of his involved family heritage.  Add in his physical good looks and the sense of vulnerability that he seemed to carry with him, and he was, Will thought, a natural as Mayor.  And ever since Bilbo had left the Shire Will had been encouraging Frodo to run for the office.

       Except--except he didn’t appear to want to be Mayor.  Or perhaps it was more that he’d just successfully managed to keep putting Will off, time after time, convincing him that the time for it just wasn’t right for one reason or another.

       When suddenly it became rumored that Frodo Baggins had finally spent all of the fortune Bilbo had left to him Will had been shocked.  When word went out that he was selling Bag End to Lobelia and her son Lotho, old Otho having died years before, and was moving into a quiet retirement in Buckland the entire Shire was reeling.  Will knew that there was something distinctly wrong with all of this; but he’d not been able to get Frodo to confide his real reasons for these unconscionable actions.  All anyone seemed to know was that somehow that old Wizard Gandalf was involved, although none could say how.

       The bill of sale, however, had been written out by Brendilac Brandybuck and filed by Frodo himself, as had been the one for the purchase of the house in Crickhollow where Frodo was removing to.  Frodo hadn’t, Will noted, sold the smials of Bagshot Row to Lotho, however; nor had he given over any of his farm shares or other property deeds, such as that of the vineyard and wine press for the Old Winyards.  Nor had he named Lotho family head. 

       And the will quietly presented to Will for his signature and registration, of which Will had been able to read only a limited amount, certainly didn’t read like that of one who was destitute.  That will had been given into the hands of Brendilac Brandybuck for safekeeping; and the Goodbodies were Frodo’s bankers of discretion, Ordo and Oridon Goodbody to be precise, and no one had better reputations for recommending profitable investments and for personal discretion worthy of their positions than those two.  Brendilac Brandybuck and the Goodbodies had a better idea as to what precisely was going on with Frodo than anyone, and they weren’t saying.

       Frodo had left Hobbiton on his fiftieth birthday accompanied by his young cousin Peregrin Took, heir to the Thain, and Samwise Gamgee, who’d followed his dad as gardener for Bag End.  A week and a half later and word had quietly circulated from Buckland that those three and the Master’s heir had disappeared into the Old Forest, and that the Crickhollow house had been broken into by unknown Big Folk all got up in black and riding huge black horses; and that Black Riders had approached several throughout the Shire asking after Baggins almost before Frodo had time to vacate Bag End.

       Will had shared all this with Mina, along with his perception it was all wrong, all somehow false.

       Then the Time of Troubles began, and there wasn’t time any more for further speculation on what was going on in the life of the likes of Frodo Baggins, for folk were far more concerned as to what was happening closer to home.  Somehow it appeared that Lotho Sackville-Baggins had managed to gain deeds to most of the property in the Shire, and he was reeling it all in.  He’d sold such quantities of crops from the farms he now suddenly controlled South out of the Shire that it looked as if the Shire was going to be in dire straits before the winter was over, in spite of reports of excellent harvests throughout all four Farthings and Buckland.  He was closing down the inns, was tearing down the traditional water-driven mills and putting up steam-driven monstrosities in their stead, was cutting down trees, was bringing in an apparently indomitable army of Big Men to enforce his will.

       No ones property rights were respected; and although he had no right to do so he’d emptied the smials of Bagshot Row and had moved their inhabitants into the substandard, ugly brick places he’d built on the edge of town.  He was still the family head only for the Sackvilles, although that particular family was now basically reduced to only three males of the name throughout the Shire; but he acted as though he were the sole authority for all anywhere.  He announced he was now Chief Shiriff, and took over control of that organization from Will.  And when Will set out for Hobbiton to protest he’d been taken prisoner by Lotho’s Big Men and dragged right back to Michel Delving where the Men took over the old storage tunnels and made them over into a prison which they dubbed the Lockholes.

       Mina begged the Big Men for knowledge of what had happened to her husband, and one of those who saw to the prison ended up assuring her he personally would see to it that Will was properly cared for.  But things just kept getting worse and worse, until in the spring something happened somewhere far South and East of the Shire; but then the Big Men seemed to take heart again and over the summer things again began growing worse.

       But the Shire was nowhere near as easy a nut to crack as Lotho believed.  Almost every community and farm complex had carefully concealed storage holes where goods could be hidden, and soon when the Big Men came with their wagons for Gathering and Sharing there appeared to be little to be found worth taking away; and no one was telling Lotho or his supporters where the valuables had been hidden.  Word had been passed by Folco Boffin for folks to hide their books; and even in Hobbiton, Bywater, and Overhill entire libraries disappeared before late spring when word had spread through the Big Men that books were desperately wanted.  None could get into the Great Smial or the homes in the Tooklands; and once the nature of Lotho’s ambitions were appreciated in Buckland his ability to get things from the region across the Brandywine was suddenly extraordinarily limited as well.  Boats on the river went missing or developed holes which couldn’t be repaired; bridges were undermined; the Buckleberry ferry’s ropes and poles were lost and the ferry itself wouldn’t support the weight of more than three Hobbits at a time any more.  Roads were suddenly full of deep holes which impeded the movement of Lotho’s wagons and carts.  Doors became impenetrable, and the fear of the Big Men was outweighed by the determination to best them however possible.

       By summer fields and barns in the Tooklands and much of Buckland were being fired; by fall the amounts brought in by Lotho’s gatherers had fallen off substantially.

       Then Sharkey had come near the end of September.  Who he was and where he’d come from no one knew; but by the end of the first week of October all knew he was calling the shots from Hobbiton.  A very Big Man himself, apparently, Sharkey’s cruelty became a byword almost immediately.  The focus turned from stealing to outright destruction, with the mills turned to pouring out smoke and filth into the air and water, with trees being cut down indiscriminately, with more holes being dug out and more houses leveled.

       There were two more weeks of this horror--and then rumors of all being turned about in the matter of a couple days.  There was a ruckus at the Brandywine Bridge as it was said four Hobbits forcibly entered the Shire and turned the Shiriff House there on its ear, flouting the Rules, sharing out their own bounty with the Shiriffs, and blatantly ignoring both the Shiriffs’ instructions and the threats posed by the Big Men.  Then the four of them were forced-marching a large band of Shiriffs across the Shire to Hobbiton and quickly defeating a group of the Big Men.  Word came to Michel Delving that these four Hobbits were the four who’d gone missing a year previously--Peregrin Took, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Samwise Gamgee, and Frodo Baggins--Frodo Baggins the Responsible.

       The Battle of Bywater was planned and executed; and suddenly the backbone of the tyranny waged by Lotho’s Big Men was broken.  In the morning light Frodo had led a group to Hobbiton and Bag End and confronted Sharkey; he’d tried vainly to intimidate the four returned Travelers, then had tried equally vainly to stab Frodo, and had ended up killed by his own lackey.

       As suddenly as it had started, the Time of Troubles was over.  And Mina Whitfoot was there at the storage tunnels when they brought out Will on a stretcher and carried him home to their house hard by the Council Hole.  And Mina was there while Will hammered on Frodo Baggins the next day to convince him to accept the role of deputy Mayor, and Mina saw Frodo cave in and accept the job--finally.

60

       “Well, he can’t drive over from Bywater every day he’s here,” Mina pointed out.  “It will be best if he has some place to stay while he’s here in Michel Delving the three or four days a week he’ll be working as deputy Mayor, and what better place than here with us?”

       Her logic was, she knew impeccable.  And with a sigh Will agreed.  “But for you to suggest he stay in Fenton’s room....”

       Fenton’s room had remained unchanged since his death, a shrine to his memory.  Or, at least it had stayed that way until the Time of Troubles.  After Will’s imprisonment they’d come, Lotho’s folk, and had ransacked the house, looking for anything of any worth they could take.  They’d gone through the entire place and had taken everything of value they could find--her few pieces of jewelry, Will’s silver shirt studs, Fenton’s shirt studs, Will’s cloak brooch, Fenton’s feather quilt.  There’d been little else of any real value in the house, save for certain of the books, which had all been gifts from Bilbo Baggins; but at that time they’d not come for any books.  They had probed the mattress on Fenton’s bed, looking for hidden treasures, or so they said.  The place was full of feathers and straw from the mattress afterwards, and it had taken several days to clean it all up--once she was past her initial state of shock.  They’d missed the silver spoons and a few other such items that had been in the hidden closet off the kitchen; she’d managed to get them and the books out of the smial to the secret storage holes at the Tunnely’s place on the edge of town where they’d remained ever since.  She was to go over and see to their retrieval tomorrow.

       Mina looked at her husband where he lay in their bed.  “It’s not like it was, Will.  They went through it.  They went through everything, every single room.”

       The realization of what that meant to both of them hit him.  “Even Fenton’s room?”

       She gave a small nod.  “Yes, even Fenton’s room.  The mattress there now came from the Rumble’s place just after Columbine’s death.  She left it to me after she learned what--what they did here.  She left me the linens, too.  I lent them to the healers who were working with all of you who were rescued from the Lockholes, and this morning they returned them.”

       Will Whitfoot shook his head.  “It’s so unbelievable, that any Hobbits would ever act that way, that any would bring Men here into the Shire.

       Mina nodded again.  “They knew how to deal with them, the Travelers.”

       Will looked again into her face.  “Yes, that they certainly did.  That’s why I want Frodo to be deputy Mayor now, Mina.  He knows how to lead.  He knows how folk ought to be treated.  He’s always known; and now he knows for real.”

       “He’s not the way he was, though, Will.  I don’t know for certain what he did out there, but he’s been bad hurt--very bad hurt.”

       “That may be, but he’s back and knows what needs doing.  I want him to be Mayor.  The Shire needs him.”

       The offer was made when Frodo came to Michel Delving the next day, and he’d agreed.  “That will make it much easier,” he’d said quietly.  “I--I’m not up to riding in from the Cotton’s place every day.  To come here one day and go back when I’m through here in Michel Delving for the week will be much better for me, I think.  I appreciate the offer.  What would you like for board?”

       “You don’t need to pay board, Frodo Baggins,” Will had insisted.  “After all, you’re doing me and the entire Shire a great favor.  It’s going to be months before I’ll be in any condition to do much of anything.  It’s not as if you’re putting us out, after all.”

       “If you say so,” Frodo said quietly.

       “That was some odd lantern you used to search the tunnels with, Frodo,” Will said.

       “It’s not truly a lantern,” Frodo said.  “It was a gift to me.  A light for me in dark places, she said.”

       Will smiled.  “You have a lass interested in you, do you?”

       Frodo gave a small smile in return.  “She was our hostess for about a month.  And, no, she’s not interested in me, not that way.  I think had she been so her husband would have had a great deal to say about the situation, instead of aiding us as he did.”

       “You met them in Bree?”

       Frodo’s face grew solemn again.  “No, not in Bree--quite a ways South.”

       “How far South did you go?”

       “All the way to Gondor, to Minas Tirith, the City of the King.”

       “You say that there is really a King again?”

       The smile on Frodo’s face was truer, more due to happiness.  “Yes, there is.  The realm of Arnor is reconstituted, and the heir of Isildur is King again in truth.  I was there when he received the Winged Crown and when he received the Sceptre of Annúminas as well.  He’s reunited Gondor and Arnor both.  I’ll be writing to him tonight, if I have time.”

       “You know him?”  The idea a Hobbit of the Shire would know the King Returned seemed awful queer to Will Whitfoot.

       Frodo seemed surprised anyone would ask such an obvious question.  “Know him?  Of course I know him!  I met him over a year ago in Bree.  He was one of our guides, and now he’s our Lord King.  Pippin will be delivering the King’s dispatches to you soon, I’d think.  There hasn’t really been time to do so before now, you understand.”

       “How do you know he’s the rightful King?”

       Frodo gave a small laugh.  “Elrond of Rivendell himself has spoken for him, fostered him through his childhood even, after his father died, as he has fostered all of the heirs of Isildur and Valandil to this day.  He carries the Sword of Elendil reforged and the authority of it.  He wore the Ring of Barahir until he was affianced to she who is now his Queen--she’s carried it as his promise gift for years.  She returned it to him just after they married, now that the promise has been fulfilled.   The Palantiri answer to him.  He’s served as chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain since he came of age.  He went through the Paths of the Dead and commanded the Oathbreakers and then freed them from the Bounds of Arda.  He has the Hands of the Healer.  He replanted the White Tree in the Court of the Fountain.  Believe me, Will, Aragorn is the rightful King.  The people of Gondor--they were skeptical, but they aren’t now; and the Northern Dúnedain are thrilled he’s finally been recognized.”  He smiled.  “I was there when he produced the Roll of Kings of the North and it was laid alongside that of the South and he wrote his own accession into both.  Sam and I were both there.  And all four of us watched as he was accepted as King of both the Northern and Southern realms.  We know his Stewards, attended his wedding, have walked the streets of Minas Tirith.”

       “Why do you carry a sword?”

       Frodo looked at him, all the pleasure that had been in his face stripped out of it again.  “We all do.  This was Bilbo’s sword he brought back from his adventures.  But until we’re certain the Shire is free of Lotho’s Big Men, the others insist I keep wearing the mithril and carry Sting.  They say they don’t want me endangered again.”

       “Bilbo took his sword and the mithril shirt with him when he left the Shire, Frodo.”

       “You think I don’t know, Will?  Who do you think gave them to me?  Bilbo gave them to me in Rivendell.  And it was the King who insisted I wear them on the way home.  The mithril shirt saved me again the other day, when Saru--when Sharkey tried to stab me.”

       “Why did he try to stab you?”

       Frodo shook his head and closed his eyes.  “It’s too long a story--far too long a story, Will.  I don’t have time to tell it now, not if I’m to try to put the Mayor’s office back into shape.”

       “This Sharkey saw you down there in the South?”

       Frodo again shook his head.  “No, he never did.  First time I ever saw him or he saw me was as we were returning from Gondor.  We saw them on the road, Saruman, as they know him most places, and Wormtongue.  It was a shock to see them here when we arrived, and to realize what they’d done while we were still on the road and had stopped in Rivendell.”

       “Why did you go there?”

       “I had to see Bilbo, Will, had to make certain he was still all right.”

       “Is he?”

       Frodo’s eyes were fixed on the table top, the grief on his face plain to see.  “No, but yes.  He’s as all right as any Hobbit who’s just turned a hundred twenty-nine could be.  It’s just that--that since It went into the fire he’s aged so much.  He’s old now, old now at last.”  He rose.  “I need to go to the Mayor’s office, Will.  I need to see what needs to be done.”

       Pippin arrived not long after Frodo went to meet Gordolac, who had the keys to the Mayor’s office, carrying dispatches from the King.  His face was solemn with a strong hint of suppressed anger in it.  Mina looked at him with interest, for he was dressed as she’d never seen anyone before.  His trousers were black and of excellent material and make, but not of a pattern that was common in the Shire.  They had silver buttons on them, each impressed with the sign of a tree.  He wore silvered mail under a black tabard carefully embroidered in silver and white with a flowering tree and seven eight-pointed stars over it.  He wore a belt of linked silver leaves enameled in green from which hung a black leather sheath on his left side decorated with flowers picked out in silver and gold and copper wire.  The hilt of the sword he carried in the sheath was also wrapped in dark leather and silver wire.  Over his shoulder hung a black leather dispatch case embossed with a tree done in silver similar to that on his tabard and again seven eight-pointed stars.

       She showed Pippin to the bedroom where Will lay propped up in bed, and he came to attention and gave a salute of right hand across his breast accompanied by a brief bow.  “Captain Peregrin Took of the Guard of the Citadel and the King’s Guard, sir, to present the King’s compliments and his dispatches.”

       Will looked at him with surprise, then looked to Mina, who shrugged, not knowing precisely how to respond, either.  “I’m sorry I can’t rise, Pippin,” he said.

       “I know, sir, for I was there when they brought you out of the Lockholes, you’ll remember.”  His eyes were solemn.  “We had no idea that Saruman’s folk were here doing all they did, although if we’d known for certain I suspect Frodo would have pushed himself to come home the quicker.”  He pulled the case from his shoulder and opened it, sorting through it carefully until he found a number of thick envelopes and set them on the bedside table.  “The King will be most upset to learn of this, I think.  Gandalf commented Saruman could do some mischief in a mean way, but I doubt even he anticipated all this.”  As he straightened his face continued solemn.

       “Why did you four leave the Shire, Pippin?”

       “We had to, sir.  One of the things Bilbo brought back from his own adventure that he’d left to Frodo turned out to be very, very dangerous, far more so than you can imagine.  Word came through Gandalf the Enemy was searching for It, and that he’d learned It might have been brought here.  Frodo had to get It away.  We left just in time, for if we hadn’t what Lotho and Sharkey and their folk did would be but a pittance compared to what the Enemy would have done.  If he could, he’d have blasted the Shire from the face of Middle Earth.

       “Frodo had to get It away from here, and he hoped that if he left with It the evil would all be drawn after him.  We couldn’t let him go alone, so Merry, Sam, and I went with him.  If he’d gone alone as he’d planned he would have died; he almost did anyway.” 

       Pippin drew himself straight.  “He feels responsible, Frodo does.  He’s certain that only because he remained so long here that Sharkey was able to corrupt Lotho, and then come here before we managed to return.  He’s certain he’s to blame.”

       “Who’s this enemy you spoke of that was worse than Sharkey?” Will asked.

       Pippin’s face went pale.  “Sauron, sir, the Lord of Mordor.”

       Will almost laughed, except the young Took’s face was so very pale and serious.  Finally he said, “You are joking, aren’t you, Pippin?”

       Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel, shook his head.  “I don’t joke about such things, sir.  One doesn’t joke about Sauron and Mordor.”

       “What’s to keep--Sauron--from coming after whatever it is now?”

       “Oh, It’s gone, sir--Frodo destroyed It.  Sauron can’t do anything any more, for with It gone there’s not enough of him left to do anything.”

       “But Mordor----”

       “It’s an empty land now, sir.  I understand that some of Sauron’s slaves live there now in the Southern reaches near Lake Nurn, but Sauron is gone and the worst of his creatures with him.  There might be some orcs and trolls lingering in the mountain fences, and perhaps a few wargs here and there; but Sauron and his worst servants are gone.”

       “Who were the Black Riders who came through the Shire?”

       Pippin was slow to answer.  “His worst servants, sir, the Nazgul.  They’re destroyed now.  All are destroyed now.”

       “Why did they come here?”

       “Looking for Frodo and It, sir.”  Pippin looked pointedly at the dispatches.  “May we discuss those now, Will?”

       Then the Took lawyers started arriving to aid Frodo in the Mayor’s office.  Tolly came to tell Will and Mina they were going to be busy quite late on the sorting of documents which had piled up during Will’s imprisonment, and Mina fixed up some food for tea for him to take back with him.  Later she prepared more food for supper and took it to the office herself when no one came to fetch it, and found the room a hive of activity.

       Isumbard Took and Frodo were sitting at a table with a number of contracts before them, examining them while Bard explained why things were written this way.  Tolly and a number of other Tooks were checking documents and moving them about the room.  Frodo had a mug beside him, from which he’d drink on occasion.  Seeing Frodo Baggins there beside Isumbard Took she began to realize just how thin and solemn he’d become.  He’s so serious, she thought.  So very, very serious.  He leaned back and began kneading at his left shoulder, then held the gem he wore on a silver chain that hung about his neck.  After a moment he straightened, then turned a page, pointed to something on it and asked a question of Bard.

       Tolly looked up and saw her and the basket of food and smiled.  “We’ll be glad of that, Missus Whitfoot,” he said as he rose to meet her and take it from her.  “We’ll have a long night of it, I suspect.  We’re glad of all that’s been brought to us throughout the day by the ladies of Michel Delving, for it’s helped a good deal.”

       One of the younger Took lawyers came back with the basket a time later, thanking her.  Then he went off again, back to the office.  After midnight Mina heard the door to the house open and went out to see Frodo coming in, his face pale in the light from the lamp left lit for him in the entranceway.  He looked at her.  “I’m sorry, Mina,” he said quietly.  “I didn’t mean to rouse anyone.”

       “I have a late supper for you.”

       “I don’t know if I could handle it, Mina.  What I need is to sleep.  But thank you.”

       “You need to gain some weight back, Frodo.  You are far too thin.”

       He shrugged and turned away.  “Perhaps,” he said.  He went into the kitchen and ate a couple of swallows of the fruit and cider she had ready for him, ate a half a slice of cheese.  Here where the light was better she could see how pale he was.  Finally he shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Mina, but I’m so tired I can’t eat any more, and I don’t want to lose it.  Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

       She accompanied him to the room and opened the door.  He looked about it.  There was a window looking out at the night sky, for which he was grateful; a narrow bed with comfortable looking blankets over it, a bedside table with candle and lamp, a small desk with a chair, an empty book case.  “The books were brought back today,” she said.  “I’ve not had the time to put them away.”

       The small dresser was now empty; the wardrobe held a couple of old outfits.  “Were those Fenton’s?” he asked.  She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  “I’m sorry, Mina, sorry to bring back the memories for you.”

       “It’s not as hard as it once was, Frodo.  And it’s long past time to let his memory go, I think.”

       He nodded thoughtfully.  “It was years before mentioning my parents stopped hurting,” he said softly.  “But it happened.  Perhaps it can happen again.”  He looked at her.  “Good night, Mina.  One thing--do you mind if I keep a pitcher of water and a glass in here at night?”

       “That’s certainly no problem.  I set your saddlebags there over the back of the chair.”

       “I saw.  Thank you again.”

       She went to the kitchen and set out a small tray and filled a small covered pitcher with water and set it there with a glass.  Frodo came, surprised to see her already getting things ready.  He gave a brief bow.  “Thank you, Mina.”  He took the tray and retreated to his room and shut the door. 

       An hour before daybreak she awoke, looked to make certain that Will was indeed by her on the big bed that was theirs, and smiled in relief.  It hadn’t been but a dream, then.  She rose and went to the door to Fenton’s old room, cracked the door open and peered in.  Frodo had left the curtains open, and she could see him lying in the bed on his side, his left hand near his face, his face seeming to shine in the dim light.  She smiled, relieved to have someone in that room once more after so many years, even if it wasn’t Fenton.  She went to the kitchen to stir up the fire.

       Meriadoc Brandybuck knocked at the door to the Whitfoot house early, bringing with him a pair of waterskins.  “They’re full of his special tea,” he explained.  “He should have them by him all day.  Helps him get through things.”

       He wore a leather vest of some kind decorated in golds and browns over mail, a belt identical to that which Pippin had worn, and a sword with a brown leather sheath stamped with the outline of a rearing horse, its grip wrapped in twisted copper wire over leather to match the sheath.  On a baldric over his shoulder he wore a small horn bound in silver.  His trousers were a green so dark as to be almost black, again of exceedingly good cloth.

       “You look good, Merry.  It’s been so long since we saw you, you know.”

       He smiled ruefully.  “I know.”

       “What are you doing up so early?”

       “We found a nest of the Big Men a few miles West of here yesterday, and it took a time to get them to surrender.  Regi is seeing them out of the Shire with my cousin Beri seconding him; I stopped by the Cottons to see if Sam was indeed off to see his brother, and to get some rest, and Rosie gave me these to bring to Frodo when I came away this morning.  Sam left them for him.”

       “Frodo’s lost a good deal of weight.”

       “Yes.”

       “Is he going to be all right, Merry?”

       He shook his head.  “I don’t know, Mina.  If not, it won’t be for lack of trying.”

       She nodded.  He gracefully declined her offer of another breakfast and left again, easily mounting his pony as if from long acquaintance, and rode out Eastward in the dawn light.

       Mina sighed as she watched Merry ride away, then turned back into the house to get a breakfast ready for her menfolk.  Her menfolk, she thought.  Now, that had a nice ring to it.

61

       Frodo spent three to four days a week in Michel Delving with the Whitfoots, and each time he returned to the Cottons' farm Mina felt somehow empty, as if part of her hope had left her.  It had been a shock for her and Will to learn that Frodo had lost a finger, and after that every time she noticed the gap on his right hand she shuddered. 

       His third evening with the Whitfoots he sat down at the kitchen table with a steel pen and paper he’d brought with him, borrowed the bottle of ink Will kept at his own desk, and composed his report to the King.  He wrote swiftly and well, pausing seldom in his writing.  At one point Mina came to look over his shoulder.

       The damage left by Saruman’s people is shocking, Aragorn.  Most of our roads had avenues of trees on either side, and now all is bare and drear.  Sam has begun the process of having the shoddy buildings Lotho had erected pulled down, and we’re saving the bricks, those that are good enough to save, that is.  Some were mostly sand with little clay to them, while others were more clay than sand.  How some of the structures managed to stand as long as they did we have no idea.

       We arrived in time to keep the land and water from being permanently damaged, and for that we are glad.  But it will be some years before the fish populations are back to what they were before we left; and Sam mourns that it will be generations before the trees grow anywhere near as tall as they were when we were growing up.

       We saw Gríma Wormtongue and Saruman as we rode up the North Road from Rohan, six days, I believe, after we took leave of you.  The malice Saruman showed toward me there was unbelievable.  He hated me because since I had It he could not have It for himself.  Do you think he realized how much of himself he lost just lusting for It?  I know how much just carrying It took from me, and I cannot imagine one of his kind so willing to lose his very nature by seeking It.  It tears at my heart.

       I miss you so sorely, you and the Lady Arwen and your brothers.  I miss Gimli’s barbs to Legolas and Legolas’s witty replies and the laughter the two of them shared.  I miss riding by your side.  I miss Lasgon bringing me my morning drink. and I miss arguing with you about the draughts, and Mistress Loren and her sweet cakes filled with fruit and rich cream that I so loved and that always were too rich for me.  I miss watching the clear skies over the Ephel Duath and the realization that the fear which they once hid is now gone from the world.  And I miss the call of the gulls.  Why I should miss them I can’t say, for I know I can’t answer them, not I, a mortal.

       And I so miss the White Tree, the feeling of the pulse of its life under my hand as you and I paused to greet it as we passed it; the shine of the stars through its branches when I sat beneath it at night.

       It’s been very difficult for Pippin, for his father simply refuses to listen to the truth of what happened; and Aunt Eglantine keeps trying to deny he was ever in any kind of danger.  They are willing to believe in you, although how they can accept the good and not the bad is beyond my understanding.

       I wish I had one of the Palantiri at my disposal, or perhaps a glimpse in the Lady’s mirror to see you

       At that point Frodo paused, and suddenly realized she was reading over his shoulder.  His face grew white with spots of color only in the cheeks, and she knew she flushed.  “I’m sorry, Frodo,” she said.  “I know it’s private correspondence....”

       He looked down at the letter.  “No, I’ve not written anything too personal,” he sighed.  “It’s all right, Mina.  At least you can know how much I miss him.”

       “It sounds as if the two of you know each other well, and spent a good deal of time together.”

       He shrugged.  “We spent what time we could together, Mina.”  He looked off toward the fire.  “He is a remarkable individual of any race.  A Man, tall and strong and skillful and intelligent and learned, sensitive and utterly practical and yet with the heart of a poet.  A Man with the soul of an Elf, yet utterly accepting of his mortal nature.  Gimli says even the stones of the city rejoice to have him there, the descendant of Elros Halfelven with his Halfelven Queen at his side.  He smiles frequently now, and laughs now, and it is now full and hearty and all rejoice to hear it and must laugh with him.  Yet when he must judge one deserving of a severe penalty he is capable of a level of what appears to be sheer ruthlessness that is shocking--until he explains his reasoning.  I’ll tell you this--I’ve seen few who’ve come before him who can continue to lie to themselves about what they have done or why.”

       “Did you stay in his castle?”

       “Castle?  I suppose the Citadel of Minas Tirith is a kind of castle.  No, we slept there only one night, the night before he married the Lady Arwen.  We stayed in a guest house in the Sixth Circle.”

       “Who is Lasgon?”

       Frodo smiled.  “The page Aragorn assigned to us, and Mistress Loren was the housekeeper assigned to care for the place.  We did mostly for ourselves, but we were often busy elsewhere and thus needed help from time to time.  Aragorn was determined that Sam wasn’t going to do everything for us, after all.  Aragorn would often call for me to be beside him when he had to meet delegations, and I often went to the Houses of Healing with him.”

       “Is he sickly?”

       “Aragorn?”  He appeared puzzled by her question, then laughed.  “No--he’s not sickly--far from it.  No, he was trained as a healer from his youngest days as well as having been trained as a warrior.  The Houses of Healing are in the Sixth Circle at the South end of it, and he often assists the healers there.”

       “Why did you go?”

       “He said it helped raise the spirits of those who were ill and wounded to speak with me.”  For some minutes he looked down at what he’d written.  “I used to wonder what it would be like had the other babes my mother bore lived, to have brothers and sisters of my own.  With Aragorn and Sam I suppose I have some idea of what it would have been like.”

       “I was going to get some of the nut cake I made earlier.  Would you like some, Frodo?”

       He looked up at her.  “Yes, but please, only a very small piece.”

       It was always the response he gave her.  She wondered why.

       He finished the letter, folded it into a packet, and after pulling out the stick pin of a star he wore on his collar he took up the candle standing on the table by him and carefully spilled a drop of wax over it to seal it, pressing the pin into the wax as a signet, then accepted the piece of cake she’d cut for him.  He didn’t eat much of it--certainly didn’t eat the entire piece.  Yet he appeared to appreciate it, accepted the cup of buttermilk which she offered him, drank half of it.  Then he went to bed, carrying the letter with him.

       That week Frodo stayed four days.  On the last evening just as Frodo took up his saddlebags to return to Bywater, Brendilac Brandybuck arrived from Buckland, his pony ridden almost to the point of foundering.  Brendi leapt from his pony and hurried forward to where Frodo stood on the Whitfoot doorstep and wrapped his arms around his cousin.  “Frodo!  Frodo!  You are back, and alive!”

       Frodo’s face lit up.  He was plainly tired, but he was also obviously glad to see his cousin and lawyer.  “Yes, Brendi--I at least made it back to the Shire.  It is wonderful to see you!  Have you seen Merry then?”

       “Yes.  What happened to him?  How did he grow so much at his age?  You haven’t grown, though.”

       “Ent draughts.  Merry and Pippin were allowed to have some in Fangorn Forest, and you should have heard Sam go on about it when we woke and saw them for the first time.”

       “What is an Ent draught?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “Very long story, Brendi.  Ents are creatures that live in Fangorn Forest, far to the South near the end of the Misty Mountains.  They are the shepherds of the forest, and Merry and Pippin made friends among them.  They are quite marvelous beings, actually.”

       “The--the thing you had to see gone--you took care of it?”

       Frodo’s face grew grim.  “It’s gone now.”

       “And you’re home at last.”

       Frodo shrugged and looked away.

       “You don’t appear any too happy about it.”

       Frodo appeared to be choosing his words carefully.  “It was a very difficult journey, Brendi, and I was not--not always proud of what I did.”  He looked back at his cousin’s eyes.  “I went hoping to draw all the evil after me, but instead although the evil we were aware of did follow us away, other evil crept in anyway, and largely because of me--or at least it used me as its excuse.  But had I dreamed of what Lotho would do I’d have never sold Bag End to him.”

       “It was one of the more foolish things you ever did, Frodo.”

       But Frodo didn’t smile.

       “Has the inn been reopened yet?”

       “No, although we hope it will be soon.”

       Mina asked, “Would you like to come back into the house for a time and visit?”

       Brendi flushed.  “I’m sorry, Missus Whitfoot--I’ve been terribly rude.  I thank you, but I really need to see to it Thrush is cared for, for I’ve treated her badly, riding her as I did.”

       Frodo smiled.  “Then come with me to the village stable, and we’ll see to Thrush and Strider both.”

       “Strider?”

       “My pony I rode back home.”

       “Certainly.”

       Frodo turned to his hostess.  “Thank you, Mina, for everything.  I’ll be back three nights from now.  And when he wakens, thank Will for me, also.”

       “I’ll look forward to you returning, Frodo.  Now, you watch yourself on the road, you hear?”

       He smiled.  “I will.”

       He and Brendi turned away to the village stables.  Old Pease, who took care of the ponies boarded in the common livery stable, sat near the carefully shielded fireplace in the corner, reading, a mug of ale by him.  Barrels of ale had been found in the storage tunnels, and until the inn could be reopened and its brewery properly restarted Frodo had ordered a careful dole from the stored barrels so that folk could enjoy a couple mugs a day but not drink it all up before more could be made.

       Pease looked up from his book as they entered, and his face lit with pleasure.  “Mr. Frodo, sir.  Good to see you.  Your Strider is about ready now, he is.  Been lookin’ for you, he has been.  Good ponies like him--they knows when they’ll get to do a bit of a ride.”  Then his attention was arrested by the state of Brendi’s pony.  “What in Middle Earth?” he began, then fixed an accusing eye on the lawyer.  “Mr. Brandybuck, sir, what you been doin’ with that pony o’ yours?  You shouldn’t never treat a beast like this!”  He set his book carefully back down by the mug of ale on the battered table, and rose to come forward to take the pony’s bridle.  “You’ve almost foundered the dear girl!”

       Brendi colored.  “I’m sorry, Pease.  I was afraid I might miss Frodo, so I hurried her more than I ought, I know.”

       “You ought to of come a mite slower so as not to of winded the beast.”  The stableman examined the pony carefully.  “Don’t think as she’s taken terrible harm, but still....”

       Pease led Thrush to an empty stall and swiftly removed the saddle and bridle, set the blanket to air, pulled up a twist of clean straw to begin wiping off the lather. 

       Frodo walked to a stall where a bay stood looking over the gate, watching with interest and whickering softly as the Hobbit approached.  “Yes, here I am, boy, and we’ll be off soon enough.  But hold yourself yet in patience, Strider.”  Frodo settled his saddlebags over the rail, and pulled a small apple out of his pocket and held it out to the pony.  He then turned back to the stall where now both Pease and Brendi were working over Thrush.  He fetched a pail of water and set it by the stableman, then brought the low stool over and set it down and sat heavily on it.

       Pease allowed a bit of water, but no more, and continued rubbing down the pony.  Finally he belted a large blanket over Thrush and put a lead rope on her.  “Now, Mr. Brandybuck, sir, you take her out and walk her about a bit, cool her down proper, like.  And don’t let me ever catch you treatin’ a pony so, or I’ll tell the Master of it and he’ll be sortin’ you out.”  Thrush was allowed another small amount of water, and with a glare the stableman chased Brendi out to the paddock to do right by the pony.

       Frodo pulled his Elven cloak about him and followed Brendi out into the gathering dark.  “I do believe,” he commented, “that you have been properly chastised.”

       Brendi smiled.  He let out the lead rope and got Thrush walking in slow circles about them.  “That’s quite a cloak you’re wearing.”  He could just see Frodo’s nod.  “You got it on your travels?”

       “Yes.  It was a gift from the Lady Galadriel.  We were all given them before we left Lothlorien.”

       “Lothlorien?”  Brendi’s eyebrows raised.  He’d heard Bilbo’s stories about Elves, and Lothlorien was said to be a hidden land somewhere near a great river, if he remembered properly.  “When were you there?”

       “Last winter.  Late January and early February, I think.”

       “So you were able to be among the Elves?”

       “Yes.”

       “Sam must have been thrilled.”

       He could see the smile.  “Yes, he was.”

       “Are they as mysterious as it’s said?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “Elves appear mysterious to us because they don’t experience time as we do; and they’ve learned there is little in the way of real simplicity in this world.”

       “Sounds as if you’ve had the chance to study them pretty closely.”

       Frodo shrugged again, looked up at the sky which was partially obscured by scudding clouds.  “We spent a fair amount of time with them.”

       “Where did you go?”

       “We left through the Old Forest on our way to Bree.”

       Brendi looked at his cousin in surprise, completely forgetting about Thrush.  “The Old Forest?  You truly went out that way?  That wasn’t just a story Fatty made up, then?”

       “No, it wasn’t just a story, Brendi.  We thought if we went that way we’d do better at losing our pursuers.”

       “You were being chased?  By whom?”  He coaxed the mare back into her steady circling.

       “We didn’t know at the time.  Big folk in black cloaks, riding black horses.  Hissing voices.  They had reached Hobbiton and were asking after me before we were properly out of Bag End, even.  Fortunately the Gaffer told them I’d already left and they headed down the road to Buckland.  Almost found us once, but a group of Elves led by Gildor Inglorien were coming to one of their woods halls in the Woody End and were singing a hymn to Elbereth.  The Black Riders couldn’t bear the name of the Star Kindler, and they fled.  Sam and Pippin saw their first Elves before we left the Shire.”

       “Did you find out who these Black Riders were?”

       Even in the dark he could see Frodo’s shudder.  “Yes,” he said quietly.

       After a moment Brendi asked, “You going to tell me?”

       There was another delay before Frodo finally answered, “I don’t want to speak of them, Brendi.  They pursued us through the Shire, then apparently assaulted the house in Crickhollow from what Freddy tells us.  They lost us when we went into the Old Forest, not that we didn’t face peril there, too.  We were such innocents, and so foolish.”  Again he shuddered.  “I almost got all of us killed so many times, Brendi.  I wouldn’t blame Pal and Lanti or Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme if they never allow me back into the Great Smial or Brandy Hall again.  I was so irresponsible, not leaving the others behind, although they were needed--they were truly needed.  If Sam hadn’t been there I would never have made it at all; Merry helped kill the Witch King, and Pippin saved Faramir and helped save countless lives other times, too.”

       “Merry killed the what?”

       “He and the Lady Éowyn between them killed the Witch King--the Witch King of Angmar.”  Frodo was shivering almost uncontrollably, and was clutching at his left shoulder.

       “But he’s just a story, about the Last King!”

       Frodo’s eyes were dark holes in his pale face in the dim light.  “No, he wasn’t, Brendi.  He was real--all too real.  He was a Nazgul, Brendi, one of Sauron’s Ringwraiths, their leader.”  Again he looked away.  “And after I told you I didn’t want to speak of them--I had to go and name him.”

       Brendi dropped Thrush’s rope and came to stand beside Frodo, placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, and was shocked to feel how cold it and his left arm were.  “Frodo!  What happened to you?”

       Frodo rose abruptly and pulled away.  “What didn’t happen to me, Brendi?” he said softly.  “Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for me--I’m not worth it.”

       He shouldered past the lawyer and went back into the stable.  Thrush came to Brendi and pushed against him with her muzzle, and without thinking the Brandybuck scratched her ears, then he led her back inside.  Frodo was at the stall where the bay gelding stood, had the gate open and was removing the warming blanket and placing it over the side wall.  Brendi went into the stall, but Frodo avoided looking at him.

       He turned and pulled an exceedingly fine saddle blanket from the saddle tree and placed it over Strider’s back, then, after adjusting it he turned for the saddle.  He lifted it preparatory to settling it, too, and then all but dropped it.  Brendi made a wild grab and caught it, felt the weight and the solidity of the piece, saw the beauty of it, the delicacy of the silver inlay, the fineness of its lines, the richness of its stirrups and pommel.

       Thrush had followed him to the stall door, and Pease was approaching as well, concerned for the mare as well as the deputy Mayor.

       “What’s goin’ on?” demanded the stableman, eyeing Frodo with a worried expression.  “He looks as if he’s taken a turn o’ some kind.”

       “I don’t know,” Brendi answered.  “I need to find out.”

       “I’m only tired,” Frodo insisted, but neither of the others was convinced.

       “He needs a proper sit down,” Pease advised.  He gave the mare a brief examination.  “She’ll do well enough now.  You go on through the rear door, into my place.  There’s a settle in the kitchen.  Stir up the fire and make him sit down and maybe put his head down for a bit.  Till he settles out some he’s in no shape to be ridin’ no pony to Bywater.”

       “Let me get mounted,” Frodo insisted, “I’ll get there all right.”

       Brendilac shook his head.  “No way, Frodo Baggins, am I letting you go alone.  Pease is right.  Now you come along and let Pease settle your Strider there, get your breath back and tell me what happened.”  He gave the saddle into Pease’s hands and forcefully drew Frodo toward the rear door.

       Pease’s cottage was dimly lit by the kitchen fire.  Brendi settled his cousin onto the kitchen settle and went to stir up the flames and add a couple logs.  Once he was certain the logs would catch properly he turned to Frodo, who was fumbling under his grey-green cloak at the water bottles he had slung over his shoulders.  Brendi was surprised, for it appeared Frodo carried at least four of them.  As he checked each one, Frodo’s face became increasingly frustrated.

       “What is it, Frodo?”

       “I need a drink of Sam’s tea, Brendi, but the bottles are all empty.”

       “Sam’s tea?”

       Frodo sighed.  “It’s made with special herbs Strider showed him, apparently.  Really it’s medicinal.  We’ve found it helps when I’ve--when I’ve made myself upset.”

       “And what do you have to be upset about?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “About everything, or so it seems at times, Brendi.”

       “Let me see if I understand--your pony’s showing Samwise Gamgee medicinal herbs, and Sauron’s Ringwraiths are real, and they were chasing you?”

       “Not the pony--Aragorn.  The pony’s name is for him.  And as for the Nazgul--they were real, Brendi, and yes, they were chasing us.”

       “They were real, but aren’t now?”

       “They were destroyed.”

       “How?  When?  Why?”

       Frodo’s face in the steadying light was pale, his eyes shadowed.  He shook his head again.

       “Frodo, you have to tell me!”

       Frodo kept shaking his head.  “I need a drink of something, Brendi,” he said in a low voice.  “I can’t bear to be without something to drink.”

       Brendi looked about, saw the shelf on which a few mugs stood, and the stone water jar.  No hand pump here for water for the basin, he realized.  He filled one of the mugs from the water jar and pressed it into Frodo’s hands.  Frodo’s left one was still cold, cold and unnaturally pale compared to the other hand, the one----  He paused in shock, for he saw the gap where the ring finger had been lost.  He captured that hand, forced Frodo to hold it steady so he could examine it, see where the skin had been carefully drawn over the wound to cover what must be a horrid scar.  Brendi held that hand between his own, and pulled it to his face, his tears streaming.

       Frodo clumsily set the mug down on the seat beside him, slopping water over the wood.  His face was almost totally without color, save for two small spots of red on his cheeks.  “Brendi, please, please let me go.  Please don’t look at it!  I can’t bear to have folks look at it, Brendi.  Please, let it go!”  He tried to pull it free.  “Please, Brendi!”

       Brendilac looked at Frodo through his tears.  “What happened, Frodo?  You have to tell me!”

       “You’ll never believe it.”

       “You’ve never lied to me, Frodo Baggins.”

       Frodo looked away, stopped trying to free his hand.  Finally he spoke.  “The--the thing I told you about, that Bilbo left me, the dangerous thing--Gandalf was right about what It was and how It was wanted.  It was Sauron’s once, Brendi.  He lost It long ago, at the end of the Second Age.  He lost It and he almost lost himself.  But It wasn’t destroyed, and so he could come back.  Until It could be destroyed, he could come back and his Ringwraiths continued to exist and served him.”

       “What was it?”

       “Sauron’s Ring of Power.”

       Brendilac Brandybuck felt his scalp crawl and the goosebumps rise on his arms.  “Bilbo found Sauron’s Ring of Power?”

       “Yes.”

       “How?”

       Quietly and quickly Frodo told how the Ring had been taken and then lost by Isildur, then explained the story Gandalf had learned from Gollum, how Gollum had killed his cousin to take the Ring for his own, how he’d come to hate light and went into the darkness under the mountains to hide from it and to seek secrets, and how It had abandoned him only to be found by Bilbo.

       “Bilbo had no idea what it was, only realized it was a magic ring that made him invisible when he wore it.  Used to wear it to hide from the Sackville-Bagginses, in fact.  But that was why he didn’t seem to age, and why--and why I haven’t appeared to age, either.  It’s why a lot of things, Brendi.  It’s why I stopped being interested in lasses, and why I gradually stopped dancing.”  He sat, shaking his head. 

       Brendi finally let go the hand, and Frodo took up the mug and drank deeply from it.  “How did it make you lose interest in lasses?” the lawyer asked.

       He waited quite some time for the answer.  “Every time I looked at a lass I might have once fancied,” Frodo finally whispered, “It put thoughts into my head, Brendi.  Nasty thoughts--cruel thoughts.  Thoughts of--of forcing or hurting her for my pleasure.  I couldn’t bear those thoughts, so I taught myself to ignore the fact the lass was a lass and lovely.”

       Brendi shuddered.  “Everyone wondered....”

       Frodo suddenly took the lawyer’s hand forcefully.  “Brendi, what I’m telling you now you are not to tell anyone else, do you understand?”

       “Don’t you think Sara and Esme have the right to know?”

       Again Frodo paled.  “No, Brendi, you aren’t to tell them--not that they’ll understand if you tried.  You’re my lawyer.  You can’t tell anyone, not even Sam.”

       Reluctantly Brendi agreed.

       Finally Frodo continued.  “We had a dark time in the Old Forest, but were saved when we met Tom Bombadil.  He saved us again later.  We were such fools.  I was such a fool.  He finally had to lead us to the Road himself.  Once we were on the Road we finally turned toward Bree, not realizing we were now being followed by someone else.

       “In Bree we found Gandalf hadn’t been seen in months, and we were approached by a Man, quite the tallest Man I’ve yet seen, who insisted on serving as our guide.  He all but told me who he really was, but I couldn’t accept it.  You know those Men we used to watch who’d ride on the Road through the Shire?  The ones in grey and green and silver?”

       Brendi nodded.  “The ones on the tall horses?  The ones with the stars on their cloaks?”

       Frodo nodded.  “They’re called the Rangers.  They’re really the descendants of the followers of Elendil and Isildur, the Northern Dúnedain.  Their chieftain since the death of Arvedui Last-King has always been Arvedui’s heir, and the heir of Elendil and Isildur.  We’ve not realized it, but they’ve been protecting the borders of the Breelands and the Shire for generations.  Only reason Saruman’s folks could get in here was because the call came for them to go South to fight in the war, and the ones they could gather quickest were those who served here around the Shire and Bree, and many of those who still lingered around the ruins of the King’s cities of Fornost and Annúminas to the North, around the region of Lake Evendim.”

       “You seem to know a good deal about them.”

       “I traveled South with Aragorn, you see, and came back North with his Steward, Lord Halladan.  We had a good deal of time to discuss matters.”  Frodo sighed.  “The tall Man was called Strider in Bree, because he can walk at a tremendously fast pace.  His real name was Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain.  He’s now the King of Arnor and Gondor both.”

       He straightened.  “The night we spent in Bree we didn’t go to our room--slept instead on the floor of a private parlor.  We fixed the beds up to look as if we were sleeping in them.  Next morning we found the room had been broken into, and the beds and the pillows and bolsters and blankets had been hacked to pieces.  Strider led us out of Bree and we made for Rivendell.  We--we were attacked on the way, and one of the Nazgul--the Witch King himself--stabbed me with a Morgul blade.  I was almost lost, Brendi.”

       Frodo spoke for close to an hour, mostly about the interactions with Aragorn, and Brendi didn’t interrupt any more.  By the time Frodo was done he looked drained.  The lawyer rose.  “Is there anything I can do for you, Frodo?”

       “Not much.  Just don’t tell anyone--not anyone--what I’ve told you.”

       “You can’t have told me all.”

       “I didn’t.”  Frodo shuddered.

       “You didn’t tell me how you lost your finger.”

       “It was when the Ring was destroyed.  That’s all I want you to know about it.”

       “But you survived.”

       “I shouldn’t have, Brendi.  I should have died.  I should have leapt in with It, but It took me and I couldn’t do that.”

       Frodo looked down at the mug.  Then he looked back up.  “I just remembered--in my saddlebags, in the left one, is a silver flask.  Could you go get it for me?  Aragorn put the last draught he made for me into it, and I never drank it.”

       “Would it still be good?”

       “If anyone else had fixed it, other than an Elf, I’d say no.  But since he fixed it, it probably is fine.”

       He went back to the stable.  Thrush was now settled in a stall and was quietly eating from the manger.  Strider was waiting in his stall, now with saddle, bridle, and headpiece in place.  Brendi stopped to look at it in awe.  “That is the most beautiful tack I’ve ever seen,” he said.

       “I agree,” Pease said.  “Mr. Frodo appears to of picked up some real quality tack, I must say; and the gelding is a beauty.”

       Brendi unfastened the cover to the finely tooled saddlebag and found the flask, another item of exquisite workmanship, he realized.  The clothing he saw was also quite good stuff, and wonderfully finished, Shire styles but foreign materials.  He shook his head.

       He undid the lid of the flask as he walked to the kitchen door for the cottage and took a sniff.  It smelled fresh and clean.  He could identify the scent of at least two of the herbs used, but couldn’t tell the main one.  He brought it to Frodo, who thanked him and took a sip, nodded as if reassured, and then drank the rest down.  In a few minutes he straightened and smiled.  “I think I’m ready to go now.  I must, or they’ve threatened to come drag me away--Sam made them promise.  He insists I can’t work more than four days a week, preferably only three, or he’s certain I’ll make myself ill.”

       “After what I’ve seen today I suspect he may be right, Frodo.”

       Frodo gave a soft sigh.  “Not you, too, Brendi.”

       They went back to the stable, and Brendi was able to hire the use of another pony and a fresh saddle blanket for four days, although Pease threatened him with dire consequences should he treat the animal as he had Thrush.  The pony was quickly saddled and bridled, and the two Hobbits thanked Pease and set off for Bywater.  While they rode Brendi asked about Sharkey, and Frodo told him a good deal about what he knew of him. 

       “He wanted It, although whether he wanted It for himself or to buy favor from Sauron we don’t know--probably mostly for himself.  He sent a troupe of fighting orcs, what they call the Uruk-hai, to find us and to bring me back to him in Isengard.  Only they didn’t get me--they caught Merry and Pippin instead.  They didn’t make it back to him--near Fangorn Forest they were found by the Rohirrim, the Riders of Rohan, who are fierce warriors who fight from horseback and raise horses in the grasslands North of the White Mountains and West of Gondor, South of the Misty Mountains and Eriador.  They attacked the party of Uruks and common orcs who’d joined them, and in the confusion Merry and Pippin escaped into the forest where they met Treebeard or Fangorn, the oldest of the Ents, and their chieftain, or the closest to such as they have.

       “What they were able to tell the Ents of Saruman’s treachery convinced them to lead an assault on Isengard, and from what I can tell they tore the Ring of Isengard literally apart.  They diverted the rivers and filled the vale with water to drown any lingering orcs or soldiers of Saruman’s, and to trap him in the tower of Orthanc.  Merry and Pippin got to watch the entire assault, and were there when Gandalf came and later when he returned with the King of Rohan and Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli.

       “The Ents promised to keep Saruman as a prisoner there, but when the war was over and Sauron’s power destroyed they let him and this one they called Wormtongue go.  His power was destroyed.  They left with nothing, but had apparently sent the Big Men Lotho thought served him here.  They hurried to come here before we could, and so had apparently about a month to do as much destruction as they could.  Had Saruman not been cast out of his order and his staff broken, it’s probable that the damage to the Shire would have been far deeper and perhaps even permanent; as it is the beauty of the Shire will most likely not be restored in our lifetime.  Sam is devastated with the loss of the trees, as are we all.  Had Treebeard realized Saruman would do such things he’d probably have squashed him flat.”

       “Where did you come by the pony?”

       “It was a gift from Aragorn and Éomer of Rohan--that and the tack.  Aragorn asked Éomer to choose a pony for each of us.  Actually, Merry already had one, Stybba, that King Théoden had given him; but now he has all new tack with Rohirric horseheads all over it.  They put stars on my tack, sun symbols on Sam’s, and images of the White Tree on Pippin’s.  The horses and ponies of Rohan are among the finest in the world, although Éomer was bargaining for the loan of Aragorn’s stallion Roheryn as a stud as we headed home through Anorien and Rohan.”

       “The saddlebags aren’t the same workmanship.”

       “No, they were made in Dol Amroth and gifts jointly from Aragorn and Prince Imrahil.  And our bedrolls were given us by Prince Faramir, who is now Steward of Gondor.”

       “Elven cloaks, steeds from Rohan, clothes from Gondor--doesn’t appear to be much in the way of possessions from the Shire that any of you have still.”

       “Save for the others’ pipes.  Although the ones Pippin and Merry use now were given them by Bilbo, and those were made for him in Rivendell.”  Again Frodo’s voice was grim.  “We lost everything we took with us, or almost everything.”

       Brendi stayed the next few days with the Cottons, helping to cut and stack wood and care for the animals in return for his welcome.  He heard the story now of the assault on the house in Crickhollow from Fatty himself, along with the description of the group which had gathered around the young Bolger to assist in raiding the stores gathered by Lotho’s folks; and Young Tom described the Battle of Bywater with great detail, and the confrontation with Sharkey and his death.

       “Never seen nothin’ like it,” he declared, when he’d described the smoky figure that had appeared to rise from Sharkey’s body.  “Pathetic it was, if it thought to threaten us.  West wind just come along and blew it to nought.”

       Brendi was surprised to see that the looks of satisfaction and relief seen on the faces of the Cottons and Freddy weren’t mirrored on Frodo’s--he, instead, appeared to be filled with grief.

62

       “Mr. Barliman, sir, you asked me to tell you if any of them Rangers showed up.  Well, some just come into the common room.  Three of them.  Black Glove, the Scribe, and a younger one what has a hound with him.”

       Butterbur looked up from his accounts with a feeling of relief.  He was a lettered Man, he was, but had to admit he didn’t read as fast as some did; the distraction of knowing some of the mysterious Rangers were once again in his establishment he found welcome.  He set the papers on which he’d been figuring inside the account book as he closed it to keep his place, and hurried after Jape the barman back to the common room for the Prancing Pony.

       The Rangers tended to favor the corner table.  Sure enough, there the three of them sat.  Black Glove hadn’t been seen in Bree for about two and a half years; the Scribe had been a frequent visitor for at least the last seven or eight years; the one with the hound by his chair the innkeeper had never seen before.  A younger one he was, although Butterbur had seen enough of the Rangers to know that with them folks you couldn’t judge age by looks.  According to his father, that Strider had been coming into the Pony on and off for at least sixty years, except for about twenty or so when no one saw him at all; yet he certainly wouldn’t have been taken as over forty by most folks.

       Most folks didn’t have a lot of truck with the Rangers, and certainly Butterbur didn’t trust them under ordinary circumstances--not that they were untrustworthy, mind you.  Their coin was always good, and they always paid the bill immediately and without complaint, which couldn’t be said for all visitors to the Pony’s common room, not even for a few of the locals.  Certainly they were handy to have around if someone tried to start a row of some kind.  More than one fight that might have become serious had been stopped by a Ranger.  They tended to wear long swords and sharp knives and carried supple bows, and knew how to use them.  Let some hothead find the tip of a knife set to his ear or the flat of a sword to his throat with the indication the wielder wasn’t adverse to using the blade, and he’d usually cool down right quick.

       But until the last year no one had ever given thought to the possibility that the Rangers were actually good for anything.  Last winter all the ones that had been semi-regular customers at the Pony had disappeared, and all of a sudden trouble had poured into the Breelands in the persons of rough strangers from the South who appeared to think they could move in and take over the area.  Well, they’d learned that wasn’t so, for the folk of Bree had stood up to them.  It had cost some local lives as well as some of the lives of the brigands, but it had been well worth it; except it appeared that those who’d been rebuffed here had only gone as far as the Shire where they’d managed to do rather better for themselves.  What exactly had happened in the Shire no one knew, but the rumors of what was going on among the Hobbits there didn’t sound good for the Hobbits.

       But the concerns left behind by the troubles and the battle had been costly.  The folk of Bree had been left suspicious of strangers as well as fearful there might be more attacks, so gates and doors were now locked, and there were few visitors to the Pony from outside the Breelands.  The fact that they’d never had any such problems while the Rangers were still around beyond the time the preceding fall when the four folk from the Shire stopped there for the night was duly noted, and one certainly couldn’t blame those four, as the murderous assault on the Pony had been directly focused on them, after all.  After the four Hobbits and Strider left, there’d been more Ranger activity for some weeks and no further problems until the Rangers up and disappeared.

       Then the four Shire Hobbits were suddenly back, accompanied not by Strider again but by old Gandalf, and they were speaking comfortable words about changes for the better, and somehow it seemed their visit had managed to infect all of the Breelands once again with hope.  They’d said that they’d been accompanied back North from wherever they’d gone by the Rangers and that the Rangers were really the King’s folk and would be resuming their regular guarding of the borders of the Breelands and the Shire once more, not letting any more problems through than could be easily handled by the locals themselves. 

       But other than rumors of sightings of a few Rangers once more around the edges of the place there’d not as yet been any substantial proof that they’d in fact come back--until now.  And, heartened by the Hobbits’ and Gandalf’s reports and the official dispatches that Took had formally presented as messenger for the King (or so he’d said), Butterbur was going to do something he’d never done before--he was going to ask the Rangers who’d showed up here at the Pony tonight some questions.

       Barliman and Jape paused at the bar where Jape drew the desired drinks ordered by those who now sat at the corner table, and the two of them exchanged looks before Jape took the mugs up and headed in that direction, followed by his employer.  The cost of the drinks already lay on the table as he set the mugs down on it, although at a nod from Butterbur Jape left the coins lying there as he returned to the bar once more; the three Rangers were exchanging bemused looks at that as Barliman pulled another stool up to the table and sat himself down, which earned another round of questioning looks shared before they turned their attention to him.

       “I hope you don’t think I’m too forward,” Barliman Butterbur said without further preamble, “but I have a few questions to ask of you.”

       The one the folk of Bree called Black Glove, the one who wore his sword on his right rather than his left hip and who never removed that glove he wore on his right hand, appeared to be the most senior of the three, and after subtle motions of deference from the others he answered for them.  “Then go ahead, Mr. Butterbur.”

       Butterbur took a deep breath.  “Where have all of your folk been this year past?”

       “Most of us have been fighting on the borders of Angmar and along the Misty Mountains.  A goodly party of those of us who used to spend time around here, however, went South to the aid of our Chieftain.”

       “What was he doing down there?”

       “Fighting the Enemy of us all, Mr. Butterbur, who was attacking Gondor and who would not have stopped there had he been successful in his assaults on that land.”

       “Why would he be concerned about Gondor?”  Butterbur had heard of Gondor before, of course, but had failed to truly believe in its existence until now.

       “As I said, had the Enemy been successful there he’d not have stopped this time but would have rolled North and West from there until he’d managed to once again cover all of Middle Earth with his darkness.  Gondor was the last bastion against his envy and malice and hatred of all life.”

       “Who’s your chieftain?”

       “One you know fairly well from his previous visits here, Mr. Butterbur, the one of us you know as Strider.”

       “Where is he now?”

       “He’s remaining in Gondor for now, for he must consolidate his power there before he can return to us here in the North, although he plans to come North in a few years that we of Arnor can come together to iron out how we will behave toward one another now that Arnor is once again a realm under his rule.”

       “Where have you been these last few years, if you’ll pardon me for asking?”

       Black Glove smiled.  “Mostly I’ve been stationed in the Northeast, guarding against assaults from the Misty Mountains there and from the folk of Angmar in the North.  But for the moment the folk of Angmar have concerns of their own to deal with, and the last assaults from the orcs and trolls of the Misty Mountains fell apart when the Enemy’s weapon was destroyed last spring.”

       “Since when have you Rangers been worried about the folk from Angmar or orcs and trolls in the far mountains?”

       “We’ve always been worried about them, for the past over three thousand years we’ve dwelt here in what was Arnor, my friend.”

       “They said as Strider was King now.”

       “Who said such things?”

       “Them four Hobbits from the Shire and old Gandalf.”

       “They passed through here, did they?  Good, although I’d hoped we’d arrive before they came from Rivendell.  When?”

       “Four-five days ago.”

       “Have they returned on to the Shire, then?”

       Butterbur nodded.  “They stayed two nights here and went on.”  He took a deep breath.  “There’s trouble in the Shire.”

       The others exchanged looks again, now all equally concerned.  “What kind of troubles?”

       “Have you heard of the troubles we’ve had here?”

       “Rumors only that brigands from the South caused some problems but were rebuffed.  Will you tell us what truly happened?”

       Butterbur told all, and they listened intently.  He was asked to name those locals who’d taken part in the attacks and describe the ones who’d come from the South.  Then they asked for specifics of what was known to be happening in the Shire, but he could tell them little enough save that it was said to be pretty bad.

       “This Chief of theirs put up a gate at the Brandywine Bridge, and few gets in or out o’ the Shire that way without his say-so, it’s said.”

       “What of the Thain and the Master and the Mayor?  They’d not allow such things, surely.”

       “We don’t know, although the few who’ve managed to slip away and hide out here say the Mayor was locked up or something like.”

       “You have folk of the Shire hiding out here in Bree?  Who are they?  May we speak to them?”

       It took some time for Bob and Nob to convince the two Shirefolk from Buckleberry who were hiding out at the Appledore place to come to the Pony to speak to Butterbur and his friends, and at first they’d almost bolted when they realized that the ones Butterbur wanted them to speak to were themselves Big Men.  But as they saw all signs of sympathy and increasing anger directed at their assailants growing in the eyes of the three Men before them in the private parlor to which they’d been brought, their confidence had grown.  They continued to speak in greater detail.

       “When did the troubles start?” one of them repeated.  “Oh, about a year ago, just after Frodo Baggins and his gardener and his cousins disappeared into the Old Forest.  Frodo ought never to have sold Bag End to that Sackville-Baggins cousin of his.  Lotho’s been far too above himself for far too long.”

       “Above himself?” the other scoffed.  “Lotho Sackville-Baggins is far too much above everybody, you ask me.  Calling himself Chief Shiriff and all, and throwing the folks out of Bagshot Row as he did.  Then doing his best to cut the Tooklands and Buckland off from the rest of the Shire--far, far too above himself.”

       “This Lotho Sackville-Baggins--you say he’s related to the Ringbearer?”

       “Related to what?”  The expressions on the faces of both Hobbits were totally baffled.

       “Related to Frodo Baggins.”

       “Of course he’s related.  Was related closer to old Bilbo, of course, and ought to have been his heir, or his dad ought to have been so, really.  But Otho’s been dead some years now; and Bilbo Baggins adopted young Frodo as his heir and all and left it all to him, and the Sackville-Bagginses have never lived down the fury at that, they haven’t.”

       “You seem to know a lot about it.”

       The two of them looked at one another.  “Well, after all, Frodo’s pretty much related to almost everyone in Buckland, Tookland, and the Westfarthing at least, so of course we all know.”

       “You’re related to him as well?”

       “Yes--we’re Chubbs, my brother and me, and his paternal grandmother was our mother’s second cousin once removed while his mother’s mother’s mother was our Aunt Hattie’s first cousin.”

       The Scribe laughed.  “Hobbits!” he said admiringly.  “They sound just like Captain Peregrin when he’d get started on our way North from Rohan.”

       “Peregrin?  You mean Peregrin Took?  You’ve seen Pippin Took?”

       The Scribe nodded.  “Yes, he returned North from Gondor with us, and we’re told returned to the Shire a few days ago with Sir Meriadoc, Lord Frodo, and Lord Samwise.”

       “Lords?”  The two Chubbs looked at one another in even more confusion.

       The Man laughed.  “Yes, Lords Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee.  And full worthy of it they are, too.”

       The two Chubbs again exchanged disbelieving looks.  “I don’t know about that,” one of them said.

       Black Glove asked, “Why did you flee the Shire?”

       “One of the new Shiriffs was harassing us,” the smaller of the two said.  “Some lunk from the far Westfarthing, and a Bracegirdle at that--Bedro Bracegirdle.  A bully he is, too.  We wanted to start a tailoring shop, and were able to find a silent partner who’d supply the start-up costs, and his banker of discretion suggested that there near the Bridge Inn would be a good place to set up shop, for the old tailor there had died and none of his children had wanted to follow his trade.  Got the rent on the place reasonable and all.  Then this Bracegirdle comes in, says he’s the Chief’s representative and so he needs a suit worthy of his status.  We made it for him, but then he wouldn’t pay us, said the honor of making it for him was enough payment.  So we sent a formal complaint to Benlo Bracegirdle, who’s his family head.

       “This Bedro, he was furious and started making things hard for us.  Got us closed down for two weeks, then would stand outside our shop and refuse to let folks come in to get their clothes or bring things for repairs, then started throwing things through the windows of the shop at night and forcing us to have the glass repaired before we could open up again.

       “So we sent another letter to Benlo Bracegirdle, only now Lotho’s Shiriffs had taken over the Quick Post, and they gave the letter to him.  Came in threatening us if we tried to embarrass him with his family head again, he did.  Then one night our house was set on fire, and the only one anyone saw around the area was Bedro Bracegirdle.  Next night the shop is broken into and all our best fabrics were stolen.  We found a crudely written note threatening that we’d best clear out or we’d be for the Lockholes, and we rather got the idea we’d best get out before they finished with those gates they were building.”

       “Gates?”

       “Yes, gates on each end of the Brandywine Bridge.”

       The three Men looked to one another.  “This is totally against Hobbit nature,” the Scribe commented.

       Black Glove nodded.  “I know.  I’ll have to send a full report to Halladan.  Eregiel,” he said to the one with the hound, “I’ll write it out and have you take it tomorrow to Halladan at Annúminas.”

       “Yes, sir,” the young one said.

       The Scribe and Black Glove looked at one another.  “Do you think we should investigate further?” the Scribe asked.

       Black Glove nodded thoughtfully.  “We’ll go to the Bridge Inn tomorrow and ask them to send for the Master.  Sir Meriadoc ought to have communicated with his father by now, I would think.”

       The Scribe looked at the taller of the two Chubbs.  “What of the Mayor and the Thain?  I understand from what you’ve said that these Shiriffs and Big Men were set to watch the River once they realized they couldn’t easily get into Buckland any more, but how about everyone else of authority?”

       “Lotho’s folks at last report had the Tooklands surrounded, for the Thain wasn’t having anything to do with Lotho and certainly wasn’t going to recognize Lotho’s claims of authority.  As for the Mayor, word is Lotho has had him locked up in dungeons he’s made out of the storage tunnels in Michel Delving since sometime last winter.”

       Again the Men looked at one another.

*******

       Late the next morning the Hobbits on guard at the gate on the Bree end of the Brandywine Bridge looked up with concern as they heard hoofbeats approaching down the West Road.  The two archers assigned to the duty by Pippin hid themselves  behind shrubs, and the two Bounders set themselves behind the gate where they could be seen between the bars.

       Three horsemen approached the Gate from Bree, tall Men, one cloaked in silver, one in grey, and one in green, each with a star holding his cloak closed on his left shoulder, one followed by a large hound.  They stopped several feet back and dismounted.  The one with the hound held the bridles of the other two Men’s horses, then accepted their sword belts as the two made it plain they were divesting themselves of their weapons before approaching the gate.  Finally they came forward, their cloaks flung back and their hands raised to show they were weaponless.

       “We come in peace,” said the one who wore a black glove on his right hand.  “We are kinsmen of the Lord King Aragorn Elessar, and representatives of his Lord Steward Halladan.  We’ve come to investigate reports of incursions by brigands from the South.”

       “You’re a bit late for that,” growled one of the two Bounders.  “The ruffians have been mostly found out and captured and thrown out of the Shire, and we certainly aren’t going to allow any other Big Men inside our borders for any reasons you can give us.”

       “When did this happen?”

       “As of three days ago.  Mr. Merry suggested his dad set guards here at the gates to make certain that no other ruffians make tries to enter the Shire.”

       The other Man who’d come forward smiled.  “So,” he said, “Sir Meriadoc is demonstrating what he’s learned of strategy, is he?  Excellent!  Capable Hobbit as he is, I’d expect no less from him.  Are the others in good condition--Master Samwise and Master Frodo and Captain Peregrin?”

       “You know of them?”

       “I met them while they were at the King’s side in Minas Tirith and accompanied them back through most of Eriador.  Are they well?”

       “They are said to be well.  Frodo’s been made deputy Mayor while Will Whitfoot recovers.  Lotho’s folk kept him locked up in a storage hole for months.”

       “Frodo is deputy Mayor?  Good.”

       The one in the black glove looked from one face to the next until he was back at the face of the first guard just inside the gate.  “You can call off your archers.  Is there any way we may speak with the Master of Buckland  or his representative?”

       “He’s not available at the moment.  He’s making a survey of the damage done to our fields and farms by Lotho’s folks.  They fired several of the farms.”

       “Where is this Lotho?” asked the Man grimly.  “I suspect that the Lord King will wish to question him.”

       “He’s dead, apparently.  Seems that this Sharkey fellow had him killed.”

       The three Men looked at each other in question, then returned their attention to the Bounders.  “Sharkey?  Who’s that?”

       “Biggest ruffian of the bunch.  Showed up toward the end of September and took over from Lotho.  Vicious soul, he was.”

       “Where is he?”

       “Dead, we’re told.  His Worm creature killed him.”

       “Worm?”

       “Yes, a pale Man the Travelers called Wormtongue.”

       The second Man who’d come forward straightened with surprise.  “Gríma Wormtongue came here?  The last time he was seen was in the company of the fallen Wizard Saruman!”

       The one in the black glove looked at his fellow with concern.  “Saruman and Wormtongue?  I’ll have a second report to send, then, to Elrond in Rivendell.  Gandalf will need to be notified.  Saruman, after all, would be his affair.”

       “You know that old Wizard Gandalf?”

       “Certainly.”

       The one holding the horses suddenly said, “Sharkú, Old Man.  Black Speech.”

       The one with the glove looked over his shoulder and nodded.  “Makes sense.  After all, Saruman was emulating Mordor and kept and bred orcs.”

       The other shuddered.  “I hate to say this of any sent originally by the Valar, but Middle Earth is better off without what he’s made of himself.”

       The other two Men indicated their agreement.

       The one in the black glove looked back to the Bounders.  “I still ought to meet with at least the Master.  Say a week from today, at noon, here at the Bridge.”

       “I’ll promise nothing,” the Bounder said warily.  “Who shall I say is asking for a meeting?”

       “Lord Gilfileg, cousin to the Lord King Aragorn Elessar, and first lieutenant to the Lord Steward Halladan of Arnor.”

       “I’ll tell him, sir,” the Bounder said, and with bows the two who’d come forward reclaimed their swords from the third, and then their horses.  The three mounted and turned East once more.

       Gilfileg turned to Berevrion.  “Pass the word to those who are watching the borders of the Shire--any further Men found being ejected from the Shire or fleeing it I want taken and brought to Bree to be put into the gaol there until Halladan or I can question them.  Same for anyone who is seen creeping around the borders of the Breelands.”

       “Yes, my Lord.  Tell me, Gilfileg, do you think it could be Saruman after all?”

       “Who else would this Wormtongue follow?”

       Eregiel shook his head.  “How could a Wizard fall so low?”

       Gilfileg sighed.  “Remember, Morgoth himself started as one of the greatest of the Valar, and Sauron as one of the greatest of the Maiar.  Even beginning as one of those who have seen the face of Iluvatar Himself is not proof against falling.”

*******

       A week later a single Ranger approached the gate at the Brandywine Bridge through the rain.  He dismounted from his horse, removed the saddle and set it over his shoulder, and looped the reins over a branch.  He approached the Bridge.  “I am Lord Gilfileg of Arnor, cousin to the Lord King Aragorn Elessar and first lieutenant to his Steward the Lord Halladan,” he said to the single Bounder who could be seen inside the gates.  “I asked for a meeting with Master Saradoc of Brandy Hall and Buckland.”

       The Bounder examined him closely.  “The Master is inside the Bridge Inn and asked I bring you there.  Your horse can also be brought in through the gate; there’s an empty shed with a roof high enough to accept it.”

       “We were told the Bridge Inn had been closed.”

       “We’ve had time to unbar the doors and do some repairs to the roof.  There are more repairs which are needed, but at least the common room is intact and large enough to allow meetings outside the Hall.”

       The tall Man nodded.  “Thank you,” he said.

       The gate was opened and he led his horse through it and across the bridge.  As some of the vendors who regularly had come to the Bridge Market at certain seasons had been Men and Dwarves, the Bridge Inn had been built with a roof high enough to accommodate its larger guests, and even had boasted rooms with Man-sized beds.

       Part of the inn had been pulled down, and there were signs a fire had been put out on the back side near what had probably been the kitchens.  He was shown the shed where he led his horse, who shook himself gladly once he was under cover from the rain, obviously happy to be free of it for a time.  A tub of water was brought and some hay, and after the Man had his saddle secured and the horse given a brief rub down, he turned to follow the waiting Bounder into the Inn.

       A tired-looking Hobbit with thick greying hair sat at a table, his pipe in his hands and a tankard before him.  Nearby sat a younger one of early middle years in appearance, also with a tankard before him as well as a couple thick packets of papers.  The two of them rose and bowed.  “Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland, at your service,” the older one said.

       “Brendilac Brandybuck at your service,” the younger one, who was more slender than the Master, said.

       “Gilfileg son of Gilthor, a Lord of Arnor and cousin to the Lord King Aragorn Elessar, and first lieutenant to the Lord Steward Halladan, at the service of you and your family,” the Man responded.  The Master indicated a bench, and with a bow of thanks the Man sat on it, noting it was indeed strong enough to support him, if it was on the low side for his stature.

       “I’m sorry we don’t have proper accommodations for you, my Lord Gilfileg,” the Master said.  “Lotho’s Big Men took everything appropriate for Men for their own use out of the inn when it was closed.  We’ve found some of it, but it was so badly used and in such condition it’s best to burn it and start anew.”

       Gilfileg nodded.  “I can imagine,” he said seriously.  “I’d wondered if this was your son, but I see it’s not.”

       “No, Brendi is a cousin and nephew of ours.  Merry is sweeping the Northfarthing for ruffians with a group of Took archers, although he is due home in a few days, I believe.  Brendi has just returned from Bywater and Michel Delving where he’s spent some time with Frodo, and on learning I was to meet with you he asked he be allowed to accompany me, as he was entrusted with some reports to be forwarded to the King and Lord Halladan.”

       “From the Lord Frodo?  It will be an honor to do so, and I know Aragorn will be glad to receive them.  His praise for his friend has been exceedingly high, as is that told me by Halladan.  In fact, both wax poetic about all four of your folk.”

       “I see.”  Master Saradoc looked surprised.

       “I was asked by Halladan to inquire as to the well-being of the Lord Frodo.”

       Brendilac said carefully, “He appeared well enough when I left him.  He is working in the Mayor’s office to sort out all of the legal affairs that went without review and proper filing after the imprisonment of Mayor Whitfoot, and his friend Samwise Gamgee is now traveling about the Shire assessing the physical damage done.  Thousands of trees have been cut down and left to die wantonly, and we don’t yet know how many lost their homes.”

       “I am told that the one named Lotho is dead.”

       “So this Sharkey, this Saruman told them.”

       Gilfileg went very still.  “So, it was indeed Saruman,” he said.  “How far those who were intended to be great do fall when they make the choice of evil.”

       “Yes,” the younger Hobbit answered, “Frodo and Merry both recognized him.  Frodo told me of the encounter with Saruman and the one they called Wormtongue along the way, there in the wilderness six days this side of where they parted from the King.”

       The Man nodded.  “Yes, Berevrion has told me of it also, for he was one of those who rode with the party.  Berevrion rode with me last week when we approached the gate.”  He straightened.  “I wished to discuss in more depth how it was this Lotho was able to gather power so quickly once Lord Frodo sold him his family home.  How long before he left the Shire did Lord Frodo announce he was doing such a thing?”

       By the time the interview was over Saradoc and Brendilac were both feeling drained.  But the two of them were beginning to realize that what little they’d been told was true, that the four Travelers had indeed been to Gondor and had done extraordinary things, and that all there held the four of them, and particularly Frodo, in great esteem.  Also, the chronology of how Lotho had managed to gain control of so much was now much clearer in the minds of all.

       Saradoc said, thinking as he tried to explain, “The first I became aware that Lotho was presenting abnormal contracts and such was shortly before the four of them left.  A Brandybuck came to me with a contract for a loan taken out on some of his property, a loan intended to be used to buy a new pair of oxen.  It included a clause for improvements to be made to the house.  It is usually indicated that if the one taking the loan was already in the process of making a particular improvement at the time he took the loan he is to see it through in a timely manner; or if there is a particular improvement that is needed that he’s put off that he must see it done as soon as possible after the money is received.”  The Man nodded his understanding.

       “There was such a clause in this one, for the windows to be fitted with new shutters to be painted an unlikely pink color, both shutters and paint to be purchased from families who did such things in distant villages on the West borders of the Shire.  The house didn’t need new shutters, it had far better shutters already fitted painted a common green, in fact.  But the contract was so written we had to see it done as required.

       “I myself sent out swift messengers to the Westfarthing to see to the purchases, only to find the ones who did the construction of the shutters on the one hand and the mixing of the pigments on the other were both ill and dying; a Took who knows about pigments and making of paint had to be summoned to the one family, and a carpenter to assist in the construction of the shutters to help the family of the other see to it the items were finished in time; then they had to have them brought back across the Shire to have them hung in time.  We made it only hours before the time period stated, and Lotho’s folk were there to inspect them to be certain the clause had been met precisely at the time set in the contract.  But we had the bills of sale and the shutters in place and the colors as specified, and the looks on their faces as they realized that this Brandybuck wouldn’t lose his property were well worth the trouble, I think.

       “But similar odd clauses began to be found in many contracts, we learned.  Frodo’s cousin Ponto Baggins and his wife Iris almost lost their smial in Hobbiton due to not reading their contract clearly--instead of the usual provision that the money they intended to borrow be repaid over time for up to five years, they learned that their contract was written so that the deed for their own smial against which they were taking the loan passed immediately into Lotho’s hands and they had to pay an exorbitant rent to remain in their own home.”

       “I’m told your laws regarding documentation for transfers of property, adoption, wills and such are quite definite and even complicated here in the Shire.  There had to be one who was helping to write these contracts in such a manner that the odd clauses and requirements wouldn’t be noticed and yet would be seen as binding.”

       “The one who wrote the contract for Ponto and Iris was Timono Bracegirdle, one of Lotho’s cousins.  The one for Barodoc’s loan was supposed to be by his family lawyer; but Ando admitted that Lotho already had this other contract written up and that he forced him to present it as if he had written it himself.”

       “Then it would be well to forward this information to Lord Frodo as deputy Mayor so he can follow up with the search for others who took part in this Lotho’s conspiracies.”

       Gilfileg finally took his leave, explaining he needed to return to Bree so as to be there in the morning when he expected a response from the Lord Steward Halladan on the dispatch he’d forwarded the preceding week.  After he was gone Saradoc looked at Brendilac, shaking his head.  “Thanks be you were the one who wrote up the bills of sale for Bag End and the Crickhollow house,” he said.

       Brendi nodded.

63

       The High King of the Men of the West sat his horse on the crest of the hill, holding up his Elessar brooch until the last of the party going North disappeared over the crest of the next ridge and could no longer be seen.  He knew he would never again in this life see his foster father, the Lady Galadriel, Lord Gildor Inglorien, Gandalf, or Frodo--or Bilbo.  Those he loved and honored most in this world, save for most of his mortal friends, were leaving Middle Earth, by one means or another.

       Some moments after the last of those going North passed out of view he lowered his hand, still watching after.  Then, with a sigh he solemnly replaced his brooch to secure his white mantle and turned to the mounted Men about him--some of them from among the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, some from among the Guards of the Citadel who’d been chosen in the past few months to be among his personal Guard, and the rest from his own kindred of the Northern Dúnedain.  “Gentlemen,” he said, quietly but with decision as he put his grief away for proper mourning later, “shall we ride?”

       He turned and led the way down the crest in the gathering dusk, Roheryn retracing their trail surely, the rest following.  Those from among his own people looked at those who questioned, “He would travel now, and so swiftly?” and laughed.

       “You do not know our Lord if you do not think he would ride swiftly and surely at night,” one of them addressed the rest.  “We are no longer hampered by stores wagons and ponies.  He will return to Edoras and his Lady as swiftly as he might, and then we will set out back for the capitol.  There are threats, after all, from Harad, and already he has sent troops South to be in position to meet them.  We will follow after, and you will find we will be there in good time for him to order the battle to his liking.”

       The Ents of Fangorn who watched near the Ring of Isengard watched the troop of mounted Men approach.  Here alone did the King in his white mantle slow his pace.  “I greet you this night,” he said.  “I return to my own place and thank you for your service to all of Middle Earth.”  Then he led his Men onward, causing as little disturbance as was possible.  Treebeard looked after with a smile.  A worthy one, this Lord Aragorn Elessar.

       They reached Helm’s Deep sometime between midnight and the dawning, and paused to take a few hours’ rest and break their fast.  They then thanked Erkenbrand’s Men and old Gamling and continued on their way, arriving at Edoras before sundown.

       Two days later they again rode out for Minas Tirith, this time arriving in six days’ time.  The Lady Lothiriel and her mother were exhilarated after the long, steady ride--exhilarated but also now very weary; the Lady Arwen, however, appeared refreshed as if she had but taken an afternoon’s ride with her beloved and swiftly slipped back into the administration of the Citadel of the city of Minas Tirith while the Lord Aragorn drew Prince Imrahil and the rest of the Lords of the realm into planning for the proposed defense of their Southern borders.  Three days after their return arrived Prince Faramir, who with his wife and the guards of the White Company that had remained with them, had lingered but a few days longer in Éomer’s court; with Faramir remaining in the White City to watch over all, Aragorn and Imrahil’s Men took ship on one of the great transports taken from the Umbarians and sailed South to the Mouths of the Sea to the borders of Gondor’s claimed lands, riding overland to Porthos to set up their defense.

       The assault foretold by Rustovrid of Harad came two weeks before the end of August.  The battles raged over the space of four days; but at last they were over, and those from Gondor had prevailed.  The transport was sent to Risenmouthe to await the troops which were told off to carry the survivors from Harad back to the Haradri capitol of Thetos while the majority of those who would return to Gondor proper set off on their way back North toward Ithilien and home.

       On the tenth day of November Aragorn walked about the level of the Citadel with his lady wife.  That morning he’d written a letter to Frodo, which would be sent with the dispatches to Halladan, the Mayor, the Thain, the Master, and the lords of Lothlorien and Imladris on the morrow.  Arwen had crafted for Frodo a suit of Shire fashion embroidered with silver stars, which would be bundled with the letter and the coins from the first striking of the new King’s coinage which Aragorn was sending to him.  Gifts Frodo had ordered for them had been given them on his birthday:  a pipe inlaid with silver he’d commissioned from Gloin for Aragorn and a fine needlecase in the shape of a resting bird with its head under its wing carved of bone and fitted with silver for Arwen; a pendant of an enameled golden leaf for Legolas and a tankard of fine glass crafted by Master Celebrion for Gimli; a set of dishes from a maker of fine porcelain in the Fifth Circle of a dark blue decorated with a single star and a crescent moon for Prince Faramir and his wife for their new home, for which the foundations were already being placed in the ruins of Emyn Arnen; a book of Bilbo’s poetry he’d written out himself (and illustrated) for Master Iorhael which he’d bound one day with the assistance of those in the archives; a pair of wooden birds carved in Dale for Master Celebrion and Linneth; a platter of fine pastries ordered from one of the finest bakers of the Fifth Circle to be delivered on the birthday for the family of Healer Eldamir; a bracelet of silver stars for Mistress Loren; and a fine dagger for young Lasgon set with a star on its hilt.

       Aragorn hadn’t been home long.  It was a relief to be there and by his wife.  Legolas had sent word he would return a month after Yule; Gimli’s message which had arrived at the same time indicated he would be here two weeks after Yule with several of his folk to start the more major repairs on the city walls, although he intended to take the cart North to the Shire almost as soon as he returned.

       “A blossom for your thoughts, beloved,” the Lady Arwen said.

       “Not much, my heart,” Aragorn responded.  “Only thinking on those who have returned to their homes, and missing them.”

       “And especially Frodo and Samwise?”

       “And Bilbo.  It will be a sad day when he must leave Middle Earth, which I fear must be all too soon.  He is ancient now for his people.”

       “He wept when he realized he had not the strength to accompany us here for our wedding.”

       “And I grieved he did not come.”  He smiled.  “The first among Hobbit-kind whom I met, and I came to treasure him so.  And, due to him I met Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin.  Bless the old Hobbit.”

       “Indeed.”

       They were come about to the Court of the Tree, and smiled to see its beauty even as it had begun to shed its leaves in preparation for the winter to come.  Aragorn stepped to it to lay his hand upon it in greeting, and paused, his expression surprised.

       “What is it, holder of my Light?” Arwen asked in Quenya.

       Aragorn shook his head.  “The Tree is excited, dearling.  I have never felt it so before.  I will swear it sings today, a hymn of delight.”

       Arwen looked on the Tree with surprise, then growing excitement herself.  They heard the call of a great bird, and looked upwards to see Gwaihir circling them on the winds that blew ever in the upper airs.  “The Hallows,” she murmured, and he nodded, and together they began to hurry toward the ramp down to the Sixth Circle, their confused personal Guards scrambling to keep up with the two of them.

       The Porter at the gate to the Silent Street looked up with surprise.  “My Lord?  My Lady?”

       “We must go through the Rath Dínen, and immediately,” the King said.

       “If you so desire,” he said, hastily unlocking the gate and bowing them and their escort inside.

       The two guards were surprised to be ordered to remain at the hidden gate at the back of the cemetery, and watched after with grave concern.  “Lord Hardorn will have our hides cut from us in strips,” one murmured quietly to the other.

       “Perhaps,” the other replied, “although I suspect that had we insisted in accompanying them further what the King would have ordered would be worse.”

       Both turned their backs on the hidden gate and stood at attention to wait what might come next.

       As soon as they set foot in the King’s Hallow Gwaihir alit before them.  Both bowed respectfully to him, even as he did the same before them.  “Lord Gwaihir,” Arwen said.  “You wished us to meet you here?”

       “Your petition is now answered, son and daughter of Iluvatar,” he said, examining each in turn.  “It is not precisely answered as you had requested.”

       “That it is answered at all is, perhaps, more than we deserve,” Aragorn said quietly.  “If the Valar choose to deny it we will understand.”

       “I did not say it was denied,” the Eagle said, and the King realized that the Eagle was, in his way, amused to draw out his message.  Suddenly the Man’s hope began to surge through him, and he looked intently into the Eagle’s eyes.  “For the Perian Frodo Baggins, the right to take the place intended for the Lady Arwen Undomiel on the ship Círdan the Shipwright now builds is granted--should he choose to accept that right.”  Arwen took a deep, shaky breath.  “He may not go beyond the Isle of Tol Eressëa, for his nature as one who is a mortal will not be able to bear it further.  As you said before, the Last Isle was once part of the mortal lands, and there he may remain somewhat grounded for what time remains for him.  The Valar make no guarantees as to how long he may remain there, for that is dependent not on them but on his own ability to endure, which we already know is far greater than any had foreseen.”

       Aragorn, not trusting himself to speak, nodded.  He found he felt somewhat dizzy with relief.

       “You may not speak of the choice to him again save to allow him to know that it lies before him.  You may not urge him to accept it.  You may not beg him to remain in Middle Earth.”

       “I would never beg him to do that last,” Aragorn whispered, his eyes closing.  He felt a feather of the Eagle’s wing caress his face, and realized he was weeping and that Gwaihir was gently wiping away the tears.

       “I realize that, Dúnedan,” the Eagle said.  Aragorn opened his eyes, and the Eagle stretched himself taller.  “There is more.  This choice is open not only to Frodo Baggins, but to all three of the living Ringbearers as well as to those who bore the three Rings of the Elves.”

       “Who were leaving already,” Arwen said, her own eyes fixed on those of the Windlord.  He looked at her somewhat sidelong, then bobbed his head slightly.

       “It is open also to the one who is, in his way, the heir to those granted the Rings of the Dwarves, to Gimli son of Gloin, Elvellon among the children of Aulë.”  Both King and Queen stared at the Eagle in surprise.

       “And one last grace is granted.  The limit laid upon the sons of Elrond Peredhel to leave with their father is lifted.  To them is granted the right to remain in Middle Earth until each either chooses mortality or to take ship to join his parents and their people.”

       Again Aragorn’s eyes closed.  “Thanks be to Iluvatar,” he murmured fervently.  He looked at his wife with growing joy.  “Then I leave you not unsupported when I must perforce accept the Gift.”  He was still weeping, with heart’s ease, he realized.  “Thanks be to Iluvatar,” he repeated.

       “Indeed,” said Gwaihir gently, “for thus it is His will, more than that of the Valar themselves, that the Lights of the three be fully restored before they are ready to return to the Presence.”  Again he bobbed his head slightly.  “In truth, the three mortal Ringbearers, Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins, and Samwise Gamgee, need not sail on any specific ship, but may choose to go when it pleases them.  However, know this--it is seen that the Perian Bilbo Baggins is ready at any time to accept the Gift of Iluvatar and will not be able to put off that acceptance all that much further--if he does not go with the Lord Elrond, he is not likely to survive to take one in the future.”  The King and Queen nodded their understanding.  “As for the Perian Frodo Baggins----”  The Eagle shook his head.  “No one can say as yet precisely how much time he might remain, here in the Mortal Lands.  But, although he has not yet actively begun to fade, it is not likely to be long before that day comes.  His body and spirit were much depleted by his ordeal.  But you already know this fully too well.”

       Both King and Queen nodded their understanding.

       Aragorn straightened to his full height, which before the Great Eagle seemed little enough.  “I ask that you bear our thanks to the Valar, and ask that Manwë offer it further to Iluvatar Himself,” he said.  “We can ask no more, and rejoice that you have agreed to do as you have done already.”

       “For such a petition, and one which we of the Aeries of the Misty Mountains also supported, it was no labor, son of Eärendil, Elros, and Elendil the Faithful,” Gwaihir responded.  “And your response is already known--I have no need to bear it anywhere.”

       The Eagle mantled and stretched out his neck.  He lifted his wings and again held them briefly over the heads of Lord and Lady, then launched himself up into the sky, singing in joy to the mountaintops as the word the Cormacolindor was granted the right to sail to the Undying Lands was announced to the mortal lands.

       When at last the King and Queen returned through the Rath Dínen to go back up to the Citadel of Minas Tirith, their two Guardsmen were eyeing one another sidelong.  Not since the day of their marriage had Lord and Lady appeared to shine so in joy.

64:  First Hints 

       Aster Sandheaver hugged her mother with her free arm as she entered the house.  “Where’s Da?”

       “In the kitchen, sitting at the table.”

       Aster gave a great, relieved sigh.  “At last--at last he’s free.”  She shook her head.  “I was so afraid that Lotho’s Big Men would kill  him or something.”

       Bucca Sandheaver came in carrying food from the farm, food they’d hidden from the gatherers and sharers.  Their sons Dorno and Cando were carrying even more food, bags of taters and carrots and turnips and a couple large squashes.  “We were able to put a good deal in the hidden cellars,” Bucca said as he went past them toward the kitchen.  “Lotho’s folks didn’t get anywhere near as much as they’d thought to.  Dianthus is bringing in the eggs.”

       Aster was carrying the large lidded basket in which the family usually brought their extra clothing.  “Which room do you want me to put these in?” she asked.

       “You and Bucca will stay in your old room, of course, while the children will stay in the rooms they usually sleep in.”

       “But what about when the deputy Mayor comes back?” Aster asked as she and her mother made their way back toward her old bedroom.  “Isn’t he staying in one of them?”

       Mina shook her head, her expression uncharacteristically solemn.  “No, dearling.”

       “But that only leaves--only leaves....”

       “Yes, he sleeps in Fenton’s old room when he stays over.”

       Aster stopped stock still just inside the kitchen and turned to her mother in shock.  “What?”

       “It’s not the same as it was, Aster.  Lotho’s folk went through it, through everything.  They tore the room apart looking for anything they could steal.”

       Aster’s face was white with shock.  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

       “How, Aster?  Lotho’s extra Shiriffs were taking all the letters and giving them to Lotho.  He or his Big Men--the ones what could read--were reading them all.  They were looking for any reason, any excuse, to go through folks’ places, to steal everything they could.  Called it fines and such, when they weren’t calling it gathering and sharing.”

       “Then they stole Fenton’s shirt studs, his silver shirt studs?”

       “And your da’s, too.  And my marriage bracelet.”

       Aster’s teeth clenched.  “If Lotho Sackville-Baggins is ever found alive, I’ll kill him myself.”

       “You’ll be standing in line,” advised her father, who sat with one leg up on a footstool.  “You can’t believe all we’ve heard in the last two weeks.”

       “That Sharkey said that Lotho’s dead, though,” Mina said.

       “What about him--Sharkey?”

       “He’s dead, too.  Tried to stab Frodo Baggins, but he was wearing his Uncle Bilbo’s Dwarf mail shirt what used to hang in the Mathom House, and it turned the blade and Frodo wasn’t hurt.  Frodo was still going to let him go, but he told them Lotho was dead and that he’d told his Worm creature to kill him.  The Worm creature was so angry he killed Sharkey himself, and some of those with bows shot him.”

       “So, they’re all dead?” asked Aster, stunned.

       Her mother nodded, her face sad.  “Frodo told Will about it, his face just blank with shock.  Sam Gamgee was there, too; said the same.  Then when he came, Peregrin Took had exactly the same story, as well as young Tom Cotton and any number of others what was there.”

       “Where’d they go, the four of them, and why?”

       Will shook his head.  “Said they had to get something dangerous out of the Shire, and that they were being chased by Big Men, but not Lotho’s Big Men--big riders all in black.  Took it all the way to Gondor, apparently.”

       Bucca looked out of the cool room where he’d been placing the meat he’d brought in.  “You mean as there really is a Gondor?”

       “Apparently,” Will said.  “I’ve certainly received enough dispatches from it.”

       “What kind of dispatches?”

       “From the King.”

       “What King?”

       Will seemed to take a special amazed pleasure in stating, “The King what’s come again.”

       Dianthus, who’d stopped just inside the kitchen door gave a squeak, while one of her brothers dropped his bag of taters.  All turned to look at Will, their mouths open.  Bucca got his voice back first.  “You sayin’ as there’s a King again?”

       Will nodded.  “That exactly what I’m telling you, Bucca.  And our four lads have all seen him.”

       “Frodo sat right there at the table and wrote a letter to him,” Mina added.

       “How do you know as it’s not a big prank?” Bucca asked.  “Them Brandybucks is well known for their pranks, as is Pippin Took.”

       “What he wrote in that letter didn’t sound like no prank to me,” Mina said decisively.  “No, what he wrote in that letter was to someone real, someone he knows well.”

       “He let you read it?”

       “No, I’ll admit I was reading over his shoulder.”

       “How’s he goin’ to send it?” Bucca demanded.

       “It’s already sent.  Brendilac Brandybuck got here just as he was ready to leave back to Bywater, and Frodo gave it to him to take to Bree to send off; only some of the King’s Men came to speak to the Master and they gave the letter to them to send off instead.”

       “After what Lotho’s Big Men did to the Shire, the Master’ll deal with Men what he doesn’t know?”

       “These are quite different Men from Lotho’s,” Mina said.  “Frodo’s told me a bit about them.  And all four of them love our King, and he’s a Man.”

       “How’s this Man our King?”

       “He’s King of Gondor and Arnor both, and we’re part of Arnor,” Mina explained.  “Frodo’s told me all about it.”

       Bucca and Aster looked at one another, then at the Mayor, who shrugged expressively.  “I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand it all,” the Mayor said, “but all of them say the same thing, that they went South with the one what’s King now, and saw him crowned and attended his wedding and were sent home by him.”

       Dianthus, who adored storybooks, was thrilled by this idea.  “You mean he was in love with a princess what lived in a great castle?”

       “I don’t know what kind of castle she might have lived in.  I don’t think Elves live in castles,” Mina said, shaking her head.

       “You mean the Queen’s an Elf?” Dianthus exclaimed.  “Like I saw in the Woody End?”  No one had ever been able to convince her that she hadn’t really seen an Elf in the Woody End two years previously.

       Mina looked sideways at Will.  “Yes, dearling,” she said.  “And I now think you might indeed have seen an Elf, for Frodo says they do indeed have a woods hall in the Woody End, and that he and Samwise Gamgee and Pippin Took all stayed in it one night, just after they left Hobbiton.  And both Sam and Pippin say the same.”

       Will looked at her and shook his head.  “I used to not believe in Elves,” he said, “but I’m not so certain now.”  He looked at the floor where the potatoes had spilled out of Cando’s bag.  “You’d best get all those picked up before I have to try to do any walking,” he advised his grandson.  “I don’t want to slip on them and maybe hurt the other leg, too.”

       When Frodo returned the next night the Sandheavers were all gathered with Will and Mina in the parlor, Will sitting sideways on the sofa so his leg was up, the boys and Dianthus gathered in front of the fireplace roasting chestnuts, and Mina and Aster sewing while Bucca was describing one of the raids on the farm by Lotho’s folks.  All paused as they heard the door open and close, and turned toward the hallway.  Frodo looked in, then drew back slightly.  He had his saddlebags over his shoulder.  “Oh, hello,” he said rather tentatively.  “Will and Mina had told me you might be here when I got back.  Hello, Aster, Bucca, children.”  He looked at Will.  “You are looking decidedly better,” he said.  “I’ll just take my things back to my room.”

       “Then you come back out here again,” Will said, “for everyone wants to hear about your travels.”

       Aster thought Frodo looked slightly alarmed at this, but he controlled his expression and gave a small shrug.  “If you insist, Will.”

       Dianthus stood up and hurried to his side.  “I’ll help you, Mr. Frodo,” she said.

       He looked at her for an instant, and his face softened.  “If you’d like,”  he said.  “Your name is Dianthus, isn’t it?”

       With Dianthus chattering away and Frodo listening politely, the two of them disappeared toward the bedrooms.  “I have a speckled hen now what’s all my own,” she told him, “and I get the pennies from when her eggs sell.”

       “She’ll be happy enough just to have someone new to tell about her hen,” her mother said.

       Will smiled indulgently.

       It was about a quarter hour later that they heard Dianthus’s voice grow clearer as she and Frodo returned to the parlor.  “What’s your pony’s name?”

       “I call him Strider, after the King.”

       “Why is the King’s name Strider?” she asked.

       He laughed softly.  “Let me tell everyone at once,” he said.  “It’s quite the story.”

       Frodo was drawn into the parlor and pressed to sit down in a chair near the fire.  He wore a leather water bottle slung over his shoulder.  Bucca looked at that with interest.  “You get thirsty a lot, Frodo Baggins?” he asked.

       Frodo’s cheeks grew slightly pinker as the rest of his face appeared to go a bit paler.  “Actually, I do,” he said quietly.  “Sam and I had to go through a desert land, and since then I like to keep something with me to drink at all times.  But, also, this is an herbal tea that the King taught Sam how to prepare.”  Why he would need an herbal tea, however, he didn’t say.

       Dianthus sat at his feet.  “Then will you tell us why the King’s name is Strider?”

       Frodo smiled.  “Well, it isn’t really his name, except it is part of his throne name now, translated to Elvish.” 

       All listened with interest as Frodo explained about arriving in Bree and seeing the tall, sinister Man sitting in the corner watching them, how Butterbur had explained they called him Strider because of how fast he walked, how he’d offered to guide them to Rivendell, and how there they’d learned he was actually named Aragorn son of Arathorn and was the Heir of Isildur and Elendil and Arvedui Last-King.

       There was a knock at the door, and at his grandmother’s nod Dorno went to open it, admitting Peregrin Took and his cousin Hildigard.  Together they came into the parlor.  “Hello, all,” Pippin said.  “Berilac Brandybuck brought some of Frodo’s extra clothes from the Crickhollow house to the Great Smial, and we offered to bring them over here tonight.”

       Pippin had on his mail under a green surcoat from Gondor.  “You’re not wearing your livery tonight?” Frodo asked.

       “I’m not on Strider’s business,” Pippin said shrugging, “so didn’t see the need to do so.  Almost ripped my tabard last week chasing after ruffians through Binbole Wood.”

       “You mean the King’s business?” asked Dianthus, impressed.

       “Yes, I mean our Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar’s business,” Pippin said.  “Except it’s a lot shorter to call him Strider as he was first introduced to us in Bree.”  Cando and Dorno looked at one another with mutually raised brows.  Apparently Frodo’s tale wasn’t just a made up story.

       Dianthus looked up at Pippin, her head tilted to one side as she considered him.  “When I saw you at the Free Fair last time you were there and we were there,” she said, “Mr. Hildibrand was taller than you.  How come you’re bigger’n him now?”

       Pippin laughed.  “Merry and I didn’t know that Hobbits should be careful with Ent draughts,” he said.  “When Treebeard offered us one and told us it would keep us green and growing for quite some time, we didn’t realize it would do exactly that.  Oh, but it didn’t turn us green, but it did make us grow.  It felt strange to have to wear my trousers when they now reached just below my knees and my sleeves were a bit tight and the cuff’s didn’t reach the wrists any more.  After I got to Minas Tirith, my friend Beregond’s son Bergil gave me one of his shirts he’d outgrown so I could have a shirt that fit when I was off duty, but I still ended up taking my old shirt from the Shire to the battle before the Black Gate, although at the time I couldn’t say exactly why.  I gave that to Frodo, though, since I couldn’t wear it any more.”

       “Not that I could really wear it, either,” Frodo said, “for until your visit with Treebeard I was taller than you were, and had longer arms.”

       “Well, then it was a good thing Aragorn had new clothes made for you, wasn’t it?”  Pippin smiled at Frodo.

       “And what about the clothes I had made for me?” Frodo asked.

       Pippin shrugged.

       “Is the Queen really an Elf?” asked Dianthus.

       Frodo’s smile relaxed more.  “Yes, the Lady Queen Arwen Undomiel is an Elf.  Actually, she’s a Peredhel, one of the Half-Elven, for her father Elrond is the son of Eärendil the Mariner and the Lady Elwing, and is descended from Beren One-Hand and the Elven princess Lúthien Tinúviel as well as Tuor and the Lady Idril, who was also an Elven princess.”

       Pippin was smiling and nodding.  “She and her grandmother the Lady Galadriel are two of the most beautiful of all women of any race in all of the world.  Only the Lady Galadriel’s hair is a beautiful gold with a hint of silver to it, while that of the Lady Arwen is so dark a brown it’s almost black.”

       “Did she grow up in a castle?” the lass asked.

       Frodo shook his head.  “She grew up mostly in the Last Homely House in the vale of Imladris, that we call Rivendell.  It’s not a castle, although it’s well protected.”

       “Does her grandmother live in a castle?”

       “No,” Frodo assured her, “she doesn’t live in a castle, either.  She lives in a beautiful hall that is partially woven from the living branches of mallorn trees in the land of Lothlorien.  It, too, is in a protected land--or, rather, it was a protected land.”  His face had gone solemn.  “Actually, neither Lothlorien nor Rivendell is as protected as it used to be.”

       “Why not?”

       Frodo looked down at his hands which were folded in his lap, and finally shrugged.  His expression was suddehly closed.  Pippin looked at him and sighed.  The young Took looked at Dianthus.  “A good deal of the magic of this world is going out of it due to the last war,” he explained gently.  “Because of it, the Elves can’t protect their lands as well as they used to be able to do, and during the coming generation most of them will leave Middle Earth.”

       “Where will they go?”

       “To the Undying Lands,” Pippin said, “where they can live in peace and not have to lose all they’ve done as they’ve had to do here.”

       “How come they’ve lost what they’ve done here?” asked the lass.

       “As I said--a lot of the magic in Middle Earth was lost due to the war.”

       Cando asked, “What was the war about?”

       Pippin again looked at Frodo, and Aster could see pity in his expression.  He looked deliberately away from his cousin and right into Cando’s own eyes.  “It was about what wars are usually about--one person wants to be boss of all and take everything everyone else has for himself.  So he builds an army to go beat everyone else so he can tell everyone else what to do--those who have lived through the fighting, at least.  So, everybody else has to build an army to stop him.”

       “Did you build an army?”

       “No, not until I came back home I didn’t; and then it was Merry and I both who built it.  But we both fought in armies while we were away.”

       “Why?”

       “To stop those who wanted to take everything from the rest of us.”

       Dorno asked, “Did you all four fight?”

       Frodo turned his head away, and again Aster saw the pity in Pippin’s face as he cast a quick glance at his cousin.  “Yes,” he said as he turned his attention to Dorno, “we all four fought against the Enemy as we could.  Merry and I fought with swords, and Frodo and Sam fought with their wills.”

       “How do you fight with your will?” Bucca asked.

       “I won’t try to describe how it was done,” Pippin said, “but believe me, they did it, and did it well.”

       Frodo turned back to Pippin, an unspoken challenge in his eyes; but the Took wouldn’t turn his face away, looked back at him with an expression that appeared to be full of both compassion and defiance.  Finally Pippin said, “Your will kept you going until you couldn’t any more, and that was enough, Frodo.  That was all that was needed.  And you won, and you know it.”

       Frodo suddenly rose and shrugged and left the room deliberately, going back to the room he slept in.

       Hildigard appeared as mystified as Will, Mina, and the Sandheavers.  Pippin took a deep breath and held it, then let it out noisily as he watched after the way his cousin had gone.

       “What’s got into him?” Hillie asked.

       Without looking at Hildigard, Pippin shook his head.  “He still thinks he failed,” he said quietly.  “He made it to the worst battle of all of us, and finally his enemy took him--but while It was focused on Frodo someone else came and took over, and Frodo was saved.  But he can’t see that if he hadn’t made it that far all of us would have lost, even if we won our own battles.”

       Frodo could hear Pippin’s last statement as he entered the room that had once been Fenton Whitfoot’s and closed the door.

       He is right, Iorhael.  Had you not made it that far so that It was in the Chamber of Fire, right over the river of Fire, then all would have been lost.

       If I’d leapt in, then I would have won.

       As you’ve been told before, then three would have died rather than just one, two of them to no purpose.

       If only I could have saved Sméagol....

       In saving your Light, he found a part of his own again, Iorhael.

       He wasn’t trying to save me!

       No, he certainly didn’t mean to do so.  Yet, in the end he did just that.  Even his ill will worked to the purposes of Iluvatar in the end, and so he was saved.

       But he died!

       You do not need to live to be saved, Iorhael.  You knew that when you purposed to cast yourself with It into the fire to see It destroyed.

       Frodo sat down on the bed, buried his face in his hands.  He sat that way for quite some time before there was a knock at the door.  The door opened and Pippin came in, carrying the bundle Hillie had carried into the house.  Frodo looked up at him, his expression distraught.

       “You didn’t let us give you your clothes first, Frodo.”

       Frodo shrugged.  “Set them on the desk, then.  I’ll put them away later.”

       “They don’t understand, Frodo.”

       “And you couldn’t tell them any more than I could.”

       “No, not all of it--just enough to begin to explain.  So far that’s about all I can really do--tell just enough to begin to explain.  We tried to tell Mum and Da and Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme when we were at Brandy Hall, but it was hard.  Not that Mum and Da were making it easy, mind you.  Da was refusing to believe, and Mum was trying to pretend I wasn’t saying I was in as much danger as anyone else.”

       Frodo nodded.

       Pippin placed the bundle on the desk, then sat down by Frodo.  After several moments of silence he finally said, “You knew what had to be done, Frodo, but It took you and you couldn’t.  So, Gollum took It from you, and he died instead, and both you and Sam lived.  All three of you had to do it together, Frodo--all three of you together.  Not one of you could have done it alone.  Had you managed to throw yourself in there, all three of you would have died, for Sam would never have tried to have saved himself if he knew you were dead, and Gollum would have died with It.  You saw Bilbo when we got back to Rivendell again, how he now really looked like he was a hundred twenty-nine.  Think about Gollum--even if he’d been a hundred miles away, he’d still have died when It went into the Fire, for it was over five hundred years since he first got It.

       “I don’t think the Creator wanted all three of you to die, Frodo--not then.  Not due to It.”

       Mina, who was listening from the hallway, tried to make sense of what Pippin was saying.

65

       The dreams hit that night, as Frodo had dreaded might happen, considering the discussion with Pippin and the thoughts he’d entertained.  He woke sometime after midnight and couldn’t sleep again.  At last he checked to see all others were asleep, then went to the bathing room, lit the boiler, finally filled the tub with steaming water, stripped himself, and eased himself into it.  After a time he dozed, then fell fully asleep.

       Mina woke also, felt restless, rose, and as she’d done when Fenton and Aster had been children, peeked into bedrooms to make certain all were well.  Dianthus slept in the small bed in the room which used to be the nursery when Fenton and Aster were bairns.  Dorno and Cando lay on opposite sides of the bigger bed in the guest room.  Aster and Bucca lay snuggled against one another in the room in which Aster had grown up.  Then she peeked into Fenton’s room to see the bed empty, the blankets and sheets all rumpled, and no one in the room at all.  She checked the privy, but it was empty.  However, a light shone around the door to the bathing room.

       She ought not to have looked in, with a gentlehobbit not from the immediate family probably trying to ease himself in a hot bath of the tightness that he must be feeling; but she did so anyway.

       A couple of candles had been lit, and a couple of clean towels lay on the stool by the tub; an exceptionally fine nightshirt hung from one peg alongside a well-worn dressing gown, striped with blues and greens.

       She could tell that Frodo had fallen asleep in the tub from the angle of his head, could hear his gentle breathing.  The tub was too short for him to be in any danger of slipping under the water, so she started to close the door when a flickering of a candle flame sparked a reflection from a chain he wore about his neck.  Then she saw something else, a red line of a scar near where the chain lay.  She quietly entered the room and looked closer--yes, there was a scar about his neck as if that chain had been dragged so hard into his skin it had cut him; and there were other scars as well, there on his back.  She’d never seen such scars in her life, and she stood, transfixed by the sight of them.

       Finally she realized she was trembling, and that this was anything but seemly behavior.  Quietly she withdrew and closed the door, leaving Frodo with no idea his scars had been seen.

       Will roused and turned as she got herself back into bed.  “You there, Mina?” he asked sleepily.

       “Yes,” she whispered, and she rolled into his arms and held him tight.  He was startled, and held her in return, shocked at how she trembled.

       “What’s wrong?” he asked.

       “Don’t ask, Will.  I’m not certain what it is.”

       Not sure how to take that statement, Will continued to hold his wife until at last she stopped trembling, relaxed, and finally fell asleep in his arms.  Not long after that he heard another door nearby close softly, and was certain it must have been the door to Fenton’s old room.

       In the morning Aster and Bucca got up early and fixed first breakfast, then knocked at the doors to tell all to rise and come to the table so that the food would still be hot when they got there.

       Frodo came out fully clothed, his eyes shadowed.  He sat in the corner seat at the back of the table which he’d taken for every meal, but he didn’t eat all that much.  He was quiet throughout the meal, then said he needed to go to work and politely took his leave, the leather water bottle over his shoulder.

       Aster took over a meal an hour later, and Frodo thanked her as he looked up from the will he was reviewing with Tollie Took; when she went back after another hour to fetch the dishes home again she found that once again he’d eaten hardly anything other than the roll and the fruit.

       He didn’t come home for elevenses, so Mina took him sliced roast lamb and cheese between the halves of a bread roll; not even a quarter of it was eaten when Aster again went to fetch the plate.

       He came home for luncheon, then went into his room to lie down, for he indicated he had a headache.  After about an hour Aster was going by the room when she heard a voice within, as if Frodo were having a quiet conversation with someone.  She cracked open the door, and saw he was alone, apparently asleep, lying in the bed, his arm over his eyes.  She realized he was talking in his sleep.

       “No!” he murmured.  “No, you shan’t have him.  I won’t let you.  Leave him alone!  Leave him alone with your filthy lies and suggestions.  You shan’t cozen him as you have me, you filthy thing!”

       Then his mumbling became muddled and incomprehensible.  He shifted his position in his sleep and went quiet.  Almost she closed the door, and then he suddenly whispered, “Sam, don’t tell Aragorn.  I don’t want him bothered by it.  No more draughts--I don’t want them.”  Again he went quiet.  Then, after a long silence he sighed, “The White Tree,” as if that were the answer to a question.  She closed the door at that, embarrassed to have been spying on her parents’ guest.

       A half hour later he awoke and came out, fastening his shirt studs.  Aster looked at him.  “Do you feel better, Mr. Frodo?” she asked.

       He shrugged.  “Some better,” he said.

       Dianthus looked up at him.  “We’re making tarts.  Would you like one?”

       “I don’t know if I could eat it, Dianthus.”  Then, as if it were being dragged out of him against his better judgment, he asked, “What kind of tarts?”

       “Brambleberry ones.  We had lots of them on the edges of our farm last year, and not even Lotho’s Big Men could take them all.”

       He smiled a twisted smile.  “I’m glad they couldn’t take them all.”  The smile faded.  “I’m so sorry I was convinced to sell him Bag End,” he said.  “It’s like that he saw as permission  to try to make himself King of the Shire--but his idea of what a King would be like was so horrible.”  He sighed.  “At least Aragorn shows what a real King should be like.”

       “What does he look like?  Does he look like Lotho’s Big Men?”

       “Well, not at all like any of them I saw.  He’s much taller, for one thing, tall and slender, with dark hair and grey eyes, clear and thoughtful and perceptive.”  He sat at the table, and Dianthus brought over a cooled tart on a small saucer and set it before him.  As he continued to speak he’d pick it up from time to time and nibble at it.  “He can look pretty rough, or he can look quite noble.  His cheekbones are high.  He is well muscled and finely balanced on his feet.  His hands can wield a sword, offer healing for those wounded in body and spirit, soothe a frightened or nervous horse, caress the hand of his lady wife, admonish he who has done evil, or uplift those in need of his support with equal ease. 

       “The first time I saw him I had no idea who he was, but knew he was more than but a vagabond from the wilderness.  He wore at his hip that time the old sheath for Narsil, the sword of Elendil his ancestor that had been broken when its lord fell in death at the hands of Sauron, so long ago.  Only one had wielded it after Elendil’s death, when Isildur took up the hilt with the remainder of its broken blade and used it to cut from the hand of Sauron his Ring of Power.”  Frodo’s face had gone from warm to stern.  “He was close by Orodruin, and should have destroyed the Ring then, but----”  His voice began to falter.  “He should have destroyed It then, but could not, there, there where Its power was greatest.  It overwhelmed him, and claimed him, and he claimed It and bore It away.  At least he did not put It on his own hand there--or perhaps because Sauron had fallen and was still too confused for the Ring to respond to, It could not think to force him to do so.”  For a moment he looked thoughtful.

       Finally he continued.  The lads had come in and were standing on either side of the door, afraid to interrupt him lest he stop telling his tale, and Aster had to admit his ability to tell a tale was as great as when she would crowd to listen to him at the Free Fair or when he’d speak in the Common during his visits here to Michel Delving.  “He wore the sheath of Narsil when we met him, and spilled it out for us to see.  I’d heard the tale of how the Sword had broken--Bilbo used to read it to me at least two or three times a year while I was growing up and after he adopted me.  I never knew why he seemed to favor that story so.  That I would meet Narsil’s bearer I never dreamed.

       “When he spilled it out it did not seem to shine as in the ancient tales, yet I found myself responding to it.  Apparently Bilbo had assured him I knew the story of Narsil, and he thought seeing it would tell me who and what he was.”

       Dorno couldn’t keep from asking, “But how would Bilbo Baggins be able to tell him about you?”

       Frodo smiled.  “When my Uncle Bilbo left the Shire he first went to Rivendell, as he had when he left the Shire the first time with Thorin and his twelve companions.  Then he and the Dwarves who accompanied him went over the Misty Mountains to Erebor, the Dwarves’ kingdom under the Lonely Mountain, where he’d gone before when they went to try to get their treasure back from the dragon Smaug.  That time Bilbo had tricked Smaug into getting so angry he went out and flew over Laketown, and Bard the Bowman drew his bow and sighted on the one spot on Smaug’s chest that was vulnerable, where one of the gemmed things he’d attached to it as armor had fallen off and was thus bare.  Bard hit that spot, and Smaug fell into the lake and died, and the lands around the Lonely Mountain were freed from the terror of his fire.  Now Bilbo went back and saw many of those he remembered from his first journey from the Shire, and he saw how in sixty-one years the lands around the Lake and the Mountain had changed, how the trees had grown, how much happier all were, how Erebor had once again become a place of wealth, prestige, and skill.

       “But when he decided the time was come to come away, he went back over the Misty Mountains to Rivendell, and the Lord Elrond invited him to stay there in the hidden Vale of Imladris, in the Last Homely House.  And there he stayed.

       “The Lord Elrond when he was born had a twin brother, the Lord Elros.  As I said last night, both were the Peredhil, the Half-Elven, sons of Eärendil and Elwing, both of whom were themselves Half-Elven.  During the War of Wrath Eärendil sailed from Middle Earth to find Valinor, to beg the Valar to come aid in the fight against Morgoth, taking with him the remaining Silmaril wrested from Morgoth’s crown, which had been given by his grandfather Beren to his great grandfather Thingol as bride-price for his daughter Lúthien Tinúviel, the first of the great ladies from among the Elves to marry a mortal Man, and who accepted mortality as the price of taking as husband the one she had come to love.  Eärendil was not permitted to return to Middle Earth to his sons or to his people, and instead the Valar set his ship to sail the Seas of Night with him to steer it, the Silmaril bound to his brow, as the evening and morning star, the sign ever now of hope for those of us who live in the Mortal lands.

       “Elrond and Elros were but children when their father sailed his ship Vigilot away from Middle Earth, and their mother, who could change her shape and become a great sea bird, flew after him to bring him the Silmaril to aid him in his quest.  To them was granted the great choice--to either live as one of the Elven kind such as their foremothers Lúthien and Idril had been born, or to live as mortals as were Beren and Tuor.  If they chose mortality, they chose it for their descendants to the ending of the world.  If they chose to live as Elves, the same choice was given to their children, save once the father chose to leave Middle Earth his children must choose then, or remain in Middle Earth to die a mortal’s death, to know the Gift of Iluvatar.

       “Elrond chose to live as an Elven lord; Elros chose to live as a mortal, and he was made the first King of Númenor.  Our Lord King Aragorn is his descendant.  Since the Star Isle sank beneath the Sundering Sea and Elendil and his followers returned to Middle Earth, Elrond had cared for those of his brother’s descendants who dwelt in the Northern lands, especially those who have been the heirs of Elendil and Isildur.  He has fostered each for a time in Rivendell, and has always cherished them.

       “Aragorn is the latest of these, and the Lord Glorfindel tells me he very much favors the father of Elrond and Elros, and that he also very much favors Elros, who was much like unto his father.”

       “But how would someone now know what Eärendil looked like?”

       “The Lord Glorfindel is one of the greatest of all Elves, and he was there when Eärendil sailed for Valinor, and saw Elros as a Man.  And, of course, the Lord Elrond remembers his own brother well.

       “Aragorn’s father Arathorn died when he was little more than a babe in arms.  Sauron sought him, for it was foretold that this child was the one of the descendants of Elros and Elendil who would, if possible, see Sauron’s end; and he sought to destroy him that the prophecy should not come true.  A pestilence went among the Northern lands and the small child Aragorn became ill with it and almost died, and his mother and her brother and Elrond told all he had indeed died, and then brought him early to Rivendell for his fostering.  He lived there eighteen years as if Elrond were his father, until he came of age as is done with Men, who mature more rapidly than do we Hobbits.  At that time he was at last told his true name and lineage, and learned the name of his father, and was given the care for the Shards of Narsil.

       “I don’t know if Bilbo saw Aragorn when Aragorn was a child, the first time he went to Rivendell, for neither told me and I never thought to ask.  But I know that after Bilbo returned there they became friends, for both have told me of that; and so Aragorn, when he met us in Bree, knew a great deal about us we had no idea he could have known, and particularly about me.  I understand that Bilbo used to boast about me to Aragorn, and to everyone in Rivendell; but after all, he’d adopted me and helped raise me, had loved me since the day I was born.  I suppose that’s only to be expected.”

       “So, the King knew who you were, but you didn’t know who he was.”

       “Yes, that’s right.  And even if Bilbo did meet him when Aragorn was a child, he wouldn’t have been allowed to tell me, for I’m certain all who knew of him were sworn to secrecy save within the Vale of Imladris itself.”

       “How old is the King?”

       “He’s eighty-eight years old.  The Dúnedain, being descended from Elros Tar-Minyatar, live longer than common Men.  He will most likely live to be about two hundred years old.  He was around ten when Bilbo went to Rivendell the first time.”

       He straightened some and gave a small stretch.  “So, he showed us the Sword that had been broken, but I couldn’t quite believe it was the one Bilbo read to me about so many times.  Then he recited part of a poem I later learned Bilbo wrote for him:

       All that is gold does not glitter;
       Not all who wander are lost.
       The old that is strong does not wither.
       Deep roots are not touched by the frost.
       From the ashes a fire shall be woken;
       A light from the shadows shall spring.
       Renewed shall be blade that was broken.
       The crownless again shall be King.

       “Then Barliman Butterbur gave us the letter Gandalf had written me, and the same poem was quoted there, too.  I began to believe, but still held off truly believing until we got to Rivendell and at the Council Elrond told us openly.  Then and then only did I truly understand.  I was being terribly foolish.”  He smiled.

       “You like the King?” asked Dianthus.

       “Oh, yes, I love him very much.  It’s almost like he were my older brother, and Sam was our younger one--except sometimes Sam acts older than both of us.”

       “I wish I could see what the King looks like.”

       “You really wish to see?” Frodo asked.

       “Yes.”

       “Just a moment.”  Frodo disappeared back toward the bedrooms and came back out with half a sheet of paper torn from the end of a report and a drawing stick.  He sat down, took up the drawing stick, and began drawing.

       The children crowded around him and watched as Frodo brought Aragorn son of Arathorn to life on the paper:  the clear, direct gaze; the broad brow; the dark, shoulder length hair; the rounded ears barely seen; the short, full beard; the well-shaped, strong hand as apt to healing as to warfare.

       “None of Lotho’s Big Men looked like him,” Cando said with authority.

       “I know.  None of the ones I saw were remotely like him, although some were distinctly orc-like.  The rest of the Northern Dúnedain look much like him, though, as do many we saw in Gondor as well.  Not all have as dark of hair as he does, though.  And the folk of Rohan for the most part all have golden hair.”

       Frodo sighed.  “Well, I’d best get back to the Mayor’s office or they will think I don’t like them any more.”  He went to take the rest of the paper and the drawing stick back to his room, leaving the picture on the table.

       When he came back Dianthus asked, “What will you do with the picture?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “In Edoras in the market there I found a leather folder a picture can lie in.  I think this picture will fit in the folder, and if it does I’ll keep it in my pocket to remember him by.”  He went to the cool room where he kept his extra water bottles and brought one out with him, went to get his Elven cloak and looked into the parlor to say goodbye to Will and Bucca, then let himself out to return to the Mayor’s office.

       Bucca helped Will into the kitchen where all sat down together to share the berry tarts.  Then Will announced his knee was aching and he wanted to lie down for a time and sleep and see if it felt better when he rose again, and Bucca was implored by Dianthus to take her to the Mayor’s office so she could take Mr. Frodo a few more of her tarts.

       “All right, lass, we’ll do that, and then we’ll be over to the shops to see if I can find some good leather reins for the pony and some fabric for your mum to make her a new dress.”

       Soon he and the children were gone, and only Aster and Mina were left.  Frodo’s drawing  of the King now stood on the shelf, leaning against the wall, where they could all see it.  Aster found her eyes drawn back to it once more.  “It’s a wonder to me how Frodo Baggins can draw such a thing,” she said.  “I expect him to speak to us, and I can almost hear it.  I bet his voice is rich and full.”

       Mina nodded.  “He was always drawing when he was a little one, he was.  Primula had their smial all full of his drawings.  And he’s just got better as he’s grown.  I wonder if he had to work to get it back after he lost his finger.”

       Aster stopped, for she’d not noticed any finger missing.  “He lost a finger?  How’d he do that?”

       “I don’t know, for he won’t say.  Doesn’t like for folks to notice, and will hide it if he catches you staring, it and the scars on his wrist.”

       “Scars on his wrist?”

       Her mother nodded.  “I don’t know what happened to him, for none of them will speak of the bad times.  But he for certain was very bad hurt.  He can barely eat at times, I’m learning.  At first I thought as it was my cooking, but it’s not that at all.  He’ll eat some and he’ll be obviously so glad of it and the taste, but then he can’t eat any more and he’ll stop and look frustrated.  And in the letter he wrote to the King he mentioned some kind of cake with fruit and rich cream he loved but couldn’t eat much of that the woman who was housekeeper for the place where they stayed would make.”

       “I certainly don’t remember him like this, Mum--one moment lighthearted and the next closed up inside himself.”

       Mina nodded.  “I know.  The others are all protective of him, too.  Sam always sends this special tea for him, and Merry says it helps him.  And sometimes he’ll just start rubbing at his shoulder like it’s aching something fierce, then hold onto that gem he wears, and eventually he’ll start looking better.”  She sat and looked at her lap.  Still looking away from her daughter, she said quietly, “Last night he apparently woke in the night, still upset or something, so he went in to take a bath.  I woke up and looked in on all of you----”

       “As you always have,” Aster said, smiling.  “And as I do, too, when I’m home.”

       Mina nodded.  “I found him in the tub, and he’d fallen asleep.  He has terrible scars on his back.”

       “You saw?”  Aster was scandalized.

       Mina nodded.  “I should have just left him, but--the candle flickered and I saw it.  I don’t know what happened to him, or to any of them, but he definitely was very, very bad hurt.”

       After a few minutes Aster said, “I’d like to know.”

       Mina sighed.  “I’m not sure,” she said slowly, “I could bear it proper if I knew it all.”

       The two of them looked at the saucer on which Dianthus had presented her berry tart.  “Well,” Aster commented, “at least he could eat all that.  Took him a time, it did, but he ate it.”

66

       Frodo looked up at the three Hobbits who faced him and the two Shiriffs who stood behind them.  “So, although your names are on these contracts as the ones preparing them, you neither did so nor copied them?” he asked.

       “I made two copies of this one, one of which was filed here,” the Grubbs lawyer said, “but this is the original, the one I was told I must keep for my own records.”  He handed over a bound copy of a loan document.  Frodo took and opened it, to find what was fast becoming an easily recognizable script.

       “Why did you do this?” Frodo asked, although he had an excellent idea as to why.

       “My son was one of those taken with Fatty Bolger.  I was told if I didn’t, he’d not be fed and would be allowed to starve to death.”

       “Why didn’t you come forward as soon as Groman was sent home to you?”

       “The one who wrote this is still free, Frodo, and I was afraid he’d come after my family.”

       “I assure you--he’s on the run at the moment but ought to be taken prisoner within three days--quicker if I know my Merry.  Merry is very angry at what’s been done to Brandybucks and Brandybuck lands and property, not to mention what happened in the Marish and elsewhere throughout the Shire; he’s intent on taking Timono Bracegirdle.”  Frodo changed his attention to the second lawyer.

       “I was told if I didn’t present that, my daughter’s farm would be fired.  Her husband was injured by the gatherers and sharers--no way would she of been able to get him out of there had the house caught.  You know how heavy Londo is, Mr. Baggins--even with the help of the hands, they’d of never been able to move him to safety.  And when I started to come to you last week one of the barns was set on fire.”

       Frodo looked at the two Shiriffs, one of whom nodded support.  “I helped put it out, Mr. Deputy Mayor, sir,” he said.  “’Twas started with a torch, and not of wood from our neck o’ the woods.”

       The third was Marco Smallburrow.  His expression was more guarded than were those of the other two.  “There were threats against my mother’s place,” he said.  “You know how she’s been all alone since my dad died three years past--who’s going to look out for her?”

       Frodo merely looked thoughtfully at the Smallburrow lawyer.  Marco’s devotion to his mother was well known, as was his mother’s imperious treatment of her children and her long history of insisting that since she gave them birth they should always think of her comfort before their own.  Marco’s sister Sissia had resented the constant demands on her by her mother, and had indicated in an extraordinarily public manner two years past at the Free Fair that she wasn’t putting up with it any more.  Reports were that she’d been set upon and badly beaten by ruffians five months past as she was returning from market with some much needed milk, and that her home had been heavily targeted by the gatherers and sharers over the entire period of the Troubles.

       Frodo made a decision.  “I’d like to ask Bob Smallburrow to come as soon as he can,” he said, addressing the second Shiriff, who was Robin Smallburrow.  Bobwhite Smallburrow was family head for the Smallburrows, and Frodo had the distinct impression Bob would cooperate in searching Alyssum Smallburrow’s (Alyssum Bracegirdle that was) place for items known to have been taken from other victims.  Marco had always been more his mother’s son than his father’s child, he knew.  While they were at it, they’d go through Marco’s own place, a house in Pincup which had formerly belonged to an Overhill family who’d lost it as the result of Lotho’s troublesome business dealings.  Looking at Marco’s suddenly sweating face in light of the examination he was being given, Frodo decided to have the house Marco and his wife had moved out of as well as his brother-in-law’s dry goods shop also searched.  That last was in Buckland near the Bridge Inn, and from his teen years he knew it well; Fred Oldbuck had been part of the gang when Frodo was a teen, and the shop then had belonged to his grandfather.  Many of the gang’s ill-gotten gains had been hidden there in the bolt-holes and hidden cellar.  He had a good idea where Marco might have convinced Fred to hide goods he’d not wish others to see.  “And I’ll speak to the Master as well.”

       At the increased paleness of Marco’s face Frodo knew he’d hit the mark full in the gold, and suddenly he felt cold and tired.  It had been one thing when he was a teen, stealing from the farms in the Marish.  He and his gang had never intended to hurt anyone, although he knew now they had.  For him as the Master’s nephew it had been more a mental exercise in planning and execution and getting inside the heads of those they targeted rather than for any desire for extra food, something which would never have been denied him, particularly in light of his rather extreme (for Hobbits) slenderness as a teen--except for his raids on Maggot’s mushrooms. Even now he loved mushrooms, although in considerable moderation nowadays.

       But the greed practiced by Lotho and Timono and the others, including Marco here, was beyond what Hobbits traditionally knew, a greed for goods and the fearful deference of others, a deference they tended to call respect.  Marco Smallburrow, he thought tiredly, wouldn’t know true respectability if it struck him on his backside.

       Frodo sighed.  He looked up as Hildibrand Took entered.  “Hillie, how are Longsmial and Branch coming at the modifications for the Lockholes?”

       “They’re almost done with the second one,” Hillie told him.  “The stone lining is just finished, and they’re putting in the inner walls.  Ventilation ducts were completed yesterday.  They don’t believe a fireplace will be necessary in this one, either.”

       “Good,” Frodo said.  “Mr. Smallburrow here is going to be the first guest of the facility.  Robin, Tim, will you two please escort him over to them?  Pinto Longsmial has agreed to serve as warden, and told me last night he’d be there today.”

       Frodo had, after the experience with the Umbari, spent several sessions with Aragorn, Prince Imrahil, and Prince Faramir discussing prisons and the need for such facilities.  It had taken a fair amount of explanation, but the three Men had successfully convinced Frodo why Men consistently needed to have such things; and in light of what had been done to his people by others of their own, Frodo had decided that the Shire truly did require a Lockhole, although he was determined it would be a distinctly Hobbity one.

       As the two Shiriffs were escorting a now shivering Smallburrow out, Frodo turned to the others.  “We’ll be having official hearings involving family heads, the Master, and the Thain, to look further into this pattern.  You will be asked to testify.  Now, if you will go with Hilly here, he’ll take our first official statements from you regarding what you were required to do and the pressure put on you.  And thank you for being honest today.”

       Algenon Grubbs paused in his turning away.  “You’re going to lock up Marco Smallburrow, then?  Why?”

       Frodo looked at him steadily.  “Are either of you actually better off now than you were before the Time of Troubles?” he asked.

       The two lawyers exchanged glances.  Finally Algenon answered, “No, certainly didn’t do either of us any good to speak of.”

       Frodo gave a shrug as if the gesture was itself an explanation.  “The same certainly isn’t true for Marco, is it?”

       The two raised their brows, and it was obvious neither had thought it odd that Marco Smallburrow and his mother were considerably better off now than they’d been before Frodo left the Shire.

       The other lawyer looked thoughtful.  “Hmm.  Never even considered that there was money to be made by the likes of me when Timono Bracegirdle sent for me to come talk with Lotho.”

       “I’m glad you didn’t, or you might be joining Marco, you know.”

       “No, thank you--have no mind to better myself at the expense of others,” the lawyer commented, and Frodo nodded his agreement.

       After the two had gone over to a corner Hildibrand had made his own as he took down the descriptions given him of the atrocities which had been done in the name of the Chief, Isumbard stood up from the table where he’d been going over still more loan documents and came to join Frodo at the Mayor’s desk.  Frodo was now leaning back, rubbing at his shoulder, the worry line between his brows deeper today than it has been even yesterday.  “I don’t like the thought of the Shire having a prison, Frodo Baggins,” he said.

       “Nor do I; but what else are we to do with those who purposely made the Time of Troubles even worse for our folk, Bard?”  Frodo shifted his hand from his left shoulder to the gem he wore on the chain about his neck and closed his eyes.  After a few moments his posture relaxed somewhat, his breathing deepened and seemed easier, and at last he sat up straight and looked at Bard again.

       “I doubt the folks of the Shire will like shouldering the expense of having the lockholes fixed up,” Bard continued.

       “I’m shouldering that expense,” Frodo sighed.

       Bard eyed his cousin.  “I thought you were out of money, and that was why you were selling Bag End?”

       Frodo shook his head, pursing his lips.  “You ought to know by now that I only put that about to explain why I was leaving Bag End and Hobbiton, Isumbard Took.  But it’s not the money I have from my income here I’m using.  I was granted the livings of a few estates and such in Gondor and Arnor; I’m using funds I brought with me for this.  Let the income from Men’s dealings pay for the damage Sharkey and his Men helped inspire here.”

       The Took was surprised.  “Why do you have an income from properties in Gondor and Arnor?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “You’ll have to have Aragorn explain it to you, I think.  But he said it was customary for such grants to be made along with ennoblement.”

       “Which means what?”

       “Which means merely that Aragorn has publically embarrassed Sam and me.”

       “You and Sam?  Why?”

       But Frodo merely shook his head and changed the subject.

       When Frodo went home for afternoon tea he found that his cousins Saradoc and Merimac were in the kitchen sharing an ale with Will and Bucca.  Sara rose quickly when Frodo came in, holding out his arms to embrace his younger cousin.  “Frodo, it’s so good to see you!  They are keeping you very busy, I’m told.”

       “Uncle Sara, Mac--it’s wonderful to see you, too,” he responded.  “Let me get rid of my cloak and put these documents I’m planning on reviewing tonight in my room, and I’ll be right back.”

       After Frodo had disappeared back into the passage to the bedrooms Sara looked at Will with concern.  “I’ve never seen him this thin, not even when he was a teen,” he said, his voice worried.

       Will nodded.  “He’s starting to put a few pounds back on--his face is starting to fill out some, at least.  But he barely eats much of the time.”

       “Has he told you how he lost his finger?”

       Will shook his head.  “We didn’t even notice for days until Paladin pointed it out to us, and he only knew, apparently, ’cause Bard told him.  He refuses to say anything more than that it was something to do with getting rid of the bad thing he took out of here.”

       Saradoc looked back toward the passage to the bedrooms again.  “Merry says the same, and that we should be glad.”

       Will was startled.  “Glad?  Glad Frodo lost his finger?  What does that mean?”

       “I wish we knew.  But the King’s Men immediately asked after Frodo’s health, soon as they came near the Gate, as did the one Brendi and I met with at the Bridge Inn.  He appears to know who this Sharkey was, and indicates he caused a good deal of trouble for them down Southways as well as here.”

       “These are truly King’s Men you met with?”

       “Yes.  Merry stopped by day after I met with this Lord Gilfileg, and said he’d been told the name by Lord Halladan, King Aragorn’s Steward, who is also one of his cousins.  Said that the second who came to the gate sounds like Lord Berevrion, another of the King’s kin, one he met; but that he has no idea who the third one was, the younger one with the hound.  What Lord Gilfileg says pretty much matches what the lads have said, though.”

       “Lord Gilfileg?” asked Frodo from the door as he reentered the kitchen.  “You met Lord Gilfileg?”

       “Yes.  Do you know him?”

       “No, I’ve not met him as yet.  However both Aragorn and Halladan have spoken of him.  When Halladan, Halbarad, and Hardorn went South with the Grey Company to search for Aragorn to help him with what he needed to do, they left their kinsman Gilfileg in charge here in the North.  Apparently Gilfileg has served in Gondor in the past, but didn’t feel comfortable going back there at this time; and they did need someone to lead those of the Northern Dúnedain who remained here in Eriador.  Aragorn told me that his name in Bree is Black Glove, and that he’s left-handed.”  He sat down at the table.

       “Well, that definitely describes him.  Wears a black glove on his right hand, and he certainly used his left hand when he ate with us.  Do you know why?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “I understand he’s just naturally left-handed, and Aragorn told me he wears the black glove to hide the--to hide the fact he lost a couple of fingers.”

       “Accident?”

       Frodo’s face became closed as he looked down at the table top, but he did answer.  “No, it wasn’t an accident.  It was due to torture.  He was captured by enemies of Gondor, and was held as a captive for several years before he escaped and returned home.”

       Saradoc noted that Frodo had his own hands in his lap, under the table.  “Why did the King tell you about it?”  Frodo shrugged and didn’t answer.  “Was it when discussing your own finger, Frodo?” Sara continued, shrewdly.

       Frodo looked up to meet his older cousin’s eyes briefly, then looked down again, once more giving merely a shrug to his shoulders.

       The Master gave a soft sigh as he looked at his former ward.  It was almost like trying to speak with seventeen-year-old Frodo determined not to respond to questions about reports of raids on the fields and dairies of the Marish.  He knew all too well that when Frodo went stubborn, you simply couldn’t get him to speak against his will.  But, then, Frodo was not a teen now.

       Merimac asked, “What’s this about work on Lotho’s Lockholes?”

       Frodo looked up and sighed himself.  “When we find Timono, we’re going to need to have a secure place to keep him.  He’s already tried successfully to frighten folks out of telling how they were forced to cooperate in Lotho’s gathering of goods and properties.”

       The Master nodded thoughtfully.  “We were able to get hold of Bedro Bracegirdle from Westhall, who was one of the more violent of Lotho’s Shiriffs working in the Brandywine area.”

       “What was Beasty Bracegirdle doing in the Eastfarthing?” Frodo asked. 

       “You’ve heard of him?” Sara asked.  At Frodo’s nod, he answered, “Lotho seems to have set the biggest and most intimidating Shiriffs along the River and around the Tooklands.  This Bedro is one of the more troublesome of the ones sent our way.  We’re holding him in a converted storage hole on the old Treegarth place.  If you’re doing proper holding cells here, maybe we should haul him here to Michel Delving.”

       “We have one unit finished, and they’re almost done with a second one.  The first one already has a tenant, though--I just sent Marco Smallburrow there.  Which reminds me....”

       Frodo was intent and normal-seeming enough as he discussed how Fred Oldbuck’s dry goods shop needed to be searched, and described the locations of the hidey-holes there where some of the loot that might have come Marco’s way could possibly be found.

       Will listened intently.  “I certainly never thought I’d see Hobbits ever treat other Hobbits this way,” he said.

       Bucca nodded his agreement.  “I just don’t understand how all this could happen in the Shire.”

       Frodo looked around at each in turn.  “Gimli calls it the Dragon Sickness--the infection of the spirit with the desire to gather as much wealth, power, and prestige as you can around you.  He says that exposure to evil influences tends to cause it to flourish, and that it’s been common enough among the Dwarves, especially after--after the seven Rings of Power were given to the Dwarf Lords.  He’s rather glad they’re all destroyed or lost now, actually.  And it appears to be even more common among Men than it is among Dwarves.”

       “So who infected Lotho?” Will asked of no one in particular.

       Merimac laughed without humor.  “Face it, Will--he and his folks have always been that way.  Doesn’t seem to have taken a great deal of influence from that Sharkey to have convinced him to begin acting out on it, though.”

       “Timono’s never been much better,” Saradoc continued.  “Remember when we spent that month with him in the Southfarthing when you were fifteen, Frodo?”

       Frodo was sitting, obviously thinking and automatically nodding his agreement with that last statement when he suddenly stopped, a picture forming in his mind’s eye.  The summer when he was fifteen he’d gone with Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme, baby Merry, and Merimac to spend a month with Hornblower relatives in the Southfarthing.  It was something of a family reunion, and several of the younger relatives with other last names were invited to spend the month on the second Hornblower pipeweed plantation, getting to know one another better being the intent of Great Aunt Lilac Hornblower, whose houseparty it was.

       Timono Bracegirdle was one of the invited relatives, and one all, including eventually Great Aunt Lilac, wished hadn’t been part of the group.  Several of the lasses complained about him peeking past shutters and curtains or clumsy attempted pawings in the gardens; most of the lads came to detest him intently as he was found to be a liar and a thief.

       It had been thought Frodo and Timono might just hit it off, as both were known to be exceptionally intelligent as well as being interested in odd things compared to most Hobbits; however, Frodo had developed a marked distaste for the lad. 

       In spite of his intelligence and the deviousness of the schemes he’d developed to annoy everybody else, Timono displayed a decided lack of imagination in some ways.  He’d done his best for the first two and a half weeks to ingratiate himself with the other teens and tweens and would push himself into their games and amusements.  One of the favorite games for the young ones seemed to be I’ll-Hide-and-You-Seek-Me, a game at which Timono came to believe he excelled, as no one appeared able to find him.  The truth was, however, that in the first game he hid in a leaf-drying shed in a low cupboard under one of the drying tables, and he was seen there early in the seeking.  The one who was It, however, didn’t wish to bring this one back to his base, so just left him there, and went out to find all the others.  Once all had been found he told the rest where he’d seen Timono crouching, and they all decided to leave the unpopular teen there.  They switched to other pursuits, only calling “All out there come in here!” when they were called in for tea.

       After that, Timono always hid in the same place, and they deliberately failed to “find” him.  And when they wanted to rid themselves of his odious company for the afternoon someone would suggest the game, and all would run off long enough for Timono to get himself into his cupboard in the drying shed, and then do more interesting things without the benefit of his company.

       Frodo was seeing Timono, now a devious, sly adult with the absolute worst of the Bracegirdle potential, sitting in that drying shed, the cupboard door open to allow him to slip inside it into hiding if he heard anyone approaching the shed door.  He smiled.

       “I know where he is,” he said, looking up to catch Saradoc’s eyes.  “I know where Timono is--on the second Hornblower leaf plantation, in the first drying shed.  If he hears someone coming he’ll hide in the cupboard under the fourth line of drying trays.  That’s where he always hid that summer.”

       Saradoc exchanged looks with Merimac.  Mac smiled a particularly satisfied smirk.  “I’ll wager you have the right of it, Frodo.  Well, I’ll be meeting with Merry tomorrow in Overhill, and we’ll head down that way.  Bet he was looking to slip out of the Shire Southward the way all the pipeweed went.”

       “With Saruman dead now,” Frodo sighed, “there’s just not going to be much in the way of buyers for leaf that direction, for the Men of the South don’t smoke it.  They use the leaves instead to deter vermin, and soak them to get a wash they pour over gardens to kill insects that hurt the plants.  About the only customers we’re likely to find that way will be those of Aragorn’s kindred from here in the North who serve in Minas Tirith--those and whatever Dwarves will be working to repair the city walls.”

       Bucca asked, “What happened to the city walls?”

       Frodo looked up at him, a sad look on his face.  “Well, Pippin told you that he and Merry fought in the war; the largest battle of that war took place in the farmlands before the city gates for Minas Tirith, the capitol of Gondor.  The Enemy’s forces cast boulders at the city using great catapults for most of the first day of the fight; and that night used the same catapults to send balls of material that caught on fire over the walls to burn what could be burned.  Most of the houses and buildings are made of stone, actually; but the interiors use a goodly amount of wood, and many roofs were severely damaged by the boulders so many of those flaming balls caused a great deal of fire and smoke.  Merry said that when he arrived with the Rohirrim they thought the whole first two levels were on fire, for the amount of smoke was quite thick, even seen from the ridge on the far side of the fields of the Pelennor.”

       The Master paused.  “Merry wasn’t with you in the city?”

       Frodo looked down again.  “Sam and I weren’t there then.  We didn’t rejoin them until after the last battle on the East side of the River Anduin.  Pippin had been taken to Minas Tirith by Gandalf for safekeeping, and Merry was left with Aragorn and King Théoden of Rohan.  When the Grey Company from Eriador arrived and met with the King’s party, however, Aragorn had to change his plans so as to hurry to gather a special force to oppose a fleet of ships coming up the River Anduin from Umbar with reinforcements for the Enemy.  He and Legolas and Gimli and Aragorn’s Dúnedain kin had to ride quickly, so they left Merry with the Rohirrim, who were just beginning to gather their own army so as to ride to the defense of Gondor at Minas Tirith.  King Théoden didn’t wish to take Merry with them, but one of the Riders took him on his horse and so Merry came anyway, and it’s good he did.  The battle would probably have been lost before Aragorn could arrive with his forces if Merry had not have been there.  He was quite the hero, Uncle.”

       “Did Pippin fight there, too?” asked Mac.

       “He was inside the city and had sworn himself into the Guard of the Citadel, and was serving the Lord Steward Denethor, but he wasn’t fighting--not then.  Although he did help save Lord Faramir, Lord Denethor’s remaining son.  He did march to fight in the last battle, though, where his defense helped save at least three others who were by him as well as a number who were behind them.  He, too, is quite the hero.”

       “What were you and Sam doing?” Saradoc asked.

       Frodo shook his head, his face going pale.  “Hiding, mostly,” he said finally, “hiding and trying to make it where we needed to go.”

       “Did you make it?” Bucca asked.

       Frodo’s eyes were again haunted looking as he looked at the Sandheaver.  “Oh, yes, we finally made it.”  He looked down.  “We made it, before I was lost.”

       In the distance toward the front of the house they could hear the door open as Mina, Aster, and the children returned.  Frodo rose hastily.  “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need to get back to the work.”  He hurried back toward his room, and came back fastening his grey-green cloak about him as he went out the back door.

       Sara watched after, shocked by the mercurial changes in Frodo’s moods.  He looked at Will.  “But he didn’t stay to eat anything for tea!”

       Will shrugged, then looked at the now closed door, and shook his head.  “It’s the most he’s said yet, Sara,” he said.  “It’s the most he’s said yet.”

67:  Family Heads 

       Three or four times a year the family heads of the major families in the Shire would meet, either in Michel Delving or the village hall in Hobbiton, usually.  They would mostly meet to discuss which harvests had been most successful and where folks would be short and what trades could be set up to make certain no area was left wanting basics in the way of food, ale, pipeweed, cloth, and provender for animals.  They also exchanged news and gossip, and information on upcoming weddings and impending births and deaths.

       The meeting at the end of November was heavily attended, and took place in the banquet hall in the Council Hole in Michel Delving.  Even heads for small families where there were few males of the name came, eager for news and to see the heroes of the end of the Time of Troubles.

       Even Orimbard Took came from Long Cleeves in the Northfarthing as family head for the North Tooks, and it took a powerful draw to bring the old Hobbit out of his home, much less out of his home territory.  For the Sackvilles there was Roto Sackville, one of the remaining two of his name left in the Shire, family head by default now Lotho was dead.  Odo Proudfoot looked on all the minor family heads and those who usually didn’t bother to attend at all and shook his head.  “Can’t wait to ogle our lads, can they?” he asked of no one in particular.

       Frodo was among the last to arrive alongside Will Whitfoot, who’d hobbled outside for the first time since he was freed from the Lockholes, and Samwise Gamgee.  Most were surprised to see Sam present, for not only was his Uncle Andy family head, but the Gamgees had always been considered a family barely worthy of a book.  In fact, their name hadn’t even become stable until the last two generations, for they’d been Gammidges and various other names over the years.  Sam stood proudly enough, dressed tonight in one of his Gondorian surcoats of green and gold over a shirt of a soft green linen, although he was heavily flushed.  He carried what was clearly his family book in his hands, bound in gold and green calfskin.  Frodo appeared tired and rather pale, but each time he looked at Sam he smiled, his expression both pleased and amused by his friend’s situation.

       Pippin and Merry had come with their fathers, and intrigued by the presence of Sam they slipped away from Thain and Master to approach the Mayor and deputy Mayor.  Pippin examined Sam carefully.  “What’s happened to you?” he asked.  “I haven’t seen you this flushed since the Field of Cormallen.”

       “It’s ’cause of that as I’m here,” Sam said with a shake of his head.

       “I thought your uncle was----” Merry began, but Sam interrupted.

       “Oh, yes he was, and my cousin Anson ought to be after him.  But Anson told his dad several years back he don’t want nothin’ to do with bein’ family head, specially as he can’t read nor write and won’t be bothered to learn.”

       “Did something happen to your Uncle Andy?” asked Pippin.

       “No,” Sam said, shaking his head and flushing again.  “No, he’s fine.  But while I was in Tighfield I told him what happened on the Field of Cormallen, and he says as I’m now so important I should be family head stead of him.  And Uncle Halfred and the Gaffer both agrees, along with Cousin Halfast and Auntie May.  What’s worse, Hal and Ham and the girls all agree, too.  It seems everybody agrees, ceptin’ me, of course, but it seems as I’ve got no more choice in the matter than Strider give me.”  When Merry and Pippin began to laugh merrily he flushed even more.  “It’s not funny!  I’m not supposed to be family head, you know!  But Will says if Uncle Andy wants to give over to me he can, specially as Anson’s said he won’t have it no how.  And Uncle Andy insists I write somethin’ in Elvish by each one’s name, too.  Seems real impressed I can read and write Sindarin, he does.”

       Will looked at Sam.  “What’s Sindarin?” he asked.

       Again Sam turned red.  “It’s one of the Elvish languages.  Mr. Frodo, he can read it and write it better’n me, and he can read and write Quenya, too, and a bit of the sylvan language as Legolas and his people use as well.  And he knows Adunaic, though that’s a Man’s language and not Elvish.”  He turned to Frodo.  “And did you learn any Rohirric while we was there?”

       Frodo smiled.  “I don’t read or write Adunaic well at all, and I have to concentrate when I do come across it to make certain I’m properly understanding what I read.  And I doubt I have any more Rohirric than you do.  After all, we were pretty equally around the Rohirrim.”

       Merry sighed.  “I suspect I’m the only one of us to know than a few words, and yet even for me it’s just a smattering.  Why Gondorian dress?”

       “Marigold insisted, she did.  Said as I’m ennobled and all....”

       “What got all this started?”

       “Well, while I was in Tighfield Anson’s little lass Clover was goin’ through my pack and found the box with our circlets.  Seems Gandalf put them in there while we was still in Rivendell, and I didn’t even realize--put it in there down at the bottom, he did, just over the rope and Captain Faramir’s pans, and I’d not got down that far.  And this surcoat and shirt was just above the box.  We was in the parlor, and I’d never thought the little thing would find anything too odd or whatever there in my pack, I didn’t, so when she started goin’ through it to amuse herself I just let her.  I mean, she’s but four year, she is.  We was all sittin there in the parlor, Uncle Andy and Anson and Auntie Wren, Hal and Ham and their wives, Uncle Halfred and his lad Halfast, Auntie May and my sister Daisy and her husband Moro, and they was havin’ me tell them what we’d done while we was gone.

       “You know as how hard it is to tell what happened to us and what we did.”  At their nod he continued. “I was tryin’ to tell them, and they was doin’ the best they could to understand.  Then Clover pulled out the box and opened it up, pulled out the velvet bags, and opened them up.  The sound o’ the mithril clinking on the floor caught us by surprise, and we all looked to see what it was.

       “I don’t think what I’d told them got through to them, but somehow seein’ the circlets did.  Daisy made me explain what they was and what they meant and how they was given us, and then Uncle Andy just started laughin’ fit to bust.  Said as I was now so important he was making me family head, and the others said they’d not let me back out of it.

       “Ham’s come back with me, and he told Marigold and May and our dad, and so when I come to the meeting Marigold made me wear this.  I feel so strange, dressed up like this here in the Shire, you know.”

       Will was confused, but shook his head.  “I don’t understand but one word in four.  What’s a circlet?”

       “Something Aragorn gave Sam and me to embarrass us,” Frodo declared.  “So, Gandalf made certain they got here, did he?  I hid mine under the drawer of my desk, but it appears he found it anyway.”

       Merry began laughing.  “You did what?  Oh, when I tell Aragorn....”

       “Don’t you dare, Meriadoc Brandybuck!”

       “Then I will,” Pippin warned him.  “And you, Samwise Gamgee, look magnificent, my Lord.”

       “I’ll tell your da about a certain stone and well in Moria,” Frodo warned.

       “Go ahead.  It will only confirm what we all know anyway, that I’m a fool of a Took.  He’d be more concerned if I hadn’t dropped it in, you know.”

       Frodo threw up his hands dramatically and went over to take a seat at the table.  Pippin and Merry followed him over, Sam hurrying to catch up so as to sit by Frodo for moral support.  Suddenly Merry stopped, looking at the barely visible bandage Frodo wore under his collar.  “It’s draining again?” he asked.

       Frodo looked up at him warily.  “Of course--just about every two months so far.”

       “You mean it drained again in September?”

       Frodo looked away, shrugging.  “Yes, while we were in Rivendell, the end of September, first of October.  Elrohir tended it for me.”

       “You didn’t even take it to Lord Elrond?”

       Frodo looked back.  “You heard him, Merry, on the way to Edoras.  What can he do about it?  As long as it just drains regularly it doesn’t appear to cause any other problems, and he was afraid to do anything for fear of causing serious damage.”

       “Is that what’s been making you fussy the last couple weeks, though, Frodo.” Pippin asked, “it building up again?”

       Again Frodo shrugged and looked away.

       “Who’s caring for it here?” Merry asked.

       Frodo turned to look at him in annoyance.  “Sam.”

       “He’s no healer.”

       “He’s as good for me as any healer other than Elrond or Aragorn, and even they could do nothing about it except make certain it’s allowed to drain and kept cleanly bandaged.  So let that be the end of any discussion of it.  No one can do anything about it, it’s not doing anything permanent to me----”

       “--Nothing you know about, anyway,” muttered Merry.

       “----and I refuse to dwell on it.  I have far too much to do to sit and worry about a boil on my neck.”

       Will didn’t hear all of it, but enough to realize that Frodo had a recurring boil and the others were concerned it might be serious.  He wondered why they’d be concerned.

       The rest were taking their own places around the table, and the servers were set to bring out the dinner which had been prepared.  All went quiet, looking forward to those sitting around Will for the next move.  Frodo looked also at Will, who gave a laugh.  “No you don’t, Frodo Baggins.  I’m on holiday, recovering still from my time in the Lockholes.  No, lad, you’re not relieved from duty as deputy Mayor yet.  Start the meal and the meeting, then.”

       Frodo gave Will a look which couldn’t be fathomed.  He’d not thought to bring the Mayor’s gavel, so he took up the large spoon that sat in front of him and rapped it smartly on the wood of the table.  All went quiet.

       “I welcome you to this meeting of the family heads, although first we’re going to have a meal--I suppose a private banquet for us to be glad we have our families yet to head.”

       There was a murmur of agreement from all around the chamber.

       “I am sorry that apparently my gesture of selling Bag End to Lotho appears to have given him the impression he therefore had the right to make himself the tyrant of the Shire....”

       “He didn’t wait for you to start it,” Dormo Gravelly pointed out.  “Several of the contracts as I’ve had to examine were written and signed and acted on afore he bought Bag End from you, last year, year afore.  He’d already slid, and was fallin’ fast while you four was creepin’ out of Hobbiton and the Westfarthing.”

       That was hard to argue with.  “That is true,” Frodo said.

       “And the wagons full of food and leaf started going South last year,” Largo Hornblower added.

       Paladin Took nodded his agreement.  “No, Frodo, can’t blame yourself for this situation.  You never introduced Lotho to this Sharkey’s agents, did you?”

       “Well, as I’d baredly heard of him until we reached Rivendell, no.”

       “Who told you about him?” asked Saradoc Brandybuck.

       “Gandalf had mentioned him, I think maybe once, before we prepared to leave the Shire.  But that was before anyone realized he’d fallen.  I had no idea who he was other than a name Gandalf mentioned of someone far down South.  Gandalf still thought of Saruman as his ally and superior.  He went there when he left the Shire to ask for aid and advice, only to be imprisoned instead.  He managed to escape, but not before he’d been there for quite some time, and wasn’t able to meet us in Bree as we’d planned.  He reached Bree after we’d left, then managed to get past us, as he was going on horseback by road while we were going cross country on foot.”

       “So, Gandalf was the first to realize this Sharkey’d gone bad, then?” asked Endero Tunnely.

       “Yes.  The news was treated with shock and surprise when he told those of us gathered in Rivendell, for most of the rest knew who and what he was and what he was supposed to be doing.  But it was only as they faced the last battles they became aware Sharkey had been trading with the Shire--they found a barrel of Longbottom Leaf in one of his storage rooms when Isengard was overrun by the Ents.”

       “Who did?” asked the Thain.

       “Merry and Pippin.”

       “How did they find it?”

       “The Ents brought Merry and Pippin with them when they made their attack on Isengard.  Saruman had been killing their trees to fire his furnaces, and was getting more and more imperious and uncaring.  The word he’d imprisoned Gandalf and had tried to capture them and was attacking Rohan made them realize they had to fight him or he’d end up destroying the whole of Fangorn Forest.  They didn’t dare leave Merry and Pippin in the forest by themselves, so they brought the two of them with them.”

       Dormo Gravelly looked at Meriadoc Brandybuck.  “That right?” he asked.

       “Yes,” Merry affirmed.  “Treebeard brought Pippin and me with them, and so we were able to watch the entire assault by the Ents on Isengard.  After it was over and the Ents had won and had Saruman trapped in his tower, Pippin and I went through what was left of his storage room by what had been the main gate and found a fair amount of food and the barrel of pipeweed. We suspect now he had far more, but the Ents weren’t very careful when they pulled down the walls of the place to make certain they weren’t destroying more storerooms.  Ents don’t eat what we do, after all; once we’d left with Gandalf and Aragorn they just brought all the walls down and destroyed anything they found they thought Saruman might possibly be able to use against anyone else.”

       “When was that?” asked Largo.

       Pippin answered, “Around the end of February or first of March, best I can figure.  It was hard to be certain of dates much of the time, we found, until the end of the war.”

       “If this Saruman was locked up----”

       Frodo interrupted.  “I think before we go any further, we should start the meal,” he said.  Pippin immediately rose and turned West, and Merry and Sam did the same, followed by Frodo.  The four sat back down and Frodo indicated to those serving to start bringing in the supper.

       As they ate the questions continued.  Sharkey had been held imprisoned in his own tower until August?  How had he managed to get to the Shire before the four of them?  Bilbo Baggins was still alive?  How?  Where?  Had he had anything to do with all this?  Would he return to the Shire?

       Finally Frodo was able to steer the conversation to what needed doing now.  “We need to fully understand how Lotho got so much done so quickly once I, as family head for the Bagginses, was no longer there to question what he was doing and how he was doing it.  We need to know when he started these illegal and abnormal contracts.  We need to know when he started buying up the pipeweed plantations and how folks were convinced to sell.  Same with the inns and taverns and the mills especially.”  He turned to Dormo.  “You say the first contracts you saw were two years ago--why didn’t you bring them to Will’s attention then?  Did Gander Proudfoot know, or any other village heads in the areas where the Gravellies have their farms and holdings?  Who were they with?  Why didn’t anyone approach me as Baggins family head about these contracts?”

       The focus of the meeting sharpened.  All family heads were to speak with village heads in the areas where their families were concentrated, and all were to begin compiling lists of what illegal and questionable contracts and acquisitions had been identified.  They were to determine:

       Who was involved?  Which were possible co-conspirators with Lotho, and which were victims?

       What properties had been targeted and when, and what tactics had been used to acquire them?

       Which of the new Shiriffs had been forced to join or to remain as Shiriffs after the changes had been wrought in their expected functions, and which had joined willingly intent on loot and power?

       Who had taken part in the gathering and sharing besides Lotho’s Big Men?

       Who was consistently benefitting from Lotho’s activities during the occupation?

       They were also asked to get their folks to list what was known to have been taken in the raids, particularly descriptions of family jewelry, heirlooms, books, furniture, and so on.  Those whose homes had been dug out or torn or burned down were to be asked to describe the warnings they’d had and tactics used to force them out, and what had been lost in the destruction of their homes.

       Berilac Brandybuck was taking notes, and by the end of the evening his book was full of comments and questions and the types of reports requested by Frodo.  Frodo had his own notes before him; and although they weren’t as extensive they were much to the point.

       Sam went to Will’s house with Frodo after the meal, and apparently, from what Will could tell, he saw to the further cleaning of the boil on Frodo’s neck.  He asked for permission to set a pot of water to boil, then took it into Frodo’s room along with his pack.  When at last he came out, Will had gone to bed, and Mina was fixing a last cup of tea for herself.  She looked up and smiled as the gardener entered the kitchen.  “Would you like some tea before you go?” she asked.

       “Yes, Missus Whitfoot,” he said.  “That would be nice.”

       She fixed it for him, and he sat heavily at the table.  “That’s quite the outfit you’re wearing,” she noted.

       “Thanks.”

       “Got it in those foreign places you visited?”

       He nodded.  “Strider had it made for me in Gondor.  It’s the kind of clothes as is worn there.  Good cloth, it is.”

       “Frodo doesn’t wear any such things.”

       “No, didn’t bring back most of his, he didn’t.  Was afraid of lookin’ odd.”  He sipped at his tea.  “Suspect Gimli will bring a good deal of what he left there when he comes in the spring.”

       “Gimli?  Is that a Dwarf?”

       Sam nodded.  “Yes.  His dad Gloin was one of the Dwarves old Mr. Bilbo traveled with so long ago.  I met his dad a few times when he’d come to visit Mr. Bilbo, and then he come to Rivendell about the same time as we got there, concerned about messages and threats as was sent about Mr. Bilbo.  Gimli and a few other Dwarves had come with him, and when it was decided what we’d do, Gimli was chosen to go with Mr. Frodo.”

       “Where all did you go?”

       Sam sighed.  “Mr. Frodo had to get out of the Shire and hopefully to Rivendell.  We headed first to Bree, and Gandalf was supposed to meet us there, only he didn’t.  Didn’t find out till later he’d gone to see one of his own kind, one who was supposed to be above him, and didn’t realize it was a trap.  Got held there for a time till he could finally escape.  We met Strider, as is King now, instead.  We was goin’ to slip out of Bree in the morning with our ponies and ride for Rivendell, but in the night the inn was attacked and the stables was raided, and all our ponies was gone.  Finally bought my Bill from a local Man what was mean to him.  But Bill is a fine beast, he is, and I love him dearly.  Always loved ponies and wanted one for myself, and now I have two.”  He smiled.  “We left Berry and the pack pony in Bree.  Mr. Merry said as he’d see to it they was sent for, although I don’t know as he’s had time to see to it yet, what with all the fuss and huntin’ of ruffians.”

       “So you went to Rivendell after you left Bree?”

       “Yes.  Strider took us, he did.”

       “What happened there?”

       Sam shrugged.  “After Frodo was better they had a council, and everybody learned what Gandalf had found out about--about somethin’ old Mr. Bilbo had left to Frodo long ago, somethin’ as turned out to be dangerous.  It had to be destroyed, and Mr. Frodo volunteered to take it where it had to go, ’cause there was only one place as it could be got rid of proper.  They knew by that time as I wouldn’t let him go without me, and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin wouldn’t let him go without them, neither. 

       “Quite a number of folk was there in Rivendell, worried about what was goin’ on in the world:  Men from both sides of the Misty Mountains and one all the way from down South in Gondor, Boromir son of Denethor, the Lord Captain of their armies, he was.  Elves from Mirkwood and the Grey Havens and the wanderin’ companies as well as those as live in Rivendell.  Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills and the Northern Misty Mountains.  And Gandalf.  He got there just afore we arrived, and told us all what Saruman was up to, betrayin’ all.

       “Nine of us was sent South and East to see to what needed doin’ with the--the thing as was bad--us four Hobbits, Gandalf, Gimli the Dwarf, Legolas as is an Elf from Mirkwood, Boromir, and Strider.  We had a time of it, we did--tracked by spies from the Enemy and Saruman, attacked by wolves.  Tried to go over the mountains but the pass got blocked and we had to come back, and didn’t dare go South to the Gap of Rohan ’cause of Saruman’s treachery.  Finally tried to go through--through the remains of an old Dwarf kingdom.  Made it, but it was terrible.  The Dwarves as had come back to it, hopin’ to open it back up, had all been killed, and turned out there was too many goblins and--and other things there, nasty things.  Lost Gandalf there, we did, and the other eight of us went down the East side of the Mountains to the Elf kingdom of Lothlorien.”

       Mina listened as Sam briefly described Lorien, the boats on the river, the stop at Amon Hen, a quarrel between this Boromir and Frodo that made Frodo decide to go on alone.

       “We got to where we had to decide if we’d go one way or the other, and--and then it gets sort of muddled.  Mr. Frodo knew as what he needed to do, but was afraid to go alone.  Mr. Boromir tried to make him go with him, and finally that helped Frodo make the break, and he decided to leave the rest of us.  I knew as he’d try this, so I tracked him down and got to him just afore he took off across the river to the Eastern side and made him take me with him.

       “The rest got attacked, and Boromir was killed defendin’ Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin.  The ones what did it was Uruks--great warrior goblins, or orcs as they call ’em elsewhere, what was sent by Saruman.  They was told to find Halflings and bring them to Isengard.  Well, they found Halflings, Merry and Pippin, but they wasn’t the right ones.  Ones Saruman wanted was Mr. Frodo and me, but what is orcs goin’ to know?  By the time Strider, Legolas, and Gimli got to Boromir it was too late--he was dyin’, the Uruks was gone West, and Mr. Frodo and me was gone East.  They had to decide, and Strider decided to let us go do what we had to do, and the other three went chasin’ after the Uruks, once they set Boromir’s body adrift in one of the Elven boats over the waterfall and down the River.

       “By the time they caught up with the big orcs they’d got all across Rohan, almost back to the Gap of Rohan.  Maybe we ought to of come that way after all and saved a lot of wear and tear on Merry and Pippin.”  He shared a grin with Mina.  “King of Rohan was a Man named Théoden.  Merry came to think the world of him, and certainly everybody who’s told me of him speaks highly of him.  His nephew Éomer heard tell as there was a group of orcs headed across Rohan to Isengard, and he defied the King and took his Men and attacked the Uruks.  In the fightin’ Merry and Pippin managed to get away into Fangorn Forest, where they met Ents, what’s the shepherds of the trees.  What Merry and Pippin told them made them realize how dangerous Saruman was, so the Ents decided to attack Isengard.

       “We thought as Gandalf was lost in Moria, but he was sent back, only now he was sent back as the White, and now he was Saruman’s boss where afore Saruman had been it.  He was in the forest when Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli got there to search for Merry and Pippin, and he took them to Rohan where they had to break some kind o’ spell Saruman had put on King Théoden--don’t fully understand it yet.  Then they all helped the folks of Rohan to fight Saruman’s army.

       “They managed to win the battle, and they went next to Isengard to try to reason with Saruman, but he wasn’t goin’ to be reasonable.  So they left him there and the Ents watched over him and his Worm creature what had come to join him.  That’s when Merry and Pippin came back with them again.  They was on the way back to the capitol of Rohan when Mr. Pippin did somethin’ plain dangerous, and Gandalf had to take him and go ahead to Gondor to warn them of an impendin’ attack by the Enemy.  Then the Grey Company came with words from the Lady and from Lord Elrond, and Strider realized as he had to go through the Paths of the Dead to get the help as he needed to fight the Corsairs of Umbar afore they brought their black ships up the River to attack Gondor’s forces from the rear.  That left poor Merry with the Rohirrim.  King Théoden was goin’ to leave Merry in Rohan with his niece Éowyn, but neither she nor Merry was goin’ to be left behind.  She dressed up as a Man and a Rider, and slipped into the army headin’ to Gondor to help in the battle, and she brought Merry with her.

       “The battle was hot and heavy.  The Rohirrim arrived at just the right time to help, and then Strider arrived in the black ships as he’d won from the Corsairs of Umbar, and they managed to win that battle.”

       Mina was fascinated by the description of the decision to take a combined army East to attack the Enemy.  “It was a big gamble, it was, for if they come too soon it could be all for nought; if they come too late--well, it would be too late.  They wanted to open the way for us, for Frodo and me, to get where we had to go.  And it worked.  At the sight of the army comin’ the Enemy called all his own armies to the gates, and few was left to guard the way.  We made it--barely in time. But it cost us heavy, Mr. Frodo and me.  He almost didn’t--didn’t do what had to be done, and--and our guide finished it.  I got Frodo out of there, and we finally gave in, now it was all over, or so we thought.

       “Gandalf and the Eagles found us, got us out of there, back to Strider and his brothers, and they helped us--helped us recover.  They took us to Minas Tirith and Strider was crowned King, the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar.  Never seen a crownin’ afore, and it was--it was marvelous, Missus Mina.  Now and then with Strider you see--you see the King in him, pure and simple, powerful, filled with Light and purpose, the Valar watchin’ over him, even.  And we saw it that day.”

       “So, you stayed for a time?”

       He nodded.  “Mr. Frodo still wasn’t recovered enough to go home again, and Strider wanted us to be there for when the Lady Arwen come, so we could see them get married.

       “At last the Riders of Rohan come back for King Théoden’s body.  He’d been killed in the battle afore the city of Minas Tirith, and they laid him in the tombs there until Éomer King could return from straightenin’ up things in Rohan to see a proper burial for their King.  It took a couple weeks to go back to Edoras, where it took three days for Gandalf and Pippin to ride that way to Minas Tirith in Gondor and five days for the Riders goin’ to war.  But we had wagons this time, and us Hobbits on ponies, and had to stop at times.  They wasn’t goin’ to rush us any.”

       “Sounds tedious.”

       Sam shrugged, but smiled.  “It were worth it, I think.”

       “Then, after the funeral for King Théoden you finally came home?”

       “Yes, but we stopped off in Rivendell first to see if Mr. Bilbo was still all right.  Got there for the birthday, and he’s now a hundred twenty-nine, and Mr. Frodo’s fifty-one.  They wanted to make certain as we was ready to go on, so we stayed a couple weeks to rest afore the last leg.  We stayed two nights in Bree once we got there, then came home--to find Sharkey’d got here first.  I don’t know what all Gandalf knew about what Saruman might do, but next time as I see him I have a few questions to ask, questions what needs answerin’.”

       Mina asked, as carefully as she could, “Sam, Frodo’s not quite well, is he?”

       Sam looked down at the table top.  “He doesn’t like folks to talk about his health none.”

       “We rather realized that, Sam.”

       She waited, and finally he admitted reluctantly, “No, he’s not as well as he was.  It was right hard on all of us, but specially on him.  But he’s makin’ do, and won’t let it stop him none.”

       “What happened to his finger?”

       He looked squarely into her eyes.  “It’s not mine to say.”

       “How’d he get scars on his back?”

       “How you know about them?”

       She flushed, but wouldn’t let him look away.  Finally he shook his head.  “He’s got scars--but we all have scars.  Just don’t let him know as you know, for he hates them and doesn’t want folks to see or ask about them.”

       “Why not?”

       Samwise Gamgee sighed deeply.  “He thought as we could come home and it would all be over, all the bad left out there, only it wasn’t.  While we was gone those Lotho’d invited in came and brought all the evil as he was tryin’ to draw away in here anyways, and we had to do one more fight.  Well, he wants at least the Shire to heal.  Doesn’t want for it to become like much of what we saw out there.  He wants to rebuild, and Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin and me--we want it, too.  He wants it all over, and for him all over means we forget what happened to us out there.  I’m not so certain, however, as that’s goin’ to prove possible.”

       “Not if he’s been ill.”

       Sam gave an odd look, then finished his now cold tea.

       “What’s the recipe for your tea?”

       “It calls for certain herbs as aren’t common.  I brought starts with me, and have some in planters at the Cotton’s farm.  Wherever we end up livin’, I’ll plant them there so we’ll have plenty.”  He sighed.  “I have a couple leaves.  If he’s particular tired or upset, drop one into a bath for him, and it’ll help him calm--or so I’ve found.”

       “How come you have your family book?”

       He looked down at where it sat before him on the table.  “Uncle Andy--he give it to me, he did.  Made me family head, and everybody else wants it, too.”

       “Congratulations.”

       “For what?  For gettin’ still more responsibilities?”

       She smiled.  “I have a feeling, Sam, that you are up to whatever you need to get done.  You’ll make a wonderful family head, I’m certain of it.”

       He sighed.  “If you say so.”  He rose and fetched his pack and rummaged through it, finally bringing out a parchment packet.  “The leaves is in there.  His neck was drainin’ but that seems to be over.”

       “What happened to his neck?”

       “Spider bite,” he said tersely.  “Gets infected now and then, and drains then seems to heal.  Nothin’ to be done ceptin’ to keep it clean while it’s drainin’--Strider, Lord Elrond, and the King’s brothers all say the same, and they’re the best healers in Middle Earth.”

       “Shall I keep an eye on it?”

       He laughed almost bitterly.  “You keep an eye on it?  Not likely as he’ll even admit to you he has it.  And it shouldn’t open again for another couple months, it keeps on as it has.  Seems to be just over two months between drainings.”

       “Thank you for telling me what happened.”

       He looked down.  “What I could tell you.”

       “Hopefully as it’s enough to help me understand--at least some.”

       “Some,” he agreed, and he took his pack and headed for the stables.

       When she looked into the room, she saw Frodo lying on his side, plainly asleep.  As usual the curtains were left open, and it seemed the thin starlight was somehow reflected from his pale face, which tonight seemed quite peaceful.  She smiled and closed the door.

68

       Frodo called in all of the Shiriffs, and questioned each one himself.  Village heads for the regions each was assigned to came in to speak to him of what certain Shiriffs had done, and sometimes he’d send for Hobbits that had suffered especially from the attentions of this one or that.

       Folks who had complaints to be made began to appear in the Council Hole at all hours of the day, and Hillie was being kept very busy taking statements, some of which were so bizarre he realized he needed to have someone investigate them to see if they could possibly be true.

       “Who do you think would do to check out some of these stories, Frodo?” he asked one day as he set four that were particularly unlikely before his cousin on the surface of the Mayor’s desk.

       Frodo picked up the first one.  “This Man stole her drawers off the line where she’d hung them to dry?” he asked, totally confused.  It was a behavior he’d never heard tell of before.

       “Yes, hers and her daughters, and each laundry day three weeks running.  Unlike most of Lotho’s Big Men he didn’t call them things like ‘ratlings’  or ‘childers’ or ‘imps’ or ‘maggots,’ but he definitely appears to have had a fascination with the small clothes for lasses.”

       Frodo shuddered at the mention of the word maggots, so commonly used a term for one orc by another.  He looked back at the report.  “I’m not certain what we can do about this, as the Men are all out of the Shire now and can’t be made to give the clothing back.”  He rubbed at his left shoulder.  “Have any of the places the Men stayed in around her home been gone through as yet to see if there were such items found in them?”

       “I don’t know,” Hillie answered.  “That was where?  Oh, the Southfarthing.  I’m not certain who’s been seeing to checking the Men’s places down that way.”

       Frodo added that to his list of assignments yet to be made and tasks to do, and looked over the next complaint.  A Hobbitess had lost a sheep a week for six weeks until all were gone, and when she’d tried speaking to the Shiriffs they’d just turned her away.  Then she’d heard sheep as she was walking by a house where some of the Big Men near Pincup had been sleeping nights, and peeking in through a gap in the wall she’d found herself looking into a room in which there were three sheep, two of which she was certain were hers, one of which had been kitted out in what appeared to be a Hobbit lady’s drawers.  Frodo read it twice, looked up and commented, “Perhaps we have found Missus Goodloam’s laundry.”  He looked at the third one, then the fourth, said, “What?” and shook his head. 

       He closed his eyes, then opened them and focused on the far wall.  “I agree--we need someone to determine what’s true and what isn’t, although again those involving individual Big Men who did odd things aren’t likely to be to be settled to the satisfaction of those making the complaints, as we can’t go out and hunt through all of Eriador to find all the ruffians and then ask each ‘Were you the one who did such and such?’ until we find the right one.  It could easily be one of those who died, in fact.”

       Hillie nodded.  “I thought as some Hobbits could do some very odd things,” he commented, “but between what some felt free to do under Lotho and what some of these Big Men appear to have found amusing I am alternately amazed and appalled.”

       “I’ll speak to Brendi when he comes again,” Frodo said.  “Maybe he can think of someone in the Southfarthing we could trust to go through the places the Big Men stayed.  He has more ties down that way than I do.”

       Some of the jewelry was never found; but Fenton’s feather quilt was recovered from the bed of Alyssum Smallburrow, Bedro Bracegirdle was wearing Will’s shirt studs when he was taken by the Master’s folks, and Mina’s wedding bracelet was found in the jewel box in what had been Lobelia’s room in Bag End.  Timono had taken bags of jewelry with him, and these were found to have come from across the Shire.  Frodo recognized some pieces that had belonged to Wisteria Boffin and Iris Baggins and Odocavar Bolger; and a number of items taken from the homes of Marco Smallburrow and Fred Oldbuck’s dry goods store were also recognized and prepared to be returned to their former owners.

       Timono Bracegirdle sat in the second cell finished in the new lockholes, while Bedro Bracegirdle had the third one.  As Frodo had foreseen, Timono had been found in the drying shed on the second Hornblower plantation, and he’d been a pale ghost of what he used to be like.

       Marco Smallburrow looked through the window in the door of his cell and called out to Pinto Longsmial, “I want to make a complaint to the deputy Mayor.”

       Pinto looked at the lawyer with a jaundiced eye.  Ever since his second day, Marco had done nothing, it seemed, but complain.  This was but his sixth day, but Pinto was getting very tired of it all. “What’s wrong this time?  Bathwater not the right temperature?”

       “I’ve not even been able to take a bath as yet.  And that’s what I want to complain about.”

       “You’ve already been told--you can have a cold bath any time you wish, but a hot one only the day before the High Day.  And you had the chance that day, but you decided not to take it then.”

       “But I wish one today.”

       “Then take a cold one.”

       “It’s not fair!”

       Pinto glared at the Hobbit.  “Mr. Smallburrow, sir, life isn’t fair.”

       “Where is Frodo Baggins?  He gets a warm bath whenever he pleases.”

       “He’s been in Bywater the last few days, and only come back to Michel Delving last night.”

       “Then call him in here.”

       Pinto had had enough.  Maybe Frodo could get through to this fool.  He went out to the Council Hole, and Smallburrow smirked.

       A few minutes later a tall, slender figure wrapped in a grey-green cloak appeared in front of the cell.  Marco was startled, for Frodo Baggins had always tended to be more silent than most Hobbits and appeared to have perfected this art even more since his disappearance.  Frodo examined Marco as if he were a highly interesting-looking insect he intended to order Samwise Gamgee to poison because it was eating the rose leaves.  Finally Frodo asked, “You desired to see me?”

       “You took your time coming.”

       “I am not at your beck and call.

       “You locked me up here--you owe me.”

       “I owe you?”  Frodo appeared amused, and started to laugh.

       “Of course!”  This wasn’t supposed to be happening this way, Frodo laughing at him.  He was supposed to be contrite, fawning, apologetic.

       “Who was it presented a feather quilt to your mother?”

       “I did.”

       “Why?”

       “Because she wanted one, and one was available.”

       “Where did you get it?”

       “The gatherers and sharers brought it out----”

       “Out of where?”

       “Out of a home where it wasn’t needed. ’Twas on an extra bed.”

       “So, your mother, who has an entire closet full of blankets, rugs, quilts, and comforters both according to her and the Shiriffs who searched her home, needed a feather quilt in especial?  Those who had kept that on the extra bed, who had only three spare blankets, could make do?”

       “It was especially beautiful.  My mother deserved it.”

       Frodo continued to examine him as if he were now eating his way across the lilac bushes.  Finally he said, “My mother deserves also to live in luxury, Marco Smallburrow.  And I can afford to do so without stealing from others.”

       “Then do so.”

       “There is but one problem--she’s been dead for thirty-nine years.  You see, Marco, I could do what I please for her, but she’s not here for me to do so.  Life isn’t fair.  Funny thing--I’ve been going through your partnership agreements, and you could do what you pleased for your mum without stealing, too, much as I could do now.  You’ve had a sizable income coming in.  Why didn’t you have a feather quilt made for her?”

       “Why should I pay?”

       “Perhaps because that’s what folks do, pay for things so they can have them or give them to others.”

       “And how much was given to you?”

       Frodo’s face grew stony.  “Far more, perhaps, than I deserve; but I’ve not deserved the title of thief since I was a teen.  And at least what I was given was given by those who came by it honestly, folk who didn’t lie, cheat, misrepresent, cozen, or steal to get those things.” 

       There was something in Frodo’s eyes that drew those of Marco’s, and suddenly the lawyer wanted to look away and found he couldn’t.  Finally he said, “But no one’s put you in prison.”

       “You think not?  You don’t know what’s happened to me outside the Shire.”

       “Who’d put you in prison?”

       Frodo looked into the cell through the small window in the door.  “Let me see--you have a comfortable room, dry and clean.  You have a bed--perhaps not the height of luxury, but a real bed with a real mattress, sheets, pillows and blankets, and even a rug by it.  You receive four good meals a day, which is appropriate for one who is not laboring each day.  The air here is fresh.  You have a proper privy.  You face only a locked door.

       “Let me remember the appointments of the room I was held in--stone tower, hundreds of feet tall; a large room of freezing cold stone with an unglazed window allowing the drafts through.  I was stripped naked and bound so tightly hand and foot my wrists and ankles bled.  I was given rancid meat of unknown origin and a foul drink so bitter I wanted to vomit it forth as soon as they forced it down me, but I couldn’t.  I watched them destroy my pack, take my clothing, rip my water bottle apart.  I lay on the stone floor on the rags ripped from the bodies of those who had preceded me in this room, and with nothing to cover me.  I was beaten repeatedly, and threatened with worse.  I was promised----”  Frodo shuddered.  He closed his eyes to compose himself, and when he opened them his gaze was as relentless as it had been before. 

       “This cell has been constructed on the site of two of the small storage rooms which Lotho’s and Sharkey’s folks converted to prison cells.  In the first one we found Will Whitfoot.  When he was thrown in here his kneebone was cracked, and he was in constant pain whenever he must move it.  He was given a pan of water from which he must drink like a dog and which was refilled, when the gaolers were feeling generous, once every two or three days.  Each day he was given one or two meals of bread, usually quite dry, and occasionally dried meat or a vegetable.  He was dragged out and questioned about possible conspiracies with Hobbits from quite different parts of the Shire, and beaten because he couldn’t answer them.  He has the whip scars on his back and shoulders.  He had lost over half his weight from what he’d been when they took him and brought him here.  He was given no bed, only a single blanket that was more holes than cloth when they closed the door on him.  He had no privy but must use a bucket--a bucket in which on occasion they would take to empty and bring back filled with the water which he was expected to drink.

       “And the crime for which he was imprisoned--going to protest to Lotho about Lotho illegally taking control of the Shiriffs and naming himself Chief Shiriff.”

       “Why were you imprisoned?”

       “For the crime of having been bitten by a spider--a poisonous spider.”

       Somehow Marco realized that Frodo was not lying or exaggerating.

       “Then there was the prisoner down the passage from here, aged Hobbitess, was brought in a month before we returned, taken on the street for the crime of wanting to complain to Sharkey about his Men putting up still more sheds in her garden without her permission.  Was given a large cup of fresh water daily but meals the same as was Will Whitfoot; and got out to learn her son had been murdered.  Her son, also, had wanted the best for his mother; at least the hole he bought her he paid good money for, although had the one he bought it from known where he got that money he’d not have sold it to him.”

       “Who was she?”

       “You haven’t figured it out, Marco?  Lobelia--Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.”

       Frodo looked again at the room through the window.  “I spent a good deal of time discussing prisons with the King.  Those imprisoned in the Citadel of Minas Tirith would love to have a room this comfortable, although they aren’t deprived, either, of anything more than the freedom of which they’d taken unfair advantage.”  He turned his eyes back to those of Marco Smallburrow.  “I suggest that you stop complaining, or it is likely that we will take you to the cell in which Lobelia was imprisoned.  I doubt you would find it to your liking, though.”  One last time Frodo examined the room, looking at the cushioned chair provided the prisoner.  “For you the Time of Troubles was more a time of plenty; now that time is definitely over.”  Frodo turned away, and on the back of Frodo’s neck, beneath the collar of the shirt and the grey cloak he wore, Marco would see part of a bandage, mostly hidden by his clothing.  He wondered why Frodo Baggins needed a bandage, and if he’d truly talked to this new King.

       Pinto Longbottom watched as Frodo left.  He’d heard what Frodo said to Marco and was shocked.  But as he watched the thin Hobbit readjust his cloak on his shoulders as he left and saw that the rumors were true and Frodo had indeed lost a finger on his right hand, he was willing to believe that Frodo, whose honesty in what he said was legendary, hadn’t lied to Marco.  But where in Middle Earth might one have wanted to imprison a Hobbit?  And how had Frodo gotten there?  Suddenly he thought he might be better off not knowing.

       The next time Marco started to complain Pinto called for aid, unlocked Marco’s door, and the three Hobbits marched the former lawyer down the passage to show him the cell in which Lobelia had been kept.  “Would you really prefer to be housed here?  I have the deputy Mayor’s permission.”

       The complaints stopped.

       Frodo was kept busy writing reports to the Thain, Lord Halladan, and the King as well as working on the dwindling mountain of documents that had been built during Will’s imprisonment.  Tolly and the others now began searching the archives for documents detailing Lotho’s activities over the past three, then five years.  Then they found themselves looking at just Timono’s contracts, many of which had been written with small biting clauses added that it turned out had been enriching him and a few of his other basically Bracegirdle clients for years.  Most of the victims of these clauses admitted they’d been angered when they’d found they’d been written into their contracts and they’d not noticed when they signed them; but had been too embarrassed to complain.

       Brendi came a second time just after the meeting of the family heads.  He brought with him Frodo’s last will, which Frodo had asked him to bring, as well as a few other documents Frodo had entrusted to him.  As they walked to the newly reopened inn for lunch he asked, “How was the meeting the other night?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “First time I’ve had to chair a meeting or host a banquet, although I’m certain all felt the banquet was more than a bit sparse.  But I can’t allow family heads to feast freely when lesser folk are left to go hungry.”

       “Did they complain?”

       “No, actually.  And I was amazed at how easily they agreed to examine what Lotho and Sharkey’s folks had done in their own families and areas.”

       “Uncle Sara tells me that Sam is now family head for the Gamgees and Ropers.”

       Frodo smiled.  “Yes, and it was a good decision on the part of his Uncle Andy.”

       “He was quite impressed by the garb Sam wore that night, said it was very becoming.”

       “Yes, Aragorn and the Lady Arwen are both good at choosing good fabrics and colors for others.”

       “I’d love to see you in some of yours.”

       Frodo looked highly embarrassed.  “I left almost all of it in Gondor, and the rest of it in Bree.  I’m a Hobbit of the Shire, Brendi, not a Man of Gondor.”

       “Actually, Merry said something about you now being a Lord of all the Free Peoples....”

       Frodo went pale.  “That Brandybuck!  Why did he tell you that?”

       “Is it true?”

       It took some time before Frodo finally answered, “Yes.”

       “So the King arranged this?”

       “Actually he didn’t start it, although he did see to its execution.”

       “He said it was true for both you and Sam.”

       “Yes.”

       “Why don’t you tell folks?”

       “Brendi--that’s true for out there, not here in the Shire.”

       “Nonsense, Frodo Baggins.  Aren’t Hobbits part of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth?”

       “Part of what makes us Hobbits is that we’re not given to having lords and such.”

       They entered the inn and were shown seats at a table near the fireplace.  “One good thing about the Big Men being gone--there aren’t those odd rules about how much wood you can burn.”  Brendi sighed.  “Lotho told us that it was to save wood, and then they went out and cut down all those trees, then forbade anyone to do anything with the wood.”  Brendi slipped off his cloak and draped it over his chair, then noted Frodo was wrapping his more firmly about him.  “Are you cold, Frodo?”

       Frodo sighed.  “Yes, I get cold all too easily any more.”

       “You’ve put on a few pounds since I saw you last.  Your face doesn’t look quite as thin.”

       “It’s taking time, though.”

       They gave their orders, and Brendi looked at Frodo with concern.  “That’s barely enough to keep body and soul together, Frodo Baggins.”

       Frodo looked at him levelly, then finally said, “It’s hard for me to keep food down much of the time, Brendi.  I must eat only small amounts at a time.  Aragorn and the other healers tell me it’s not that uncommon for people who’ve----”  He stopped, then shook his head.  “Anyway, I’m to eat more smaller meals.  Tell me how things are going in the Hall.  Did you stay there during the Time of Troubles?”

       Brendi told him about how he’d stayed as long as he could in the smial he’d shared with his father since his late wife Merilinde’s death many years earlier, and how then they’d hidden most of the valuable items and joined many others in Brandy Hall.  “I was able once to slip into the Shire proper and take a message to the Great Smial, but when Ferdibrand Took tried the same thing a few weeks later he was taken by the Big Men.  I’m not certain how they caught him, except I suspect that one of the Shiriffs helped them.”

       Frodo nodded.  “Ferdi’s said the same.”

       Frodo was able to eat most of what was brought to him and his mood lightened as he heard some of Brendi’s stories.  At last Brendi asked him to tell of those with whom he’d traveled, and Frodo looked off thoughtfully.  “Let me see--Gandalf, of course; Aragorn; Boromir, the son of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor; Legolas, son of King Thanduil of Mirkwood; Gimli son of Gloin from Erebor, the Dwarf kingdom from under the Lonely Mountain; and the four of us.  Boromir must have wondered how in Middle Earth he’d come to travel with such an unusual group.  The people of Gondor know of Elves, of course, but I doubt they’ve seen any for thousands of years.  Actually, I think that as Aragorn explained it, the last ruler of Gondor to have seen an Elf was Eärnur, and the last time an Elf had visited Minas Tirith was when Elves accompanied Arvedui there when he made his claim for the Winged Crown.  That would make it at least a thousand years since most in Gondor would have seen such a one.  And I think it was longer since they’d seen Dwarves.  Gimli commented he was the first of his people to go South of the Misty Mountains in over fifteen hundred years.  As for Hobbits--Eärnur’s folks carried home stories after the death of Arvedui Last-King, but the people of Gondor didn’t really believe them.  They thought we were just part of the old wives’ stories to amuse children.  Although once they saw Pippin they knew precisely what he was and started calling him the Ernil i Pheriannath, which means Prince of the Halflings.  He was terribly embarrassed at first, but after we came he’d occasionally try to order us around when we were in public.  You know Sam--he’d do about anything any of us asked; but if Pippin would try it with Merry or me we’d just sit on him and tell him to get his princely fingers doing it for himself.  One poor woman in the Fifth Circle was most aghast.

       “Anyway, here was this most prosaic of Men in the midst of the oddest company one can imagine--grumpy old Gandalf; Aragorn, who then was so accustomed to being by himself he could at first go for days barely speaking to us except for necessary directions on what we should be doing and how we should do it; a fascinatingly handsome Elven Prince who moved like a cat and could melt into the trees in a heartbeat; a taciturn Dwarf who resented having to travel with the Elf and with whom he’d trade barbs that could at times draw blood; and four witless Hobbits, only one of whom appeared to be any good for anything.”

       “And which of you was that?”

       “Sam, of course.”  The two laughed, and Brendi signaled to the server to bring more tea.

       “As I told you last time, while we were in the Old Forest we met Tom Bombadil.”

       “The one of whom Maggot used to tell tales?” Brendi asked.

       “Did he?” wondered Frodo.  “I didn’t know.”

       “You left before you had the chance to become properly acquainted with him,” Brendi said, stretching.  “After Bilbo adopted you Maggot made a point of making friends with many of us who had formerly deviled him.”

       “So I gathered from Pippin’s comments.”  Frodo smiled up at the server who brought him his tea.  Once the server was gone Frodo continued, “As we were going through the Barrowdowns, Tom gave each of us a sword.  Mine was broken when I fell off Lord Glorfindel’s horse, but then when we were in Rivendell Bilbo gave me Sting, the sword he found in the trolls’ cave.  The problem was that none of us had the least idea how to use a sword.  Strider tried to give us some instruction on the way to Rivendell, but I didn’t even get down the proper manner of holding it, I don’t think.  Not, of course, that while we were going through the Midgewater Marshes and the small forests and along the ridges we had any real time to practice.  Then I was wounded and we all forgot about the idea of learning to use our swords, for all were too intent on trying to get me to Rivendell as quickly as possible, before the--the shard made its way to my heart and I was lost.

       “They had to have something to keep Merry and Pippin from going mad with terror and concern for me, so apparently one of the Elven warriors took them out to begin teaching them proper swordcraft.  Sam just wasn’t interested, and while I was so sick they couldn’t have pulled him away from me with a team of oxen and a span of his Uncle Andy’s rope, they tell me.

       “Once I began to recover, Bilbo gave me his old mithril corslet and the belt and, as I said, his Elven sword Sting, for he’d taken them away with him when he left the Shire.  We all received schooling at least on how to hold our swords properly and how to do a few basic defensive moves, but I was just never very good at it, and Sam was too busy being generally useful to work at it, either.  Once Boromir arrived he took an interest in Merry and Pippin’s progress and began working with them--said it reminded him of working with his younger brother when they were lads--boys.

       “After we left Rivendell to head South we would sometimes stop a day or two while Aragorn or Legolas would scout the trail ahead, or occasionally to do a quick laundering of clothing and selves in a stream--and I’ll tell you doing so in January is quite an experience.  I don’t recommend it.”

       Brendi laughed aloud and Frodo smiled, his eyes twinkling as he paused to sip at his tea.  He set down his mug again and continued.  “Whenever we’d stop, if we had time Boromir, and sometimes Legolas and Aragorn as well, would work with us and our swords, and mostly again with Pippin and Merry.  It was wonderful to watch, particularly if someone managed to hurt Pippin, for he’d just drop the sword and retaliate by tackling his opponent’s legs and knocking him to the ground, and then he’d begin tickling him, often with Merry’s aid.  It’s almost impossible not to end up with bruises and even cuts and nicks during such practice--it was good Aragorn was a healer, although we didn’t truly appreciate just how good he was until we got through Moria.”

       “Moria?  The old Dwarf Kingdom that was supposed to have been destroyed by an evil demon of some kind?” Brendi asked, shocked.  “Just how many legendary places did you go through?”

       Frodo’s face grew solemn.  “Too many,” he said.  He shook himself slightly.  “We had to get East of the Misty Mountains somehow, but with the news that Saruman or Sharkey had fallen to lust for--for It and had become corrupted, we knew we couldn’t go too close to his fortress of Isengard and the Tower of Orthanc where he lived.  Aragorn insisted we try the high pass of Caradhras, but we couldn’t make it.  There were terrible snowstorms on the mountain, and an avalanche of snow and ice.  We were driven back.  Gandalf suggested we go through Moria--and I agreed.  It--it was terrible.”

       He sighed, his expression full of grief.  “They were right, the old legends about the demon in Moria.  We saw it.”  He went silent.

       “Why did you need a healer after you left Moria, Frodo?” Brendi prompted.

       Frodo gave a small shrug and drank some of his tea, then looked into his teacup.  “It took us four days to get through Moria.  Gimli was looking--looking for signs of his kinsmen who had come there some years back to try to recolonize it.  You remember Bilbo telling of Balin?”  At Brendi’s nod, he continued, “Balin decided to go to Moria and reopen it.  Moria is the great source of mithril in Middle Earth, and those who went with him were hoping to reopen the mines.  I understand that the first few years those in Erebor received word from the colonists, but that then all went silent.  They had heard nothing for years and were afraid they were all dead.

       “The first three days we saw and heard very little.  But going through the dark like that with only the light of Gandalf’s staff and then some torches we found was wearing--very wearing.  On the fourth day we reached one of the upper halls in the part of the great Dwarf city of Khazad-dum where the greatest population used to live, and there are air shafts and light shafts there.  We saw a smaller chamber off to the side where the light was stronger and Gimli went that way first, drawn by the extra light.  We were all starving for sunlight by then.  This was called the Chamber of Mazarbul, and I understand it used to be the room in which the records for Khazad-dum were kept.

       “Balin’s folk had brought a great journal with them in which they began keeping their own records of the colony, and we found it in that chamber, and--and Gandalf read from it to us.  At one point they even found a vein of mithril ore.  But then the orcs reentered Moria, and--and other evil creatures.  We--we saw a few of them.  Slowly at first they appear to have begun killing members of the colony, then more rapidly.  Balin himself was killed one day after he went out the East door to look into the Mirrormere where the Dwarves can see reflected the constellation of stars they call Durin’s Crown.  It is sacred to them.

       “They had made a tomb for Balin and placed it in the Chamber of Mazarbul, and Gimli wept to kneel by it, grieving for his kinsmen.  Until then, he and Legolas were always at dagger points with one another--but now it began to change as Legolas began to realize why the Dwarves still honored the memory of their lost kingdom, as we all began to appreciate how beautiful it must have been in the days of its glory.  It takes a good deal for an Elf to appreciate underground places, although the Dwarves of Erebor, I believe, helped to carve out Thranduil’s own halls in the great stone hill in which they are placed to aid in protecting his folk from the assaults from the great spiders and evil creatures from Dol Guldur.

       “While we were in that chamber we began hearing drumming in the deep, which was quite eerie, as it began immediately after Gandalf read what appeared to be the last entry in the journal, in which Fili wrote that they heard drumming in the deep, followed by the very last sentence, They are coming.

       “There were two doors to the room, and the orcs were coming by the main one, so we prepared to drive them back sufficiently so that we could get out the other door and down the stair beyond it.  They came--the orcs, the orcs and a cave troll.  Aragorn and Boromir were trying to force the door closed, and closed it on the cave troll’s foot, and--and I stabbed the foot with Sting and it drew it back.  But we already had some orcs that had been able to get past the door, and we had to fight.

       “I was hopeless.  Gimli was fierce, Gandalf was a blur as he fought with Orcrist and his staff, Boromir was grimly efficient, Pippin and Merry realized they could fight together and between them kill our enemies more easily, Sam was simply determined to do the best he could, and watching Aragorn and Legolas was fascinating, for it was like watching a deadly dance.  Then Aragorn, having taken Boromir’s measure, began fighting in concert with him, and the orcs began to fall in earnest.  The cave troll broke in and it took all of us to bring it down.  But then--then I was hit with a spear directly in the chest.  It ought to have killed me.

       “Bilbo had told me to wear the mithril shirt under my clothing and not to tell the others.  It turned the spear, but the force of the blow forced all the air out of me, and I fell stunned.  I couldn’t even breathe for some time.  The rest were certain I was dead.  One of the Men scooped me up, certain he was carrying only my corpse, and they hurried out the other door and down the stair.  When at last I was able to start breathing again and stirred and told them I was all right I shocked everyone.  Aragorn was going on as to how that spear could have skewered a wild boar even as they set me down.  I couldn’t hamper their swords--we were still being pursued, and we knew it.

       “Sam had managed to kill at least one orc--maybe two, but I think just one.  He had a fairly shallow gash on his forehead which still bled a fair amount.  The others were unhurt save for perhaps some bruises.  Once we--we were finally outside and running down the mountainside Sam and I began to fall behind.  When we could stop safely for more than a moment Aragorn wanted to see how I’d managed to survive.  He pulled the shirt off me, and then the mithril shirt as well, laughing with delight and satisfaction, and praising Bilbo for his forethought. 

       “He told me much later that he was amazed I got out of it with only a dent in my breastbone and the deep bruise, and that usually he’d have expected me to have had a few cracked or broken ribs as well.  He treated the bruise, then laid his hands on it and it was much relieved.  His is not as great as the healing power of Elrond or others of the great Elves, and is different in feel.  He did not have sufficient power to heal the Morgul wound or even to ease it much; yet Lord Elrond believed that the fact he was by me helped me to hang on as long as I did when I had the shard of the Morgul knife in me, although both he and Aragorn insist they felt my own will and stubbornness and Hobbit resiliency served best at seeing me through that.  He cleansed Sam’s forehead as well and again laid his hand on it, and it began to knit almost immediately.  There was barely a scab, even, and it needed no stitches.

       “The most remarkable change, however, was in the relationship between Gimli and Legolas.  After seeing the greatness of what we saw of Khazad-dum and Gimli’s grief at the loss of his kinsmen and having fought by his side, Legolas began to accord respect to Gimli, which he accepted with remarkable dignity.  Then we entered Lothlorien--and poor Gimli was lost.”

       “Lost?  What do you mean?”

       Frodo smiled.  “For the first time Gimli began to see the glory in growing things, for the land of Lothlorien was a reflection of the Undying Lands here in Middle Earth.  You cannot believe how beautiful it was, and the great majesty of the mallorn trees, much less the ethereal beauty of the city of the Galadhrim in the boughs of the mallorns, for they build their halls on platforms high in the branches of the great silver trees with the golden leaves.  And then----”  His smile softened.  “Then we met the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, Lady and Lord of that land.  The Lady Galadriel has the ability more strongly than in most Elves to look into ones heart and thoughts, and what she saw of honor and love of beauty in the heart of Gimli caused her to offer him deep respect.  Meanwhile, what he saw of the respect and honor she offered him caused Gimli to come to love her.”

       “But isn’t she married?”

       “Oh, yes; but I don’t believe he has any feelings of desire for her, and he would never dream of offending either her or her husband.  But I doubt he will ever marry now, for where among the women of his own people will he find her like?”

       “And you, Frodo--did you feel the same?”

       “I now have a love for her--but it is not the same as what Gimli feels--not for her.  But there in Lorien she frightened me as much as delighted me.”

       Brendi’s curiosity was piqued.  “Then there is one for whom you feel much as Gimli does?”

       Frodo’s cheeks grew slightly pinker.  “Three, I suppose--none of whom, of course, is suitable for me--the Lady Éowyn of Rohan, who is now married to the Lord Prince Steward Faramir of Ithilien in Gondor, a girl named Linneth whose father is a glassblower in Minas Tirith, and the Lady Arwen Undomiel, our Queen and bride to Aragorn.”

       Such was the softening of his voice as he named the Queen of Gondor and Arnor that Brendi realized that here was a new reason why Frodo might not look among their own people for a possible bride; where among the women of his own people would he find her like?

69

       “...And then Beri looked under the bed to find Evro hiding under there with six berry tarts.”

       As Brendilac Brandybuck and Frodo Baggins came into the Whitfoot kitchen Frodo was laughing.  Mina smiled with pleasure to hear that laugh, for Frodo didn’t appear to smile nearly enough as far as she was concerned--much less laugh.

       “Would you like to eat supper before you go back to Bywater, Frodo, Mr. Brendi?”

       “Certainly, Mina.  Thank you for all you’ve done for me this week.”

       “It’s a pleasure, Frodo.  Sit you down and I’ll have supper on the table in a moment.”

       Will came hobbling into the room on his crutches and eased himself into his chair.  “It’s becoming much easier, Mina, to get around any more.  The knee doesn’t appear to be hurting anywhere near as much as it did.  Well, and how are you tonight, Brendilac?”

       “Looks as if I’ll be busier in the next few weeks checking out the veracity of some of the wilder complaints registered about what happened during the Time of Troubles and looking through more of the places the Big Men stayed in the Southfarthing.”

       “Good use of your talents, I suspect,” Will commented.  “Has that Smallburrow chap stopped complaining as yet?” he asked Frodo.

       “Yes--Pinto took him to see the hole in which Lobelia was found and told him he had my permission to lock him up in that if he wouldn’t quit with all the complaints, and he finally quieted.”

       “You wouldn’t!”

       “I might for the space of a few hours, Will.”

       “Well, I suppose a few hours would have done him little enough harm,” Will said thoughtfully.

       Mina set dishes and utensils on the table, and Frodo and Brendi automatically began setting each where it belonged.  Will also saw the good humor in Frodo and was glad.  “You still going back to Bywater tonight, Frodo?”

       As he put mugs by each place setting Frodo gave a small nod.  “I did promise Sam, after all.  He’s known me long enough to know I must physically get away from the work or I’ll just keep at it until I grow totally exhausted.”

       Brendi asked, “Will you be coming to the Hall for Yule?”

       “No,” Frodo said, shaking his head.  “It’s too far to go in the weather coming, and too close to the edge of the Shire.  Aragorn wanted me in the center of the Shire for a time.”

       Both Will and Brendi looked at him with surprise.  “Whyever for, Frodo?” asked Will.

       Frodo gave a small shrug, avoiding the eyes of both. “He felt I would find more comfort in the midst of our folk, although I doubt he’d foreseen the condition in which we found the Shire once we got here.”

       “What about the Crickhollow house?” asked Brendi.

       Frodo visibly shuddered.  “They broke into the place, Brendi.  To stay in a place where the--Black Riders had been would not be good for me.”

       “They didn’t stay there,” Brendi objected.

       Frodo met his eyes.  “I became so sensitized to them, and particularly their leader, if any came anywhere near us once we left Rivendell it would almost incapacitate me.  Just knowing they’d been in the Crickhollow house would be more than I could bear--it wouldn’t allow me to stay there indefinitely.  They blasted the door open.”

       “Then what will you do with it--rent it out?”

       “I don’t know yet.”

       Mina was bringing the food to the table.  Frodo rose and turned West briefly, then sat down and thanked Mina, and they all began eating.

       After the meal Brendi helped clear the table and dry the plates while Frodo fetched his saddlebags.  He gave Mina a quick hug and took leave of Will, and with a nod to his cousin to follow, Frodo left the house for the village stable.

       The overcast of the earlier day had cleared, and now all was going still and frosty.  Their breath could be seen steaming as they walked through the cold night.  Frodo paused to look up at the stars, smiling.  “How glorious they are,” he said.

       “Beautiful,” Brendi agreed.

       Pease looked up at the two of them as they entered.  “Well, it’s about time.  Your Strider is most anxious to have a good walk, Mr. Frodo.  And I must say as your Thrush is lookin’ much better’n the last time as I saw the dear girl, Mr. Brandybuck.  Doesn’t appear to of took permanent harm, she doesn’t.  And she appears to of forgive you.”

       “She does insist on a good apple or carrot  now, though, before she’ll consent to go anywhere,” Brendi said, smiling, producing an apple from his pocket.

       Both ponies were quickly readied, and they mounted and began the ride to Bywater.  “Are we going by way of Hobbiton?” asked Brendi.

       Frodo shook his head.  “No--too painful to see its current condition.  Although Nibs tells me the sheds the Big Men had raised are all pulled down now, and they’ll soon begin digging the smials back into the lower Hill for those thrown out of Bagshot Row.  They found a lot of the windows and doors and furniture in those sheds Lobelia had complained of, apparently.  They even found much of the paneling.”

       After a time of riding without talk, Frodo began to sing a hymn to Elbereth.  Brendi didn’t understand the Elvish words, but sensed this was a song about stars.  It was good to hear Frodo’s clear voice raised in song again.

       “Where did you learn that?” Brendi asked after the song was finished.

       “Rivendell,” Frodo answered.

       “It’s deeply moving, and sounds perfect with you singing it.”  They continued in quiet.  Finally Brendi commented, “You had your hair cut.”

       “Yes, while I was at the farm last.”

       “I’m sorry--longer curls look particularly good on you.”

       Frodo gave a small laugh.  “Not you, too, Brendi.  Sam looks grieved as he must cut it short, and when it had to be cut in Minas Tirith Aragorn was almost in mourning.”

       “Then why cut it at all?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “I have a recurring sore that comes up on my neck, and Aragorn and his brothers all commented I need to keep it free of irritation from my hair,” he admitted.

       “A sore?  From what?”

       Frodo shook his head.  “You wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

       “Meaning you don’t want to discuss it?” Brendi asked.

       Solemnly Frodo nodded.

       After a further time Frodo asked, “Will you stay the night?”

       “No.  I’m expected in Overhill by my clients there, and after all the Cottons don’t know me, while Sam has always thought of me simply as ‘that Brandybuck lawyer.’  Does he realize we are cousins, do you think?”

       “He knows we are, Brendi; but the ones he knows best are those who always visited when we were younger--Merry, Pippin, Folco, Freddy, Beri, Ferdi.  You hadn’t been at Bag End since the Party when I changed to you as my personal lawyer, you know.”

       “Yes, I know.  Guess it’s mostly my own fault he doesn’t realize how close we are.  I know so much about him from what you and the others have always told me, after all.”  He gave his cousin an evaluative look.  “You apparently don’t speak a good deal about me to him.”

       Frodo again shrugged.  “I suppose I never thought to do so, Brendi.  But then I don’t talk about a good number of my relatives to others, all will find.”

       Brendi peered more closely at Frodo in the light of the heavens overhead.  “You mean you keep secrets from Samwise Gamgee?  From what Merry boasts of Sam, that sounds near impossible.”

       He could see Frodo shrug one shoulder.  “Even Sam has no idea of a far greater amount of my personal business than he realizes.”

       Brendi looked back to the road.  Finally he asked, “What will you do now?  You can’t stay at the Cotton’s place indefinitely.”

       “I’m not certain.  I’d thought to move in with Folco and Wisteria, but they’re having to live currently in one of the cottages intended for hands on their family farm, for their smial was dug out by Lotho’s folks.  My Uncle Dudo’s daughter Daisy would like me to stay with her, but--but it’s too painful at the moment being in Hobbiton itself, as I told you.”  He sighed.  “We found a good deal of the furniture taken from Ponto and Iris’s smial--the Cotton lads found it as they were going through more of the sheds at Bag End.  They had so little left, them and Milo.  It’s so sad to think of Peony having died that way.  Once she realized it was her telling Lobelia I was thinking of selling Bag End that led to Lotho getting control of Ponto’s deed she appears to have just faded.”

       “Whose children are these two cousins of yours you made your heirs?  I thought they were Dudo’s children.”

       “They are, by his second marriage.”

       Brendi was surprised.  “Second marriage?”

       “Yes, some years after Camellia’s death.”

       “Why haven’t any of us known about them?”

       Frodo looked over at him as they rode.  “Do you think I wanted them subjected to Lobelia’s tongue, Brendi?  Look at what she’s said about my mother and me.  For years I was supposed to be Bilbo’s child rather than my dad’s, and then I was weak and sickly and dying; I was a thief and couldn’t be trusted, and was lazy and madder even than Bilbo was supposed to be.  Better they live quietly in obscurity than go through that.”

       “Does Sam know about them?”

       “No.  You, Oridon, and Ordo need to know, so you do.”

       “Do you know them?”

       “Yes.”

       “Have you been to see them since you returned?”

       “When, Brendi?  When have I had the chance?”

       “I don’t know, Frodo.”

       Again they rode in silence.  Finally Brendi said quietly, “I’m just grateful you came back to us, Frodo.”

       “Thanks.”  But it seemed to Brendi that his cousin’s voice wasn’t as certain as it ought to have been.

*******

       “Are you well, Aunt?” Hyacinth Bracegirdle asked as she peeked into the parlor lit by the thin winter sunlight where the older Hobbitess sat, wrapped as she always was in her striped shawl with the long silver tassels and with a rug over her knees.

       Lobelia looked up at her cousin with interest.  Hyacinth was, she realized, one of the nicest of her relatives of the Bracegirdle name--but then she was half Boffin and even had some Baggins blood in her.  Funny how here was one Bracegirdle both the Boffins and the Bagginses were eager to claim for themselves while Lotho, born a Sackville-Baggins, had automatically been included in the Bracegirdle book and no one had ever questioned that this was the one book that was his by nature as well as by right through his mother.  “No,” she answered Hyacinth, “I’m not all right.  I had a miserable night and have felt cold and achy all day--not that anyone can do anything about it.”

       Lobelia was old, and her health had been broken by her ordeal.  Never had she questioned that all others were inferior to herself and her son; never had she questioned that first Otho and then Lotho deserved to be Master of Bag End and the Baggins as well as the Sackville; never had she questioned that those who couldn’t hold onto what they had deserved to lose it--until now, that is.  When Lotho had first indicated he was going to make himself Chief Shiriff she’d been pleased.  Lotho had wanted to join the Shiriffs since he was a small lad; but when he’d applied at age twenty-seven he’d been turned down for his age; and twenty-nine again for his age; and at thirty-three honestly because, “The other lads, Mr. Lotho, sir, don’t wish to work alongside you, beggin’ your pardon, sir.  You’re a bit too quick off the mark to tell folks as to what you think as they ought to of done, you understand, and folks don’t take well to that, particular when it’s what they’ve always done anyways.  And you don’t mix well with others, or laugh proper at the jokes told, you see.  And what jokes as you prefer to tell--it’s hard to say, sir, but they tends to be more cruel than funny, if you take my meaning.  You’d do best, I think, to study the law or somethin’ like.”  Minto Tunnely, who’d taken his third application was quite polite at the same time he was brutally honest.

       Lotho had come home humiliated, and had repeated the statement again and again and again.  After two weeks he went to Michel Delving to register a complaint with the Mayor, and Will had just shaken his head.  “And what am I to do about it, Lotho?  Do you like the idea of tramping through the Shire for days on end?”

       “I wouldn’t walk--I have ponies and a decent trap.”

       “Save in emergency, Shiriff’s don’t go by pony, Lotho.  If any ruffians try to come across our borders, it’s harder to see the signs if you’re on pony back, and far harder to hide the pony than just yourself if you have to watch them.  Nor will the locals approach you if you’re on a pony of the quality you own to let you know if they’ve sensed a problem building.”

       “No one would try anything in my area.”

       “You think not, Lotho Sackville-Baggins?  I can’t think of a corner of the Shire where there isn’t someone who’ll try to move boundary markers from time to time.  Again, you can’t see the signs of that on pony back, and couldn’t begin to see it from a trap.  Tracking straying cattle or sheep is another problem that’s best done on foot usually--can’t get a pony up into the sheep ranges easily.  And how do you think as you’d get a drunk lad or gaffer home from the inn if you’re on a pony and he’s on foot?”

       “There is no way I’d touch a drunk Hobbit any age.”

       “No way you will be a Shiriff then, Lotho.  Shiriffs work with Hobbits, drunk, sober, or however.”

       “I’ll just tell them not to drink.”

       Will looked at Lotho with his eyebrows raised almost to his scalp line.  “You think as Hobbits won’t do something simply because you tell them not to, Lotho?  You’d best think again!  Hobbits do what they please, or what they realize needs doing, and no amount of telling them to do otherwise tends to get through.  You can’t even reason with most Hobbits, save for the occasional Boffin, Took, Baggins, or Brandybuck; and even then you need to be careful lest you start something else you never intended.  Reason too long and a Took’ll go haring off after any stray argument as you might have touched on, a Brandybuck’ll do the opposite of what you want him to do, and the Baggins’ll just go stubborn on you.  There’s no one any more stubborn than a Baggins as has been argued with, you’ll find.

       “No, you want to get a Hobbit to do something or to stop doing something, you need to get him to think as it’s what he wanted to do to begin with, or you help him figure out as how it’s needed.  Otherwise you won’t get nowhere.  Let him see how what you want him to do needs doing, and you’ll find he’s your Hobbit, and then nothing will stop him, and especially if he’s a Baggins.”

       “So, you won’t make the Shiriffs accept me?”

       “No, Lotho--first of all I can’t for I haven’t the authority, and second I won’t for Minto’s right--you don’t work well with others.  Like I just said--Hobbits’ll do what they want or what they realize needs doing, and that’s just the way as it is.  Folks just don’t like you, and that’s not putting you down, see, but telling it as it is.  You’re just not a Hobbit’s Hobbit.  It’s nothing you can do much about, for that’s just how it is with Bracegirdles, you know.  You’d do better to go in for the law or something like.”

       The fury Lotho had felt had almost taken the roof off the Sackville-Baggins house when he’d returned home.  “How dare he, that miserable Whitfoot?” Lotho had demanded.  “Telling me I’m not a Hobbit’s Hobbit, as if that’s to be expected of a Bracegirdle!”

       He had ended up starting to study the law indeed, but found it boring and confusing.  He decided to leave that to his cousins Lothario, Bartolo, and Timono.  No, he wasn’t that interested in studying law--what he wanted to do was to make law.  He was a reasonably intelligent Hobbit, and far more so than most inhabitants of the Shire.  He certainly had ideas on how things could be better, more efficient, more orderly.  He’d show folks how the Shire had ought to be run--just give him half a chance....

       Lobelia wasn’t certain exactly how Lotho had become aware of the Big Men from down South a ways.  Perhaps on that trip out to Bree five years past....

       Timono had gone one year with some of their Hornblower relatives to Bree to discuss sales of apples, pears, and pear wine from the orchards of the Southfarthing, and while there had been exceedingly flattered to find himself attracting the attention of traders from further South.  They’d told him they’d heard of the Shire and how excellent its produce was supposed to be, and asked if he could arrange introductions to some of the larger purveyors of foodstuffs and other crops in the Shire who might be willing to sell a goodly amount of their goods outside the Shire.

       The next time Timono went, he took Lotho with him, and the traders from further South had words of advice for him on how to increase the yield of his crops and thus his profits as well.

       Otho might have been a lout in many ways, but he’d had an excellent eye for land, and had managed to turn some of his farmshares into a goodly number of farms and leaf plantations which he owned outright and leased wisely to skilled farmers for shares of the crops.  Lotho had thus inherited a good fortune in terms of land.  For the first years after his father’s death while the leases Otho had negotiated still held all had continued well on those farms; once the leases terminated and needed to be renewed, however, things became more problematic, for Lotho had the new leases written giving himself more say in what the farmers who worked the land planted, how they planted it, how crops were to be marketed and to whom, and so on.  Some of those who’d been able to function fairly autonomously under Otho’s leases found the new regime restrictive; others found it ominous.

       Langham Longbottom, considering the detailed directions sent him by Lotho, came to Hobbiton to try to reason with him, only to find that Lotho had gone to Hardbottle to spend a few days with some of his Bracegirdle relatives.  However, as Lobelia was home, Langham had sought to plead his case with her.

       “He must realize, Mistress Lobelia,” he explained, “that what he wants me to do won’t work for very long.”

       “He says,” Lobelia sniffed as she herself perused the letter, “this is intended to increase yields.  Won’t it do so?”

       “Yes, it will, but----”

       “Then there is no problem, is there, Langham Longbottom?”

       “Perhaps not for this year or next year, but what about two years from now?”

       “What about two years from now?”

       “He says I’m not to do what I do now, and I’m not to allow any of the land to lie fallow, either.  What he proposes will eat at the health of the soil, Mistress, and eventually will destroy its ability to bear.  What’s the point in increasing the yield if it’s at the cost of the future of the land itself?  Yield will be higher this year and next, and if he’s very fortunate perhaps a third year; but by at the latest the fourth year it won’t be as much as this year; by the fifth year it will be much depleted; and by the tenth year at the latest we’ll do well to grow hay on it.”

       Lobelia had straightened and given the farmer her fiercest Bracegirdle glare.  “Do you think to know better than does my son?” she demanded.

       Concern for his land had given him courage to stand up to her.  “Do I think to know better than Lotho?  Of course I do!  I’ve been actively farming land for over twenty years on my own, and alongside my da for all my life before that.  I’ve worked this farm so long, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, that I don’t want to destroy it with crack-brained schemes such as this.”  Then with a considerable amount of dignity he rose and left.

       What he said, however, remained with her.  Finally she left the house and headed for the market where she met Tom Cotton the elder.  She approached him with sudden decision.  “Ah, Mr. Cotton, I was wishing to ask you something about increasing yields.”  She described the procedures Lotho had indicated.

       Farmer Cotton rubbed at his forehead.  He was surprised Lobelia would approach him to begin with.  “Well, Missus Lobelia,” he said, slowly, “it would work; and if we was having droughts, say, in the Southfarthing and extra yield was needed one year, I’d consider doing exactly that.  But only for a single year.  Past two years the yield would begin to fall off, for it would be too hard a draw on the soil itself.  Within seven to ten year it would kill the land itself.  It’s not what a wise farmer tries for more than a season.”

       She was surprised, but thanked the farmer as courteously as she could and returned home, forgetting the purchases she’d intended to make.  The love of Hobbit for the land that sustains him (or her) came to the fore, and when Lotho returned home she’d looked at him, having figured out how she would present the problem to her son.  When they sat down to supper she commented, “Seems Old Tom Cotton is having some problems with Young Tom this year.  The lad has taken it into his head to....”

       As she described precisely what Lotho had instructed Longbottom to do on his farm and how both Langham Longbottom and Tom Cotton had indicated it would eventually kill the fertility of the soil, Lotho went quiet and quit eating, looking at his mother suspiciously from under his brows.  Three days later, after quietly consulting with Folco Boffin, who had the same evaluation of the situation as Old Tom Cotton, Lotho sent another letter to Langham Longbottom indicating he wanted the revised procedure used only for one year, and that he’d not truly desired it followed every year as apparently his former letter had seemed to indicate.  But he’d quietly seethed at once again having his superior wisdom questioned.

       The word that Frodo had managed at last to squander all of Bilbo’s treasure had thrilled Lobelia, and she’d quickly passed the word to her son that Frodo had offered Bag End to Ponto and Iris Baggins; he’d gone immediately to Frodo with his own offer, knowing it would take some days for Ponto and Iris to come up with the funds desired.  When after Lotho had made his own offer Ponto had come to him offering his own smial of Baggins Place as collateral on a loan for the amount Frodo had asked of him, Lotho had been secretly pleased to have the means to demean and impoverish still another Baggins and perhaps gain control of his smial, and he’d had his cousin Timono think up a particular scheme by which the “loan” became almost an outright purchase.  Dear, trusting Ponto and Iris--how easy it had been; they got the money they’d desired, but couldn’t pay it back for a year and a day; instead they must pay him rent on their own place starting the day after the odious Frodo Baggins’s birthday, on which day he took possession of Bag End.

       Lotho had again been furious when he realized that Frodo wouldn’t sign any contract he’d had prepared, but insisted on having his own personal lawyer write up the bill of sale and conveyance of the deed.  This cheated him of the chance to cheat Frodo, but in the end perhaps that was as well.  Frodo was, after all, a good deal less trusting of bargains struck with the Sackville-Bagginses than was Ponto--he was more likely to have picked up on the unusual clauses and to have called in that Brandybuck lawyer of his come and check it out before he signed; and Lotho was already sensing he had difficulties possibly building with one of his previous Brandybuck clients; another problem so quickly with Brandybucks could bring both Master and Thain upon him before his plans were ripe.

       The day they’d entered Bag End had been one of the proudest that Lobelia had ever known--at last she was mistress of the one smial she’d coveted more than any other all during her life, and dowager mother of the Baggins--or so she thought.   Lotho had not had the courage to tell her that Frodo had failed to give over that title along with the deed to the smial; nor that the services of Sam Gamgee as gardener had not come with it, either.  It was an unpleasant surprise to learn this last a week and a half before the birthday, but by then it was too late to rectify the situation.  Nor had Lotho told her that the purchase hadn’t included the smials in Bagshot Row--he’d decided that once his small army of Big Men was made evident, he was going to forget the niceties of property ownership.  He already had control of so much of the Shire, after all; once he had recognition as Master of Bag End a number of his questionable clauses would come to fruition, and the number of folks who could question his authority would be so small as to be negligible.

       It was only after they’d been in Bag End for a week that Lobelia began to realize that things were nowhere as wonderful as she’d always envisioned.  No one would agree to come to her first tea party; and when asked why Iris Baggins had glared at her.  “After Timono Bracegirdle came yesterday to inform us that we have to pay a totally ridiculous rent on our own property and can’t repay the amount we borrowed from Lotho for another seven months, you think we truly wish to attend a party with you?  You’d best think again, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins!”

       Peony  Burrows, Ponto Baggins’s sister and Lobelia’s one confidant in Hobbiton, wouldn’t even come to the door, and Milo threatened to set the dog on her.

       Wisteria Boffin just laughed at her when they met at the tea shop; Ivy Boffin stared at her suspiciously, as did too many of those she met in Hobbiton and Bywater.  Never had Lobelia ever been popular in the area since her marriage to Otho--to be outright shunned, however, infuriated and humiliated her.  Moro Burrows and his wife Daisy gave her the bolt of cloth she’d indicated she wished her new gown to be cut from and informed her that they realized they were not up to her standards, and that she needed to take her custom elsewhere; Marigold Gamgee explained she had too many clients already for cleaning and extra work, much less to do laundry; Widow Rumble simply was always looking elsewhere whenever Lobelia passed her on the lane; and the Chubbs, Twofoots, and Proudfoots would withdraw into their smials and close the door the moment she or Lotho came out the green door to Bag End.

       It was two weeks after they came to Bag End that Lobelia first overheard the rumor that Frodo Baggins had disappeared from the Shire with Samwise Gamgee and the heirs to Thain and Master, and that mysterious Big Men in Black who left in their path memories of terror had been seeking after him.  A week later the first of Lotho’s own Big Men came to Bag End, and the looks Lobelia saw were now of suspicion and fear mixed with resentment.

       At first the Big Men frightened Lobelia, but eventually Lotho convinced her they deferred to him.  However, as time passed she realized that the Big Men only gave lip service to obeying her son, and her fear grew again.

       A good part of why she’d wanted Bag End was to bask in the reflected glory of its gardens, and to enjoy its beauty as her own domain; the Big Men began trampling that glory down from the moment they came up the Hill, and Lotho had no control over them at all.  She’d begun remaining in her room when the Big Men were in the smial, which seemed to be more and more of the time as the months passed.

       Lotho had ordered the building of brick houses in what had been an area of kitchen gardens, and then forcibly moved the inhabitants of Bagshot Row out of their homes into the new houses, which he’d assured his mother were far more comfortable than the smials dug out along the Row.  She was herself shocked at the appearance of these houses, which were totally against Hobbit custom and aesthetics, being square, squat, and bare where Hobbits preferred long, low buildings with curved lines which looked as if they might have just grown out of the hills and valleys of the land.  But, if Lotho said they were more comfortable than what had been there before, he must be telling the truth--or so she convinced herself before Sharkey came.

       Sharkey was the most terrifying individual she had ever met, and she was totally at a loss trying to understand just why this was.  It was obvious to Lobelia that once he arrived the Big Men were now obeying him with little pretense of bowing to Lotho any more.  On his second day at Bag End, along with that Worm person who groveled along behind him, Lobelia found she couldn’t bear it, and slipped out the back door and down to the lane, umbrella in hand against the threat of rain in the sky. 

       It has been a time since she’d been outside the smial, and she was stunned at what she saw.  The beautiful gardens were covered now with a plethora of sheds, most of them built off true, and fabricated of such a variety of materials as to offend the least discerning of tramps.  The hedges planted by old Holman and so long cared for by Hamfast Gamgee and later by Sam were broken down in so many places it was hard to imagine how thick and lush they’d been just a year ago.  The oak tree atop the Hill had just been felled; and the tops of the fruit trees of the orchard on the far side of the Hill were wavering as if the trees were being shaken by a mighty storm--just before two of them fell in opposite directions.

       Shaken, Lobelia fled down the lane to where she could look down on what had been Bagshot Row, realizing it was now an open gravel pit.  The Water spreading out from what had been the Mill Run was now brown and ugly instead of clean and clear as it had always been; and the new Mill had to be the most grotesque and intimidating place she’d ever seen, particularly with the smokes, steams, and awful smells and grinding thumps emanating from the building.

       She’d found her way to the row of houses where Gaffer Gamgee and his former neighbors lived, and was shocked anew.  Marigold Gamgee was hanging her laundry from a limp line running from a corner of the ugly house to a bare pole, and she was now dressed not in her customary cheerful clothes but in a ragged dress which looked as if it had been given her by a not-so-charitable neighbor.  The lass’s hair was lank and greasy, her face thin and lined by care.

       “Marigold, is that you?” Lobelia demanded.

       The lass turned suddenly, as if fearing a threat.  “Missus Lobelia?”  Her face  had gone pale.

       “Of course it’s Mistress Lobelia,” she’d answered.  “Why are you dressed like that?”

       Marigold looked about carefully as if making certain no one was listening, then said cautiously, “It’s all as I have left.”

       “What do you mean, all you have left?  Your father never deprived you of clothes, after all.”

       “It’s the gatherers and sharers--they’ve taken all else I had, and everything as was the least bit pretty.”

       “Can’t you make more?”

       “And with what, Missus Lobelia?  The weavers, soon as they weave decent cloth, have it taken by the gatherers and sharers.  Daisy and Moro’s tailorin’ shop--they have next to nothin’ left.  Don’t know as where it’s all goin’, but there doesn’t seem to be any more cloth left in the Shire than there is malt or meat.”

       The Gaffer himself peeked out the door and hissed a warning at his daughter, and Marigold gathered up her basket to enter in.  From what Lobelia could see the opposite wall was unfinished brick rather than plaster or paneling.

       Lobelia Sackville-Baggins sat heavily on the ugly brick wall built to separate the gardens for the places, not so certain of things as she’d been.  How her son could have ordered the building of such monstrosities as these houses she couldn’t imagine, for now she was up close to them it was obvious they were ugly and totally unsuitable for Hobbits.  She sat, looking at them with a horrified fascination.  Then she heard a voice from behind her, and turned hurriedly to find herself facing Begonia Rumble.

       “Missus Lobelia?  Is that you, Mistress?  Are you well?”

       On the face of the Widow Rumble Lobelia saw an expression she had seen focused on herself only once before since she was an adult Hobbitess--compassion.  The last time she saw that was at Otho’s funeral, and it had been directed at her by Frodo Baggins.

       Begonia was continuing on.  “Some of us have been so worried about you,  you know.  We’ve hardly even seen you, haven’t known if those Big Men had left you alive, even.  What a life, kept virtually a prisoner up there by them.  Does Lotho still think as he’s the one in charge, do you think; or has he realized yet that they’re calling the tunes now?  Every time as we see him, they have him all circled about, and there’s so much they won’t let him even near to see what it’s really like, you know.  I’m surprised they’d even let you out alone. 

       “You poor dear, you’re so pale.  You come along inside and I’ll at least get you a cup of water.”

       Then Lobelia found herself being bundled inside the house and settled in a rocking chair, and she had the chance to look at the place.  She could see that there were indeed no inner walls, and that whoever had applied the mortar was no mason, as it was missing in several places, and more often than not the bricks were set in at slight angles.  A crack was forming on the East wall, and at one corner another could be seen.  The window in the far wall hung open in spite of the fact it was a dreary September day outside with a cool wind blowing.

       “The draft....” Lobelia began.

       “The window, you mean?” her hostess asked.  “I can’t get the window to stay shut no matter what I do.  I suspect in the end I’ll have to nail it shut for the winter, which will make it most uncomfortable, for the chimneys hardly draw at all, and it gets awful close in here when I must have the fire going.”  She was pouring a cup of water from one of the large stone water jars used by those who have no running water.

       “You don’t have a pump?” Lobelia demanded.  “Lotho told me as how he was having pumps put into all these houses.

       “Oh, yes, there’s a pump, but it’s not connected to anything--certainly not to the nearest well.  The Proudfoots found as their pump does bring water into their place, but it’s not from either the well or even the running stream nearby--it brings water in from the marshland nearest to us along the Water.  I think that’s the only one of these five houses as has a pump that pumps water, really.”  She pressed the mug into Lobelia’s hand.  “We all have to bring water in from the well in the next lane--at least the water there is good and sweet.  Much of the water in the Water itself is so dirty now, and much fouled.”

       Lobelia examined Begonia Rumble.  “At least you appear to be dressed suitably,” she commented.

       “You mean you’ve seen Marigold Gamgee?” Missus Rumble replied.  “It’s these gatherers and sharers, you know.  It’s like they were ordered to take everything of any value at all from those known to have been close to Frodo and Bilbo.  Poor Hamfast and Marigold have had their place gone through so many times it’s a wonder they have anything left at all.  Same for Ponto and Iris Baggins.  Folco Boffin and his mother Wisteria had their hole dug out completely; and as many times as Ivy Boffin and her daughter Narcissa have had their hole gone through it’s a wonder either has a thing to wear or a pot to cook in.”

       “But they haven’t done the same to you?”

       “They’ve gone through my place only twice, and didn’t take that much--but then most of the good things we had were in our furniture.  Most of the furniture we all had we were forced to leave when we were made to move, Missus Lobelia.  Have no idea what became of it--you certainly couldn’t fit most of it into Bag End, after all.  I managed to slip back into my own hole twice before they dug it out and got some more things, but the Gamgee hole actually had a guard on it.  Your Lotho must have a terrible grudge built against Frodo to try to punish him through his friends and kin.”

       Cupboards were wooden crates stacked along the leaning walls; the table was solid but ugly; the chairs mismatched and obviously in need of having the glue renewed.  Yet there sat Begonia Rumble’s cheerful dishes on them, looking totally out of place in the squalid setting.

       At last Lobelia rose to leave, deciding it was time to confront her son.  As she started climbing the lane on the side of the Hill toward the door to Bag End, however, she’d found herself being surrounded by some of the Big Men who paused in passing her.  “And where are you going, old hagling?” demanded the leader of the group, as ugly a being as she’d ever seen.  Who he was she had no idea, for she’d not seen him before.

       “Back up to Bag End.  And where do you think you’re off to?”

       “Up to put up some more sheds at Bag End for Sharkey.”

       “And who gave this Sharkey authority to order more sheds built there?” she demanded.

       The Men had laughed, and their laughter was ugly.  “You think as you have any say in the matter?” demanded the leader.  “Think again, ratling.  No, hagling, if Sharkey says as he wants sheds put up, sheds’ll be put up.”

       “You truly think as Lotho’ll allow this if I tell him no?”

       The leader turned to the rest of his fellows.  “You hear that?  The hagling thinks as that fool Lotho has any say whatsoever!”  All laughed freely--uglier laughter.  He turned back on her.  “No, hagling, anyone as thinks that Lotho can give orders is much mistaken.  Does what Sharkey tells him, he does.  You see, hagling, if we doesn’t like a Chief no more, we can change him.  And now as Sharkey’s come, he’ll do as Sharkey says or--or we’ll change him!”  His expression was ugly with threat.

       The courage all Hobbits hold inside came to the fore with her, although it wasn’t accompanied by much in the way of discretion.  “I’ll give you Sharkey,” she said with fury, going at the leader with her umbrella and actually catching him unaware with the shaft of it.

       The next she’d known, she was in the Lockholes in Michel Delving with only the barest idea of where she was and how she’d gotten there.  They were using great spikes to nail beams and boards over the opening in the storage hole she’d been assigned as a cell.  She got water daily and some food, so she wasn’t as badly off as some; but when she’d seen the cruel face of Sharkey leering in at her through gaps in the boarding that held her prisoner she’d been terrified.

       She’d begun to develop a fever after uncounted days in the cell which was lit only by the greasy torches those Men who kept the prison mounted along the passages.  She’d watched them as suspiciously as did all the rest; but other than the visits from Sharkey to gloat over her she was pretty much ignored, for which she was grateful.  Then she had a dream of Frodo Baggins, his face stern, his eyes indicating he was thinking rapidly, and when she woke her fever had begun to abate.  The following day those who kept the prison left the hole, having given most of the prisoners no food or water that day; and in the distance they could hear the big doors the Men had set into the mouth of the old storage holes being slammed shut and bars shoved into place.  All night they’d sat in their cells, watching the torches and lamps burn down until one after another they’d guttered and gone out, leaving all plunged into darkness.

       They’d awakened at the noise of hammers and cutters being used somewhere up the tunnel,  and those who were housed nearest the doors had been nearly blinded by the dim light which finally entered when at last the doors were thrown open.

       Then a cool, clear light that soothed had come down the passages as Frodo Baggins led searchers down to free those who’d been imprisoned here; and for the third time in her adult life, once Frodo reached her cell, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins saw compassion directed at her in the eyes of those who found her and freed her from her prison.

       As she sat quietly in Hyacinth’s cheerful sitting room, Lobelia remembered all this, and wept, wept for her Lotho and his foolish dreams of showing others, of his mistaken conviction that he’d made himself Chief of the Shire indeed, before that Sharkey had come and ordered him murdered.

       So far they’d not found his body; what that Worm person could have done with it no one knew.  The thought of returning to Bag End repulsed her, and she’d simply asked to be sent back to Hardbottle where hopefully one or two of her more decent Bracegirdle relatives might take pity on her and accept her into their homes.  Hyacinth had offered, and Benlo, who was now Bracegirdle family head, had agreed; and so Lobelia now had a home with her younger cousin who’d always called her Aunt much as Frodo had done the same for Bilbo and his older Took and Brandybuck cousins.

       There was a ring at the bell--so reminiscent of how cheerful the bell at Bag End had once sounded--before the Big Men had dragged the pull chain loose.  A few minutes later Benlo was following Hyacinth into the sitting room, and was bringing a chair to sit in front of her.  “Hullo, Cousin Lobelia,” he said.  “You are looking well enough.”

       His gruffness belied the social nicety, and she snorted.  “Come to it, Benlo,” she ordered.

       He wasn’t offended, for bluntness was as much a part of his nature as it was hers.  “It’s these deeds of Lotho’s, Lobelia.  Many of them are heavily entailed, you see; and many of the contracts he negotiated with folks all through the Four Farthings and Buckland verge on being flat illegal, if they aren’t illegal indeed.  I’m having to take a number of them to Michel Delving to be sorted out and ruled on.”

       “Will is going to go through them, is he?” Lobelia demanded.

       Benlo had shaken his head.  “No, Will’s going to be recovering from his time in the Lockholes for months, he is.  It’ll be the deputy Mayor what examines these, along with all the Took lawyers what’s helping him make sense of the mess Lotho left the Shire in.”

       “Who’s this deputy Mayor, then?”

       “Frodo Baggins.”

       “He living in the Whitfoot place, then?  Where are they staying?”

       Benlo had shrugged.  “Whitfoots are still in their own place, and they’ve found a good deal of the goods as had been stolen from them by the Big Men, so the house is pretty much now as it was.  Frodo boards with them the three or four days a week as he’s in Michel Delving actually working as deputy Mayor.  Elsewise they say as he stays with the Cottons on their farm in Bywater.”

       Why this surprised her Lobelia couldn’t say.  “Why doesn’t he stay with Ponto and Iris, or Folco and Wisteria?”

       “Ponto’s not in a good way, Lobelia.  Had a seizure of his heart and is now bedridden.  Much of their things have been found now and returned to them, at last, so at least they no longer have to sit on rickety old chairs in bare rooms.   Frodo’d never think to impose on them.  As for Folco and Wisteria--their hole was dug out early on by the Big Men.”

       Oh, yes, Lobelia remembered being told that by Begonia Rumble.  She turned her head away, the distress she felt overwhelming her.  Benlo continued, “At least as that’s one deed as Lotho held as is clear and legal--that for Bag End.  That Brandybuck lawyer of Frodo’s made certain as it was properly writ.  You could move back there, I suppose.”

       She turned on him, her distress heightened.  “You think I’d want to return to Bag End after all that’s gone on there, Benlo?  The gardens are all dead; there’s sheds everywhere; the paneling was being hacked to pieces by those Big Men of Lotho’s; and he apparently died there, there where he ought to have been safe.  No, I have no intention of returning there.”

       “Then do you want to sell it or something?  At least it would give you some money of your own that can’t be confiscated for having been illegally gotten.”

       Lobelia shook her head.  “I don’t know what to do, really,” she admitted.  “There are a couple of properties that were mine outright, so I have an income from the rents.  I’d pay for board from Hyacinth--but she keeps refusing.”  She sighed.  “I suppose Frodo will soon go back to Crickhollow in Buckland.”

       “No, he says he won’t go there at all.  Says the ones what was chasing him out of the Shire were there, and won’t step foot in it.”

       Lobelia was surprised and intrigued.  “Frodo won’t go where the strange Big Men had been?  That’s odd, him having the same feelings as me.”

       Benlo nodded.  “Don’t know as what he’ll do with the place, either.  Made some comment to young Merry as he might deed it back to the Master.”

       Lobelia straightened in surprise.  “Just give it back?”

       “Apparently.  Anyway, Lobelia, we need a list of the properties you and Otho owned when he died so we can begin figuring out which were entailed and which properties Lotho added later, and which of those legally and which illegally.”

       Lobelia sighed.  “I’ll have to discuss it all with Bartolo, you know.  He’s been my personal lawyer since his dad died a couple years after Otho did.  We’ll get your list and I’ll give it to you next week.”

       Benlo looked her over, then gave a single nod.  “Sounds fair, Cousin Lobelia.  So far we’ve not found signs Bartolo was involved with Timono in the writing of crooked contracts.  Sure hope as neither he nor Lothario was involved.  Marco Smallburrow was, though, and a few others, two of them down among the leaf plantations in the Southfarthing.  You want me to arrange for Bartolo to come over here in the next two days?”

       “That would be appreciated, Benlo,” she answered.

       “Will do,” he said.  “By the way--Frodo sent this--asked me to give it to you.”  Benlo placed in her lap a letter sealed with wax into which a star shape had been pressed, and with a pull at his forelock he took his leave and left her still sitting in the Westering sunlight.  As she looked after the way he’d gone, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was thinking hard on what she’d do.  Finally she took up the letter and broke the seal.

Dearest Cousin Lobelia,

       It is with greatest sorrow I offer you my sympathy at the loss of Lotho.  I know how much he wanted to make you proud of his achievements.  That in trying to do this he would find himself involved with the likes of the one you know as Sharkey was certainly nothing he could have counted upon.

       Sharkey was well known in the lands through which we traveled, and we learned he had routinely been betraying his friends and allies throughout the free lands of the West for some time, at first secretly, but in the past year openly.  We have seen the effects of his betrayals everywhere we went.  Among those who had been taken in by Sharkey were some of the greatest and wisest of folk in all of Middle Earth--believe me, Lotho was not alone in having been cozened by him.

       To learn that those he thought of as serving him were instead using him to gain a foothold in the Shire for the purposes of Sharkey must have initially infuriated him, and then left him terrified as he realized just how helpless he now was.  And after they imprisoned you he must have been worried sick for your health and safety.

       Please, if I can do anything for you please let me know.  It grieves me that we were too late in returning to perhaps have saved his life.  At least we were able to free you and see you safe to your own folk, and know you are now comfortable and cared for.  I’m certain he would have been relieved by such knowledge.

       Know I think frequently of you, and hope you are finding peace of mind in the comfort of your kindred.

                                   Yours always,
                                   Frodo Baggins

        By the time Bartolo arrived the next day she’d made up her mind regarding Bag End.  If Frodo was willing just to deed the Crickhollow house back to the Master, she’d do the same with Bag End--deed it back to Frodo.  She would certainly have no joy from it now, and it would be indeed quite some time before it would be inhabitable according to all who’d seen it.  No, the place was a Baggins place, and only the presence of a Baggins and a Gamgee as gardener was likely to make it all come alive again. 

       Bartolo was shocked when she instructed him she wished the deed conveyed back to Frodo.  “Whatever for, Cousin Lobelia?”

       “Of the whole Shire, he’s the only one who cares that Lotho died needlessly, Bartolo.”

       Bartolo glared.  He was now Lobelia’s closest living kin, closer even than Hyacinth.  He would have inherited Lobelia’s possessions, and she, Otho, and Lotho were not the only Hobbits in the Shire to have desired Bag End, its gardens, and its situation.  She gave him an appraising look.  “And if you were thinking you’d like it next, you’d best think again--it will take a very long time, I’m told, to bring it up to snuff.  And once you’re done with the reconveyance, we’re going to work on my will.  Whatever Lotho intended, I’m certain as it was never intended to be as bad as happened.  Too many folk were hurt by Lotho’s choices--including him and me.”

*******

       When Brendi came back again to Michel Delving it was to find that Frodo had already left for Bywater.  “I sent for Samwise to come get him--he was pretty overwhelmed,” Isumbard said.

       “By what?” Brendi demanded.

       Bard pointed to Frodo’s desk.  Sitting on the Mayor’s desk was a stack of bound documents, one of which he certainly recognized as he’d been the last to annotate it.  Brendi looked up at Isumbard with interest.  “What’s the deed to Bag End doing here?”

       Bard gave a twisted smile.  “Lobelia signed it back to Frodo.”

       “She did?”  Brendi felt a wave of unreality hit him.  “Lobelia gave Bag End back to Frodo?  Whatever possessed her?”

       Bard looked at the deed with a thoughtful stare.  “Whoever would have thought Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would have been capable of such a feeling as remorse?”

*******

       Bartolo Bracegirdle came into the parlor where Lobelia sat before the fire, glaring at her as he set a small envelope down by her.  “Here,” he said bitterly.  “Here’s the coin I took off of him.  Bag End is Frodo’s again.”

       She took the envelope and looked into it curiously.  Inside lay a large gold coin with a bit of black sealing wax affixed to it.  “What’s this from?” she asked.

       He shrugged.  “What do I know?  It’s the coin he had in his hand when I handed him the deed, so I took it.  Looks as if you made out pretty well--it’s gold--pure gold, from what I can tell.”

       There was enough Bracegirdle in her to find satisfaction in the thought that Frodo just might be unhappy to have lost this coin.

70

       At one of the public audiences three weeks after Yule the Herald stepped forward to rap his staff against the floor and announce, “Prince Legolas Thranduillion of the Elven Kingdom of Eryn Lasgalen; Lord Gimli son of Gloin of the Dwarf Kingdom of Erebor, both newly returned to the city of the King this day.”

       Behind him the tall, slender form of the Elf alongside the squatter figure of the russet-headed Dwarf entered the Hall of Kings; and with a great smile the High King of the Men of the West rose from his seat, turned to lay his sheathed sword across the arms of the now empty throne, descending from the high dais with pleasure to greet the return of two of his Friends and Companions.  Seats were offered to both until the end of the audience, although neither accepted one.  When at last the business of the day was completed Aragorn descended to draw them out of the chamber and back to the Royal Wing.

       “And where is the Lady Arwen?” asked Gimli.

       “Ridden out to Lossarnach to examine a home for children left orphaned by the long war against Sauron,” Aragorn said.  “I’m to join her tomorrow.  Will the two of you accompany me?”

       “Gladly,” Legolas agreed after a shared glance at his companion.  “It will be good to see more of this land you’ve accepted as your responsibility.”

       They stayed the night in rooms in the Royal Wing, and early the next morning they walked together down through the City to the lower stable where Roheryn was readied for the King and Arod for Elf and Dwarf, along with steeds for the King’s Guard who rode with them.  They’d said little enough the previous night, for Aragorn was tired and obviously uncomfortable to be once again alone in his own chambers, without his wife alongside him.

       Finally, as they rode through the renewed Rammas Echor Southwest into Lossarnach, Legolas asked, “And have you heard from Frodo or any of the other Hobbits?”

       Aragorn sighed.  “All too much as yet.  Their land was invaded by an army of brigands apparently shortly after the four of them left the Shire, much as Adar had foreseen hints of, and as Frodo himself appears to have foreseen at least on the way back North.”

       Both Dwarf and Elf looked at their friend with surprise.  “Frodo indeed has the gift of foresight?” asked Legolas.

       “Yes, he does.  He admitted to me before he left he occasionally had visions of the rest of us while he was away from us, and had dreamt of Gandalf pacing the top of Orthanc while they were in the house of Tom Bombadil.  Certainly he recognized the tower when we stopped to speak with Treebeard.  Letters Arwen has received from the Lady Galadriel confirm that shortly after they parted from us Frodo confessed visions of the Shire to her in which he saw much of what he since has found indeed came to pass while they were gone.

       “What is worst about this invasion is first that it was invited by a cousin of Frodo’s and Bilbo’s, one named Lotho Sackville-Baggins.  Bilbo used to tell me stories of this Lotho’s parents, who were much given to envy and ill gossip.  To hide the reason why he was selling his beloved home, Frodo told it about that he’d come to the end of the treasure Bilbo had brought back with him, and apparently offered it to relatives of himself and Bilbo.  This Lotho appears to have learned of that offer somehow and made his own offer for the place for himself and his mother to dwell therein, his father having died some years after Bilbo left the Shire.  Once installed in Bag End he began working to make himself the tyrant of the Shire, bringing in this mass of thieves and evil souls to serve as his army of occupation.

       “The second great evil which led to the situation was that the one supplying this army, which apparently included half-orcs in its number--”  The other two straightened, alarmed; “--was Saruman, who came himself to the Shire, arriving a month before the four of them, just after they arrived in Rivendell.”

       “That craven creature went to the Shire?” exploded Gimli.  “Whatever for?”

       “Let me guess,” Legolas said, his eyes narrowing, “he wished to avenge himself on the Ringbearer for not allowing the Ring to be captured and brought to him in Isengard.”

       Aragorn’s expression was grim.  “That appears to be it.  Hobbits were able to escape when his slaves sent to secure them were slaughtered by the Rohirrim; they witnessed his humiliating entrapment by the Ents and the breaking of his staff; they passed him on the road and had the temerity to feel sorry for him there.  He had no desire to see their people continue to prosper.  He would punish them as he could.”

       “What’s this about passing him on the road?” Gimli demanded.

       Aragorn repeated Galadriel’s report on the encounter with the ragged forms of Saruman and Wormtongue six days after their parting.  The cold fury of the Elf was a perfect match for the fiery rage of the Dwarf when he was done.

       “And after Merry gave him pipeweed?” Gimli spluttered.  “He is a sick soul, isn’t he?”

       “He was a sick soul,” Aragorn corrected him.  “There is more to tell.”

       He described the manner in which Lotho had been encouraged to destroy much of the beauty of the Shire, and to replace its water-driven mills with steam-powered ones which were then used by Sharkey to pump filth into the air, water, and soil; how proper Hobbit holes and homes were purposely destroyed and inns closed; and how Hobbits were encouraged and in some cases forced to spy on one another.  The more he told, the lower Gimli’s brows fell.

       When he described the final encounter with Sharkey and his death as described in the letters of all four Hobbits, Legolas pulled Arod to a stop, forcing Aragorn to halt Roheryn as well.  “Frodo would still have allowed him to go after Saruman sought to stab him to death?” the Elf asked, amazed.

       “Frodo had apparently divined the true nature of the Istari from the songs sung about Gandalf in Lothlorien,” Aragorn said quietly, “and sought to give him time to heal from the damage inflicted by the lust the Ring engendered in his heart.”

       Legolas shook his head in disbelief.  “How is it that Frodo Baggins has in his heart more capacity for compassion and forgiveness than even the Valar?” he asked.  “What, my friend Aragorn Elessar, has Iluvatar wrought in this Perian?”

       The Man sighed, his own face sad.  “He yet blames himself, Legolas, for having claimed It at the end, and will not blame any other for how It affected them.”

       Legolas’s denial was intensely controlled.  “Yet, once the Ring was destroyed Frodo did not go on to punish all who might have coveted it.  He never sought to breed twisted souls to serve as his army.  He never sought to coerce others to his will, or to lead others to corruption--or further into corruption.  Saruman did all this and more, seeking to hide his own search for the thing for centuries and to convince all others that It was beyond finding.  And he was created to stand before the face of Iluvatar Himself!” he added in Quenya, a language Aragorn had never heard him use before in conversation.  “Yet,” he continued again in the Common Tongue, “here we have a simple Perian who is the soul of compassion.  How is it that such a fragile-seeming mortal is yet better proof to Its corrupting influence than one of the Istari?  Even Mithrandir feared to touch It.”

       Gimli added, “Obviously not all Hobbits are good as Frodo is.  This Lotho--he was in many ways the twin to Saruman himself, filled with envy and the desire for power over others, certain he knew better than the rest of his folks what they needed.  It is hard to believe such a one was kin to Frodo and Bilbo.”

       Aragorn shrugged.  “I know not what Iluvatar has wrought fully--only that I love him and Sam as brothers.  Let us go on, friends.”

       The guards were watching them with concern, and seemed relieved when they at last continued on the way. 

       Much of the rest of the ride they made in silence, each intent on his own thought.  Once they were deep into Lossarnach they followed the leader of their guards until they reached the village of Wenda.  As they approached the village they were met by a mounted deputation of village Master and other notables of the place; these turned to accompany them through the village itself until they came to the open gates of an estate on the other side where children stood waiting for them.  They dismounted, and older children came forward to take their horses while they turned to the steps into the main house, at the top of which waited the Lady Arwen, her arms around the shoulders of more children.

       The awe all felt at the presence of the fabled King Returned soon fell away, and soon many particularly of the younger children were leading Aragorn by the hand to show them their rooms and spots they’d found that were of particular delight to them.  Legolas, once his bow was remarked upon, was shown the butts that stood upon the South side of the house where older boys might practice skills of defense and hunting, preparatory to them reaching adulthood.  Gimli was shown the weaving and sewing rooms and the woodpile, the last by a young boy who appeared certain such as he would be eager to see.  All were brought to see the small byre where the sheep and ponies for the place were sheltered at night and where their own horses were given the chance to fill themselves before they must go.

       Toward the evening the children gave a performance of songs and dance for their guests, and at last King and Queen reluctantly took their leave of them, promising to return in a year’s time to see how they continued to fare.  All clustered about them to bid them farewell, and most followed after them to the gates once they’d reclaimed their mounts and seen them saddled and bridled.

       The village Master greeted them as his guests for the night, and once again they were shown grave courtesy and hospitality.  Aragorn and Arwen were gracious to their host and his family; and by the time the evening was over Aragorn was speaking at length with the Master’s older son about the youth’s ambition to enter the King’s service, Arwen was admiring the daughter’s embroidery, and Gimli and Legolas were listening to the stories of the youngest child as he brought out his collection of toy horses and described the accomplishments of each.

       Early the next morning Lord and Lady and their party broke their fast with the family, then finally departed with the combined forces of guards and the Lord of Lossarnach and Lothiriel of Dol Amroth who served as Arwen’s lady in waiting at this time.  They discussed the major crops of the lands they rode through, the charcoal burners and lime kilns of the northern reaches of the land where forests clothed the lower slopes of the mountains’ feet, the losses of Men in the long war, the craftsmen of such places as Bavarin and Peternostin.

       At last they saw ahead of them the gate to the Rammas Echor, and all were once again within the townlands for Minas Tirith.  Many were lining the road to see King and Queen and their company return to the capitol, and they were looked on with curiosity and growing love and delight.  The barrier had been drawn aside, and they rode into the First Circle and dropped to the street as they approached the lower stable, finally, reluctantly surrendering their horses and preparing for the walk back up through the city, receiving the sprays of greenery and berries given them by those they passed.

       King and Queen paused with their guests to greet the White Tree, and shared a look ere they entered back into the Citadel.  Letters awaited them from the North, young Lasgon holding them out on a silver salver for Lord and Lady to take.  Aragorn paused, noting the boy’s expression.  “Did you also receive a letter?” he asked.

       “One from each of them,” Lasgon answered with satisfaction.  “They saw Master Bilbo and have arrived home safely, and Sir Pippin sent me some sweets of their people from his home of the Great Smial.”

       It was after dinner that night, after Lothiriel had gone to her bed, that Gimli and Legolas were told the news brought by Gwaihir.  “Then, not only are Frodo, Sam, and Bilbo all granted entrance to the Undying Lands, but me, too?” asked Gimli, his expression indicating he was overwhelmed.  “But why?  I don’t need healing of that kind!”

       He turned to Legolas to ask his opinion, then paused.  Almost never had he seen the Elf anything but fully controlled.  But now he saw hints of tears in Legolas’s eyes, and signs the sylvan Elf was himself overcome by surprise and delight.  “At least,” Legolas said quietly to his friend among Men, “at least when you have gone your way and I prepare my small ship for that voyage I will not go alone.  I will not leave all my friends among mortals behind me.  You and Arwen will have undoubtedly both have left the Bounds of Arda; and surely none of the three Hobbits will linger at my destination, for such as they cannot linger so long.  But I will have Gimli by me as I leave Middle Earth, should he agree to accompany me.  I will not go alone.”

       “And Gandalf will await your arrival,” Arwen added, smiling.  “No, you shall not be or remain alone.”

71

       Rosie Cotton did her best to stand by Mr. Frodo when he returned to the Cotton’s farm, particularly during the times when Sam was out and about the rest of the Shire, examining damage wrought, seeing how many young trees were available in the nurseries, helping to clear away the rubble of destroyed homes, evaluating whether hillsides would accept new smials, looking at the charred ruins of gardens and fields and occasional copses of trees. 

       She kept Frodo’s room readied, and saw to the drawing of his baths.  She laundered his clothing herself and brought him all that arrived for him through the Quick Post.  She repaired his clothing and saw to his meals when he ate separately from the family, and made certain he drank the tea Sam left for him.

       Her parents watched her activities with interest.  They knew that she did this primarily for Sam’s sake, but that as time passed more and more for Frodo’s own sake as well.  Always had Frodo Baggins been a very responsible and generous individual; now they saw how he was indeed driven to do all he could to see the Shire restored.  All were drawn more and more to honor this slender Hobbit and his dedication to the Shire’s needs--their people’s needs.

       In Michel Delving Frodo Baggins met with family heads and lawyers and members of the Shiriffs and village heads and delegations from the four Farthings and Buckland about surpluses and deficits.  On the farm he was approached by small farmers and owners of small businesses, by individuals whose homes and livings had been stripped from them, by those who had no idea what had become of family members. 

       Fredegar Bolger was also staying at the farm, and in November he was joined by his sister Estella to take primary care for him.  All had seen what Lotho’s folks and later Sharkey had done in Hobbiton, Bywater, and Overhill; the tales of how the Bolgers had been driven from their home and Estella sent into hiding among the Tooks and how family heads in many places had been displaced and demeaned or imprisoned were listened to by all with a horrified fascination.  The Gaffer and Marigold also were staying with the Cottons; but Frodo saw to it that all families who hosted those who were dispossessed received extra rations to compensate from the foodstuffs found in Michel Delving, the Brockenbores, and other caches the Big Men had set up throughout the Shire and Buckland.

       By the end of two weeks construction had begun on new smials in Hobbiton and throughout the area about the Hill and the Water; early in November the folks of Overhill had cleared away the collapsed hill into which the home of Wisteria and Folco Boffin had been dug, and now a proper Hobbit house was being erected in place of the lost smial.  Some had new homes by Yule; most were taking possession of their holes or houses by the end of January or first of February.  By the end of February the last of the inns were reopened, and malt and barley from the Brockenbores was being shipped by wagon throughout the four Farthings and Buckland.

       Frodo was often cold and tired when he arrived on the farm, and Rosie would have a bath waiting for him, dropping one of Sam’s leaves into it just before Frodo entered the bathing room.  If his sleep was disturbed she would rise with him, and often speak with him in the parlor until he was ready to return to his bed.  She listened with interest to his stories of the new King so far off there in Gondor, and what Frodo would tell of their long journey--which was little enough.  And watching how Sam, Merry, and Pippin looked with caring on Frodo Baggins, she realized that, of the four of them, his had been the hardest duty and had brought him closest to having been lost.

       And she was the one who found the picture that Frodo had drawn one night when he’d been unable to return to sleep and had lit a candle and had sat at the small table in his room to deal with his nightmares as he could.  It was the image of a great beast with wings, almost like a cross between a bat and a flying lizard, a terrifying black shape mounted on its back.  She’d awakened the night before and looked into Frodo’s room when she realized that he had a candle lit, and had seen the Hobbit sitting at that table, drawing with purpose, his posture stiff with barely contained emotion.  He had several sheets by him, as if he’d been drawing for some time.  The next morning showed that several sheets of paper had been burned in the small fireplace that night; after he’d dressed and left for Michel Delving she’d found this one which had fallen behind the table to lie against the wall.

       Rosie took it, hiding it in her room in her wardrobe.  Now and then she would take it out and examine it, trying to learn of it.  Finally when Sam came in one day, returned from the Southfarthing, she brought it out and showed it to him.  “What is it?” she asked.

       He looked at it with eyes filled with silence.  “It’s one of the horrible flyin’ beasts the Black Riders rode on once they got back to Mordor,” he said.  He pointed to the mounted figure.  “That’s one of the Black Riders there.  He’d hear ’em with their horrible cries and would cower down in terror.  Course, all who heard them would cower down, truth be told, even me.  None of us wanted anything to do with them.  No sane person would.”

       “Mr. Frodo was afraid of them?” she asked.

       He gave a small nod.  “Like I said--any sane person would be.  They was evil walkin’, they was.  He stood up to ’em on Weathertop, not that it did any good.  The leader stabbed him in the shoulder with a Morgul knife.”  He looked into her eyes.  “We almost lost him, we did.  If’n we hadn’t of been with Strider, we would of lost him.”  He looked back at the picture.  “They was ridin’ horses, black horses, when they followed us here in the Shire and across to Rivendell.  But when we got down South, they’d been back to Mordor and come back out ridin’ on these.  Rode on ’em as they looked for us, along the River, into the Dead Marshes, through Mordor.  We’d hear their call or feel the shadow of the wings over us, and we’d hide, hide as low as we could go.  They never found us again, but it wasn’t for want of searchin’.”

       “Why’s he drawin’ them, if’n they’re so awful?” she asked.

       Sam looked at the picture once more.  “It’s his way of dealin’ with the memories,” he finally said slowly.  “Some can talk of what scares ’em.  Mr. Frodo--he’s always been one to write it out, or draw it.  Surprised he didn’t burn it.”

       “This one fell behind the table--missed it when he burnt the rest.”  When he nodded in response, Rosie asked, “You have nightmares too?”

       He looked at her, his eyes looking far too old for his thirty-nine years.  “Oh, yes,” he finally said, “I have them too, at times.  We all do, when somethin’ triggers the memories.  Can’t of gone through what we’ve done and not have nightmares.  Strider admits as even he has ’em at times.  But he’s been fightin’ the Shadow far longer’n we ever did.  Got far more to member.”  He sighed and returned the picture to her.  “Don’t let him know as you have that,” he advised.  “He don’t want none to know as just how awful it was.”

       Rosie hid the picture again in her wardrobe, and redoubled her concern for her Sam’s Master.  Anyone who’d had to hide such as that needed carin’, she decided.

       As winter approached she decided what she wished to do for Sam for Yule, and she approached Frodo on one of the days he was home and Sam was off in the Northfarthing.  Frodo had gone out to the stable to groom Strider, and afterwards sat on a fence rail, wrapped in his Elven cloak, looking across the lower fields at the back of the farm and across at the remains of the woods surrounding Hobbiton.  The sky was that odd white it could get when the clouds covered all but allowed enough light to get through to offer illumination to a landscape of blacks, whites, and greys.  His cloak looked grey today; and his dark hair seemed to give the one bit of color to the day, as warm a brown as it was.  “Mr. Frodo,” she began, “I was hopin’ as you’d do somethin’ for me for me to give to Sam for my gift, you know.”

       He turned to her, his expression becoming more present.  “What, Rosie?”

       “I was wantin’ to do matched pictures, you see, one of him and one of me, and put ’em in a frame together.  That is, if you think as he’d like such.  He’s still not asked.”

       Frodo sighed and stretched.  “No, I suppose he hasn’t asked as yet, Rosie--not until he’s certain as to what will become of me.  He shouldn’t keep putting me first, ahead of his own happiness.  But I’d be glad to do the pictures for you.”  He rose and together they went back into the house.

       Frodo brought out his drawing sticks and paper, and soon was working on the portrait of her, mostly concentrating on the drawing, now and then pausing to examine her face briefly before returning his attention to the paper before him.  As he worked, she finally asked, “You said as he was now famous, out there in the outer world.”

       “Yes, he is.”

       “What’d he do, Mr. Frodo, that got him so famous?”

       Frodo smiled, his face lighting up.  “What didn’t he do?  Let’s see--he helped drive evil things into a raging river to see them washed away; he killed an orc in Moria; slept on a platform in a tree; looked into the Mirror of Galadriel and chose to remain at my side anyway, although he ought perhaps to have returned to you then to your protection; he rode in a small boat down the River Anduin; he managed to survive the heights of the Emyn Muil and the marshy paths of the Dead Marshes; he fought a giant spider and another orc; he brought me out of the mountain to where we could be found....  He earned his title of Lord Samwise, earned it fully.”

       “And didn’t you earn your title, too?”

       He didn’t answer immediately.  “Marigold told you that, did she?” he finally asked.

       “Yes, she said as you both is Lords of the Free Peoples.  Isn’t it true?”

       He continued working on the picture for some minutes.  Finally he said, “Yes, Rosie, it’s true.”

       “Did you do pretty much the same as him?”

       “We went together, so both of us were given the same title.”  There was something in his voice that told her he wouldn’t say much more than that.

       “But Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin didn’t go all the way with you?”

       “We were separated along the way.  No, they didn’t go all the way with us.  They ended up going first to Rohan and then to Minas Tirith in Gondor where they helped fight the enemies of the Free Peoples alongside Men.  They are deeply honored for what they did, too.”

       “But they wasn’t made lords.”

       He gave a small smile.  “No, neither of them was made a Lord, although both are deeply beloved by Kings and people of all races.”

       They were quiet for a time.  Finally she said, “Getting my Sam into a boat--that must of taken some doing.”

       He nodded, smiling more fully.  “Yes, it did, but he handled it well enough.  He spotted when we got to the rapids, and warned us so we didn’t end up having to try to travel them in the dark.  Even then he was helping safeguard all of us.”

       She smiled with satisfaction.  He continued working, then began singing softly as he drew.  When he was done she asked, “What’s that song about?”

       He paused and looked at her, then smiled.  “It’s the wedding song they sang for Aragorn and Arwen when they were married.”

       “Sam thinks the world of Lord Strider.”

       He nodded.  “And the Lord Strider thinks the world of Sam in return.  The two of them would talk together for hours, or work together in the gardens of the Citadel.”

       “He has a garden, the King does?”

       “Yes.  There was already a great flower garden behind the Citadel,  Now there’s an herb garden as well--healing as well as cooking herbs.  Sam would help him with it.”

       “Not  you, too?”

       “Well, I’d start helping them, and then they’d make me stop if they felt I was getting tired.  And after the Lady Arwen came the three of them would work side by side.  Master Galador, the Minister of Protocol, was totally confused, for he’d never thought that the King Returned and one of his favorite Lords would so enjoy gardening that they’d weed the herb garden themselves.  Then, to have the Queen kneeling beside them picking off bugs--he had no idea what to think of that.  He was used to Lords and Ladies that allowed all others to do for them instead.”

       She laughed aloud.  “Comin’ from the North as he did, King Strider does things his own way, then?”

       “Definitely.  Weeds his own garden, will go down at times to the lowest stable to groom his own horse, runs many of his own errands when he has time, works alongside the healers.  The day Master Galador came to find the King sweeping up broken glass when he’d accidentally dropped a vase I thought he’d have a fit.”

       “What?  He’s not supposed to clean up his own mess?”

       “Apparently not.  And he was totally taken aback to come upon Aragorn cooking one evening.”

       “Is he a good cook?”

       “He’s definitely a good cook, given a decent kitchen to work in.  So is the Lady Arwen.”

       “So they both like to cook.”

       “When they have the time.  And her needlework is beautiful beyond telling.  I’m not certain what any in Gondor imagined the King might be like, but all deeply love what they’ve received, it seems.  A Lord and Lady to sing the Sun and Stars into the sky, and for whom the White Tree loves to grow and bloom.” 

       He finished the picture of her, drew a dragonfly as a pin on her collar, and set it before her.  Then he took a second piece of paper and began to draw Sam.  He worked largely in silence, working swiftly and skillfully, the picture taking shape on the paper rapidly.  He drew Sam in Gondorian dress, White Tree embroidered on his surcoat, his face alight with humor and love, a spray of small rose blossoms in his hand.  She watched, her lips parted in delight, her eyes sparkling.  Again he finished, added in a dragonfly flitting over the spray of flowers, and presented it to her.

       Having started, however, he obviously wanted to do one more.  He looked at the third sheet of paper, and his pencil hovered.  Then he began to draw.  His smile had become more serious, his eyes more intent.  The strokes were stronger now, his head slightly tilted.  Finally he finished, and turned the sheet to show Rosie, suddenly realizing the room was now filled with folk, for Old Tom, Lily, Young Tom and Nibs had come in while he worked, and caught by his air of concentration had remained quiet.  Nibs looked over his sister’s shoulder, then to Frodo’s face.  “That our new King, is he?” he asked.

       Frodo nodded.  “Yes, that’s Aragorn.”

       “But he’s a Man.”

       “Not like those as come into the Shire, though,” Lily noted.

       “No, nothing like those who came into the Shire,” Frodo confirmed.  “Nothing at all like them.”

       “What did you do a picture of him for?” Nibs asked.

       “This will be my Yule present to Sam,” Frodo said.  “He’ll be glad of it.”

       “I wouldn’t want a picture of a Man in my room,” Nibs muttered.

       His father commented, “Well, what I’ve heard from Sam, he’ll be right pleased with it.  He can’t speak of the King without his eyes glowin’ with pride.”

       Frodo smiled, and Rosie realized the same was true of this guest as well.

       Freddy and Estella had gone with Jolly into Bywater to the Green Dragon, and returned shortly after.  Freddy examined the three pictures with approval.  “Obviously your skill wasn’t lost with your finger,” he commented.

       Frodo’s expression closed up, but when he answered he spoke reasonably enough.  “No, it wasn’t, although I had to work to get it back.”

       Estella asked, “Does it hurt--your hand?”

       Frodo shrugged.  “It did at first, but no longer--or at least very rarely now.  What do you hear from your parents?”

       “Budge Hall is almost ready for occupation again.  They ought to return there the week before Yule, in fact.  We’ll go to join them early in the new year, I think.  Much of what had been taken, that which hadn’t been destroyed, they found on one of Lotho’s farms outside Budgeford.  But the random damage they did throughout the smial--it was beyond belief.”

       “Oh, I’d believe it,” Frodo said solemnly.  “I saw what they did to Bag End, remember.”

       “Pippin says they did all but collapse the Hill into it.”

       “That’s putting it mildly,” Frodo said, his face closed.

       Sam arrived early the next day, and Frodo’s mood lightened.  They walked to the Green Dragon together, but didn’t stay long.  Frodo was rather pale when they got back, and Sam chivvied him off to bed early.  “What’s wrong?” Old Tom asked him quietly.

       “Ate too much too quick, and had too strong an ale.  Lost it, he did.”

       “That happen often?” Tom asked.

       Sam nodded.  “Not as often as it did, but any is too often,” he answered.

       An hour later he took a mug of soup and a cup of milk to Frodo; and an hour after that an apple and a cup of juice.  Frodo was sleeping deeply, so Sam left it by the bed.  When he checked in the morning both apple and juice had been finished, and Frodo came in to eat his morning meal quietly.  Jolly and Sam rode alongside him a good part of the way back to Michel Delving, then took leave of him when Frodo insisted he could do the rest of the way on his own.  “You don’t push yourself too much, you hear, Master?” Sam insisted.

       “I promise, Sam,” Frodo said.

       Early on the next afternoon Frodo was due to come back Sam received a small packet through the Quick Post, and shortly after that ond of the Tooks rode hard into the Cotton’s yard.  “Is Sam Gamgee here?” Tollerand Took asked.

       Sam came out.  “Somethin’ wrong with my Master?” he asked.

       “Had quite the shock to his system, it appears.  Bard sent me to fetch you--thinks you ought to come bring Frodo back here, he does.”

       “What kind of shock?” Sam demanded.

       “It was Lobelia.”

       “That old bat?  What did she do this time?”

       “Gave him back the deed to Bag End.”

       Sam stopped stock still, his mouth fallen open in shock.  “She what?  She give him back Bag End, you said?”

       “Yes,” the Took answered rather smugly.  “It appears that in her old age Lobelia Sackville-Baggins has suddenly developed a conscience!”

       “How’d she tell him?”

       The Took shook his head, admiringly, Rosie, who watched from the doorway, realized.  “She sent Bartolo Bracegirdle with the deed, and I must say Bartolo looked anything but happy about his errand.  Marches in and asks Frodo if he has a coin.  Well, as fate would have it, he did--had one right in his hand just at that moment.”

       “What was he doing with a coin in his hand?” Sam asked.

       “Well, that King of yours sent him a packet and it had just arrived--had a wonderful suit of clothes he says as the Queen made for him, and a small black leather purse with a number of great gold coins in it, including one which had a black seal affixed marking it as the first coin struck of the new King’s coinage, or so he says.”

       “And that’s the one he had in his hand when the Bracegirdle come in?” Sam guessed shrewdly.

       “You have it,” Tolly answered.  “Announces he’s there to do something for Frodo, asks if Frodo has a coin, takes the gold coin with the black seal on it right out of Frodo’s hand and thrusts the deed to Bag End at him.  Goes out as abruptly as he come in.  Frodo was in a right state when Bard sent me to get you.  Just sitting there, his face terribly white, not quite taking it all in, between the snatching of the coin and the throwing down of the deed.”

       Sam hurried back into the house.  “Tom,” he called to the farmer, “may I take the light cart to Michel Delving?  Need to go fetch the Master.  A bit taken by surprise, and it’s apparently thrown him all out of his reckoning.”

       “Of course, Sam,” Old Tom answered.  “Nibs, go help Sam get the pony hitched to the cart.”

       Sam left at quite a speed with the Took beside him, and returned much more slowly some hours later.  Estella and Fredegar Bolger watched as their cousin climbed stiffly out of the cart, throwing back the hood of his cloak.  Frodo’s face was still more pale than usual, his eyes still with an echo of the shocks of the day in them.  But there was a hint of rising hope in them as he went to the back of the cart and lifted out the wrapped shape of his saddle, which Jolly quickly took from him.  “You get your Strider, Mr. Frodo,” the young Hobbit suggested.  “I’ll take this and put it away.”

       Water droplets from the drizzling rain glistened on Frodo’s face as he unfastened his pony’s lead rope and turned to lead him toward the barn and the stall given to his use.  Nibs came out and took Frodo’s saddlebags and the canvas bag Frodo had brought with him into the house, and Rosie took them from him into Frodo’s room, where she set them on the small table.

       They were all in the house sitting at the table some time later while Frodo tried to explain.  “So many things today,” he said.  “First I gave Merry and Pippin the use of the Crickhollow House.  Uncle Pal and Aunt Eglantine are not only trying to force Pippin to say he was never in any real danger, but now they’re treating him as if he were still in his late teens rather than his late tweens; and although Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme are better about believing what they can get Merry to tell them, they are doing what they used to do to me and treating him as if he might just break if he trips, and it’s quite driving him to distraction.  Hopefully if they can get away from being treated as if they were fragile or infantile the two of them will be better able to recover.

       “Then there was the packet from Aragorn and the Lady Arwen, and the letters.  Sam, you remember that just before we left the envoy came from Harad with word some of the lords of that land were intent on continuing the war with Gondor?”

       “Yes.  Did they attack?”

       “Yes, down in a border area near a trading station called Porthos.  Gondor’s troops won, of course.  The Lady Arwen is becoming very popular among the people of Gondor, and has begun having special audiences twice a week for those in need.  She’s accepted the Lady Lothiriel as her first official Lady in Waiting, and apparently the Lady Éowyn is quite happy as she’s determined her brother is much attracted to her.”

       “A good alliance, Prince Imrahil’s daughter and the King of Rohan.  Will make it nicer for Faramir and Éowyn, havin’ her brother and his cousin married, too.  Makes for a cozy family.”  Sam looked meaningfully at where Young Tom sat close by Marigold and smiled.  Marigold flushed, and Tom put his arm around her shoulders.  “Did the Lady Arwen send her own note?”

       Frodo’s face went paler and his cheeks pinker.  “Yes, although it was quite--quite personal to me.”

       Sam’s brows raised, but he let the subject be. 

       Frodo asked, “Did you receive a packet also?”

       “Yes--a letter from Strider sayin’ as he was sendin’ a longer one to you and you’d share it with me, and a jacket as the Lady Arwen sent me, and a quick note to me sayin’ as how much they love me and how they’d managed a blessin’ for me but you’d share it with me when the time was right.”

       Frodo went a bit pale.  “She told you that?  They’d have me say?  Well, the time isn’t right--not now it isn’t.”

       “What’s this about coins, then?” Fredegar asked.

       Frodo finally gave a wan smile, and brought out of his pocket a black bag of fine leather with silver drawstrings.  “The first gold coins of the King’s new coinage, just as he promised--although the very first one was taken by Bartolo Bracegirdle.”

       Freddy looked at his cousin with growing curiosity as Frodo shook a few coins out of the bag and held them out for others to examine.  Freddy took one and looked it over carefully.  There was no question the Man on its face was the one pictured in the portrait Frodo had drawn during his last stay at the farm.  “Why did Bartolo take it?” he asked.

       “Bard tells me that you can’t just give property to someone else--except when it’s left in a will.  Otherwise money must change hands.  Bartolo asked me if I had a coin, and I was still looking at that first coin, the one Aragorn marked with his own seal on black sealing wax.  I held it out, he took it, and he gave me the deed to Bag End and left.”

       “Bag End?” Young Tom asked in amazement.  “Missus Lobelia’s give it back to you?”

       Solemnly Frodo nodded, his eyes still reflecting his own continuing surprise.  “Yes, she’s given it back to me.  I own Bag End again!  I can’t believe it!”

       The Gaffer, once this had been repeated to him four times, smiled.  “Then it’ll all be as it ought,” he smiled.  “Row restored, you as the Baggins in Bag End again.  All’s well as ends better, as I always says.”

       Freddy woke in the night from a dream in which he was back in the Lockholes, with the sound of water dripping down the wall.  He realized it was the rain on the window of his room he heard, and he rose and pulled the curtain closed to muffle it some.  Unable to go back to sleep, he went out into the passage to the privy, then came back, pausing by the door to Frodo’s room, hearing a muffled voice.  He opened the door and went in.  Frodo sat up, his eyes blank and he cried out against his own hand pressed against his mouth. 

       “No, Aragorn--no, don’t come!  Go back!  Go back!  No--they’re killing them, killing them!”

       Freddy went in and sat on the side of the bed, placed his hand on Frodo’s left shoulder, and was amazed at how cold it felt.  “Frodo?” he asked.

       “No!  I don’t have it!  I don’t have it!  I don’t know where it is!  Don’t let it go to him!”

       Freddy was frightened as he put his arm about his cousin.  “Frodo, it’s just a dream, just a bad dream!”

       The door to the next room opened, and as quietly as he could Sam came out of it and into Frodo’s room.  “He havin’ one of his nightmares, is he?”

       Freddy looked up at Sam and nodded.  “Appears to be.  His shoulder--it’s cold as ice.”

       “It’s the weather, I suspect.  Would happen that way in Minas Tirith--rain, particularly storms, would bring this one on.  Good thing the Gaffer is near deaf--at least he’s not bein’ woke up.”  Ah, yes, that was right--Sam had been sharing a room with his dad.

       “Why’s his shoulder so cold--his shoulder and his arm?”

       “Where he was stabbed.  Go get me some water boilin’, if you don’t mind, Mr. Freddy--please.”

       It took but a moment to get the fire stirred up and the kettle filled from the pump and then set over the flames.  Freddy limped back to Frodo’s room and went in.  Sam had taken the quilt from the wardrobe and had it wrapped about Frodo, was sitting there on the bed holding him, murmuring to him in a different language, one the Bolger recognized as one of the Elvish languages.  Freddy looked at the small fireplace and knelt to stir up the embers in it, fed in some of the kindling, then larger wood until the fire was burning merrily.  Sam looked at him with thanks in his eyes, eyes which Freddy realized were themselves burdened by dark memories.

       “Were you having your own nightmares?” Freddy asked in a low voice.  “I was.”

       “You was?  Yes, guess as you have reason for your own, don’t you?  Well, yes, I was havin’ my own.  Had just woke up when I heard your voice in here, and realized he was havin’ one of his own.  Doesn’t cry them out as loud as he used to much of the time,” the gardener added.

       “Had his hand over his own mouth,” Freddy explained.

       “I see.”

       “It’s all right,” Frodo whispered.  “I’m awake now.”

       “Havin’ the dream of the tower room again, Master?”

       “Yes.  Were you dreaming of searching for me?”

       “No, fightin’ old Shelob this time, and chasin’ after that Gollum, wantin’ to strangle him with my bare hands.”

       “He couldn’t help himself, Sam.”

       “Don’t matter, no more than in your dream it matters that what you heard wasn’t really Strider comin’ to save you and gettin’ murdered.”

       “What was yours, Freddy?”

       “Lying in the dark of my cell, with the water dripping down the walls into a pool in a dip in the stone floor.  I hope they haven’t really kept anything of any worth in that room for a long time.”

       “You ever dream of the door at the Crickhollow house bein’ broke in?” asked Sam.

       Freddy shuddered.  “Oh, yes, I do, and peeking out the shutters to see them out there in the garden, three dark shadowy figures creeping toward the door.”

       Frodo shuddered in Sam’s arms.  “Don’t speak of the Nazgul!  Don’t mention them!  My dream started out with one of them flying over me, and I was cowering down into the soft mud in the midst of the Dead Marshes.”

       Freddy sighed.  “At least that’s all they are now--bad dreams.”

       Frodo nodded.  “Yes.”

       “Your arm was so cold.”

       “It gets that way sometimes, when something brings the memories back.”

       “I’m sorry, Frodo.  I’ll go see if the water’s boiling.”

       Sam soon had a basin of hot water in Frodo’s room, and after dropping a leaf into it was wringing flannels out in it and layering them around the arm until it grew warmer.  Finally he removed them and wrapped a towel warmed before the fire about it, and Frodo smiled sleepily.  “Thank you, Sam.  I feel much better.  I’ll sleep now.  Go back to bed.”

       “You rest then, Master.”  Sam rose and drew Freddy out of the room and closed the door.  “Won’t let hisself go back to sleep till he thinks we’re back sleeping,” he whispered.

       “What are these Dead Marshes?” the Bolger asked.

       “Marshlands lying outside Mordor, near the battlefield from the Last Alliance.  It’s crept over the old burial grounds as where they buried the dead--Men, Elves, orcs.  You look down and see the faces of them as died, lyin’ in the pools.  Gollum said as they wasn’t real, though.  He’d tried to get to them--maybe he’d thought as he could eat ’em, but couldn’t touch them.”

       Freddy realized he was shivering.  “That would be a horrid thing to remember,” he murmured.

       “Yes, it is.  But there’s worse places--or at least there was then.  You go build up your own fire and get back to sleep.”

       “You, too, Sam.”

       “Thank you, sir.”  Sam went back into his room and closed the door behind him.  Taking a deep breath, Freddy did the same.

72

       Sam was able to hire several to help clean out the filth from the devastation of Bag End.  Sancho Proudfoot was one of those who oversaw much of this, and he quickly found he had to wear cloths bound over his mouth and nose while working in the place, as all was, at first, so foul.  Bilbo’s mother’s carpets had been hacked to pieces and unspeakable things worked into the fibers of them; ceramic tiles in entranceways and the hallway outside the bathing room and in the kitchen had been purposely broken; wooden beams had repeatedly had knives thrown into them or had been hacked with axes.  What furniture there remained was, for the most part, beyond recovery.

       Each time Sam passed through he found himself pausing for an hour or two in the gardens, poking through the ground, and finding to his surprise that many of the perennials remained and were lying just under the surface of the soil, waiting for spring’s arrival to begin poking their heads up.  Could they be coaxed back to life?  Time, he knew, would tell.

       Frodo went to the Great Smial to discuss Aragorn’s dispatches with his uncle and aunt, and came back to the Whitfoot house in Michel Delving white and shaking, looking nearly sick, saying only he’d been suffering from a headache almost the whole time.  He went to the Mayor’s office briefly, then left Bard, Tolly, and Hillie in charge and went back to the Whitfoot’s afterward and retreated to his room with a cold compress over his eyes.

       Not long after he gone to his room Samwise Gamgee arrived, asking after him.  When Mina, herself concerned, described the condition Frodo was in, Sam sighed as if it was only what he’d anticipated.

       “They’ve been drivin’ poor Mr. Pippin almost to distraction, not wantin’ to believe what he says and all, tryin’ to boss him about as if he weren’t much more’n a bairn.  They’re not goin’ to of allowed Mr. Frodo to of said that much more.  Bet he was fit to be tied more’n once while he was there.  Can you put some water on to heat?  I’ll use the King’s herb on him--hopefully as that’ll help.”

       Mina could hear a murmur of voices from the room, then Frodo’s went quiet, and she could hear Sam singing softly.  She smiled as she brought the boiling kettle and a shallow pan to the door and knocked.  “Come in,” Sam called softly, and she went in.

       Frodo’s saddlebags still hung over the footboard of the bed, and his cloak had been hastily thrown over the back of his chair.  The weather outside was growing tempestuous, with a windstorm gusting heavily against the windows and rattling the panes, sending one loose shutter banging open and shut.  “I’ll take care of that as I leave,” Sam said quietly as he looked at the window.  “Otherwise it’ll just worry at him.”

       Frodo’s face was still far too pale, and he still clutched the compress to his eyes.  Mina looked at the window.  “Shall I draw the curtains?” she asked.

       “No, please,” Frodo said in low tones.  “I couldn’t bear being shut in the dark, not after being at the Great Smial.”

       “You felt closed in there in your old room?” Sam asked.

       “No, not particularly, not even when the rush light went out.  But Ferdi sat by me and held my hand and helped soothe me.”

       “Had your nightmares?”

       “Yes.”

       “I’m sorry, Master.”

       “Nothing for you to be sorry for.  But I gave Merry and Pippin the Crickhollow house none too soon, I see.”

       Sam set the pan on the table by the bed and poured the water from the kettle into it, then opened one of his parchment packets and took out a couple of the leaves he’d shared before with Mina, rolling them between his hands and dropping them into the water.  He looked up at Mina.  “May I please have a couple flannels?” he asked.

       “Certainly.  I’ll go get them,” she said, and she hurried off to the airing cupboard to fetch them.

       Sam dampened one and carefully removed the cold compress and wiped Frodo’s face, then switched to the other.  Then he took one and wrung it out and laid it over Frodo’s eyes, sent Mina out with the compress to wring it out in cold water again, rolling it and placing it over Frodo’s forehead when she brought it back.  Sam then held a water bottle to Frodo’s mouth, squeezing a small amount into it and allowing him to swallow, then a small amount more.  At last Frodo lay back on the pillow and signed it was enough.  “The willowbark is helping,” he whispered.

       “Good enough, then,” Sam said quietly.  “Shall I sit by you a time and sing to you?”

       “If you would, Sam.  It’s comforting.”

       Sam sang softly in a tongue Mina didn’t know, and she saw Frodo finally give a small smile behind his compresses.  His breath slowed, deepened, and she realized he was slipping into sleep.  Mina shared a smile with Sam and left him.  After a time he joined her in the kitchen and accepted some tea she’d just brewed.  “He ought to be better when he wakens,” he said with a sigh.  “Wish as it was possible just to make folks smarten up by just givin’ them the Look.”

       “What did you sing?”

       “A part of one of the hymns to Elbereth he favors most,” Sam answered.  “He loves the stars, and the hymns to Elbereth soothe him.”

       “Elbereth?  Isn’t that one of the Powers?”

       “Yes, the Lady what kindled the stars.  Mr. Bilbo’d sing that to him, back when he first come to Bag End, when he was so sick and almost died.  He was delirious, but that song’d calm him.  Mostly Mr. Bilbo’d sing his own songs, but when Frodo was sick it was the Elvish hymns he’d respond to.”

       “Where did Bilbo learn them from?”

       “He learned them in Rivendell, in the Hall of Fire of the evenin’s.  They sing many songs of the Blessed Realm there.  Mr. Bilbo loved the Elvish languages and the Elvish songs, and got folks there to tell him the words and help him write them down.  When we was there and Frodo well enough to go to the Hall of Fire at last, he’d sit there all evenin’, listenin’ and takin’ it all in, fairly shinin’ in response to the songs.  He has an Elvish bent to him, Frodo has.  Always has had.”

       “So you learned them.”

       “Yes.  I love Elvish, too.  That one’s Sindarin, but I learnt a couple in Quenya from the Lady Arwen and the Lady Galadriel.”

       “It’s so odd to know someone who knows Elvish languages.”

       Sam shrugged.  “Mr. Frodo was learnin’ them from Mr. Bilbo when he come to Bag End.  I’d be there for my own studies, learnin’ to read and write and figure, and I couldn’t help but pick up on a lot of it.  But then after my formal lessons was over we’d read and discuss the stories and all, but didn’t have no one to practice the languages with, and I forgot a good deal.  He kept readin’ in Sindarin and Quenya and even Adunaic, but I read mostly translations either him or Mr. Bilbo’d done.  Didn’t remember enough when we heard Lord Gildor’s Elves in the Woody End singin’ to understand more than one word in twenty, I think.”

       “He’s said that before, that there were Elves in the Woody End, here in the Shire.”

       “Yes--some of the wanderin’ tribes have woods halls here.  I’m afraid, though, now most’ll leave Middle Earth, now as Sauron is gone and there’s no need to keep the watch on him no more.”

       “How is it that Sauron’s gone now, Sam?”

       Sam sighed.  “Only reason as he could come back afore was ’cause his Ring of Power wasn’t destroyed after he was laid low.  Isildur cut It from Sauron’s hand, but It took him and made him carry It away with him.  Once that Ring caught hold of a heart and mind, It didn’t let go.  Well, now It’s truly destroyed for good and all.”

       “How do you know?”

       “Mr. Frodo and me--we was there when It went into the Fire.  Oh, It’s gone now, and Sauron can’t come back no more’n Morgoth can, save we let them into our hearts.”

       “But how did It get into the Fire?”

       But Sam was shaking his head.  “It’s his story to tell, and he ain’t ready to tell it yet.  Not yet.  Maybe someday.”

       “He was bad hurt.”

       “Yes, awful bad hurt.  We was all awful bad hurt, but his was the worst of all.”  He looked up.  “I’d best go.  Must go by Hobbiton and see as how the smials of Bagshot Row is comin’, then back to the Cotton’s place.  I’ll see to that shutter afore I leave, though.”  He slipped another packet of the leaves out of his pocket.  “Next time as you draw a bath for him, if’n he lets you do that, drop one of these in it for him.”

       “Will do, Sam.  And thanks for being there for him today.”

*******

       A week later Frodo found himself preparing to perform his first wedding, between a Took and a Brandybuck.  They’d not been able to decide between Thain and Master, and didn’t want to have both up there; so they’d chosen to have the Mayor perform the ceremony.

       “Will, I can’t do this!”

       “And why not, Frodo?  You know the ceremony--I know you do.  After all, when you young ones would play at weddings at the Free Fair when you were younger, you were always the one to be the Mayor, for you were the one who knew the words.”

       Frodo flushed, but there was no way out of it.  Soon Mina was bundling him off to the banquet chamber in the Council Hole, and he found himself standing, shivering, in the center of the room, Merry and Pippin standing by him.

       “I don’t know what you’re so worried about, Frodo Baggins,” Pippin said.  “You stood up by Aragorn at his wedding, after all.”

       “But I didn’t have to say or do anything for him--just walk in the circle around him to the bower and Lord Elrond.  He was the one who was nervous.”

       “Him and his cousin Halladan,” Merry laughed.  “Lord Halladan looked almost ready to faint away until Elrond began the ceremony itself.  Then he went from nervous to proud.”  As Frodo gave another shiver, Merry shook his head.  “Calm down, Frodo--it’s not as if  you hadn’t done this before.”

       Pippin looked at the two of them with interest.  “And when has Frodo ever performed weddings?” he asked.

       “When I was a little one--whenever someone wanted to play at weddings, they’d call for Frodo to play the Mayor or the Master, for he knew all the words.   He’d do it even when he was a tween and would come to visit with Bilbo.”

       Frodo’s cheeks grew still redder.  “It’s not the same!” he protested.

       Merry laughed.  “Dad said you knew it letter perfect the time you did it for Estella Bolger and me, you know.”

       “That was the last time I ever did it--imagine, a great lad like me, almost an adult, still playing at weddings?”

       “Well, we begged you for--for how long?  Must have nagged at you for three days before you finally agreed.  It wasn’t your fault Dad and Bilbo found us at it.”

       “And what was worse was when your dad didn’t even interrupt, but came up afterwards all solemn and congratulated bride and groom as if it were serious, and asked where you two would be living, whether in Budge Hall or Brandy Hall.  Acted as if the wedding were valid.  He even examined the wedding contract as if it were properly done.”

       “It was properly done.  I’d had Brendi write it for us, you know.  I still have it somewhere about the Hall.”

       “You had Brendilac Brandybuck write that contract?  Merry!  I had no idea.”

       “Well, you weren’t the only one Estella and I nagged.  He was needing to practice, after all.”

       “So he practiced by writing a marriage contract between two teens?  My stars--I’d never have imagined you’d hook him in, too!”

       “Well, you’ll do fine between Sapphira and Oderiadoc.”

       Then the Master and Thain entered with bride and groom, followed by the two families, and it was too late to do anything but see to the marriage.  Merry whispered into Frodo’s ear, “Just pretend it’s me and Estella again, Frodo--you’ll do fine.”

       The two of them approached, and Frodo took a deep breath.  “And why, Oderiadoc Brandybuck, do you come before this company?” he asked.  Merry, watching, smiled with satisfaction.  Frodo performed the wedding not only properly, but with a measure of grace that none had expected, his attention focused on bride and groom completely and with true concern that they both understand the serious nature of the relationship they now entered.  Sapphira Took looked at him, then at her groom with even more consideration in her eyes, and her words were no mere repetition of formula but were heartfelt, as were his.  Then it was all over, and Frodo stood there as if held in the midst of a great calm as he gave them their first greeting as husband and wife, and all three seemed to glow in the joy of the moment.

       Pippin whispered to Merry, “Mer--do you see?  Not as bright as at Strider’s wedding, but----”

       “Yes, I see.  Do you think he has any idea he just truly lights up like that?”

       “I don’t think he does.”

       And then followed the surge as the wedding guests came forward to kiss and embrace the wedding couple, and Frodo was able to take refuge over at the side of the room.  Saradoc was the first to approach him.  “Well, Frodo--that was as beautiful a wedding ceremony as I’ve ever seen.  Even more moving than that of Merry’s and Estella’s when they were little ones, I think.”  His smile was gentle.  “You did fine, Frodo, truly fine.”  He held out his arms and embraced his younger cousin, holding him tightly, aware of how thin he was compared to how he’d been before.  “You did fine, Frodo.  I think they are most well and truly married, and more aware of what that means than they’d have been had Pal or I performed the wedding.  I’m proud of you.  All that practice was worth it, I think.”  He didn’t want to let Frodo go, not then.  He wanted to keep him safe in his arms for as long as he could.

       “I just never thought, back when we were young ones and playing at weddings, I’d ever be called upon to do it for real, you know,” Frodo murmured into his ear.

       Saradoc just continued to hold Frodo in his arms, so glad he’d come back.  From what Merry had been able to tell him, it appeared such a close thing, that Frodo had nearly died out there, very, very nearly.  He found himself thanking the Powers that Frodo had been allowed to return to the Shire for whatever time was left to him.

       Then he realized how his mind had phrased that--for whatever time was left to him.  He realized then that his heart recognized that Frodo might not be able to linger long.

73

       Frodo and Sam had both been asked to go to Buckland for Pippin’s birthday party, but Frodo had begged off, which proved a good thing as the weather had gone truly nasty, with driving rains and winds which became a sleet storm two nights before First Yule.  Ferdibrand and Pimpernel Took came back from the party through the storm and stopped to see Frodo before returning to the Great Smial for Yule.

       “Oh, I don’t know if I’ll ever truly be warm again,” Pimpernel said as she shook out her cloak before the fire.  “But you still ought to have come, Frodo, Sam.  The party was marvelous.  Snowed food and rained drink.  And Da was shocked not to be asked to pay a farthing for it.”

       “Pippin had told me he’d use his Guard’s pay for it,” Frodo said, smiling.  “He’s far from penniless, you’ll find.  Plus for my gift for him I arranged for Barliman Butterbur to ship in a barrel of his ale, for Gandalf put it under a spell of special excellence and I thought Pippin would be particularly glad of it at his birthday.”

       Sam smiled.  “I didn’t want to leave folks here without me, so close to Yule.  And, unlike some Tooks as I know, I don’t find I like travelin’ through cold no more.  Learned better’n that tryin’ to go over Caradhras, I did.  Don’t want no more chilblains.”

       “Chilblains?” asked Ferdi.  “And what’s Caradhras?”

       “One of the peaks in the Misty Mountains,” Frodo said.  “There’s a pass there called the Redhorn Gate, and we tried to cross it, but were stopped by a terrible snowstorm and an avalanche.  We were all about to freeze to death before we managed to get back through the snowdrifts.”

       “I thought you could go down around the bottom of the chain to get to the East side.”

       “Yes, you can, through the Gap of Rohan; but that wasn’t something we wanted to do, with Saruman and his folk there in Isengard.  You saw what he did here in the Shire before we could get back--imagine if he’d managed to capture us with me having It on me at the time.”

       “Who’s Saruman?” asked Pimpernel.

       “The name Sharkey was best known as outside the Shire,” Frodo explained.  “He lived in a fortress called Isengard at the South end of the Misty Mountains, and he and his folk controlled access to the Gap of Rohan at the time.  He knew what I carried and what our mission would be, and he would have stopped at nothing to get control if It himself.  And, had he been able to get It, he would have then seen to a most--most uncomfortable ending for those of us who took part in the quest.”

       “I didn’t think as there was anyone anywhere as I could hate more than that Gollum,” Sam growled, “until we got back here and seen what Sharkey’d done to the Shire.  Now I know I hate him the worse.”

       “There’s no point to hating either,” Frodo sighed, “as both are dead now.”

       “And good riddance to both,” Sam muttered.  Frodo gave him a long look which Sam returned defiantly.

       Ferdi sensed the unspoken contest between his cousin and his cousin’s gardener, and sought to change the subject.  “I wish you were coming to the Great Smial for Yule.”

       Frodo shook his head.  “No, I’m going no further than here until it’s time to return to Michel Delving.  I’m not up to another confrontation with Uncle Pal and Aunt Lanti at the moment, for I’m certain they’ll start asking me to explain again, and then insist I change details again so as to avoid the unpleasant truth.”

       “I tried to speak with Uncle Paladin myself, but he wasn’t willing to listen to me, either, Frodo.  I finally suggested he read some history and left him alone in his study to stew on it all.”

       “I thank you for trying.  No, it’s easier at the moment to remain in charity with them by avoiding them, I think.  They’ll come around one day, I’m certain; but for now I need some peace of mind.”

       “You sound tired, Frodo.”

       “I feel tired, Ferdi.  Gandalf had told me that before he left the Shire Bilbo complained of feeling stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.  Well, I’ve been feeling much the same lately.  I’m hoping that spring will help me feel less strained.”

       “Well, I certainly hope so, too.”

       The two joined the Cottons and their other guests in a simple meal, then donned their warmed cloaks to finish their trip home.  Frodo hugged each and accompanied them to the door, then retreated to the chair closest the fire where he wrapped himself in a shawl offered him by Lily Cotton until he went to his bed.

       That night he dreamt of the attempt on the mountain pass again, but now there was a goblin cavern inside the overhang where all had clustered for warmth around the fire they’d kindled using the faggots of wood Boromir had insisted they carry.  Orcs of all kinds threatened them from the mouth of the cave, and Boromir, Legolas, and Aragorn fended them off with their swords, while Gandalf aimed his staff at each as it showed its head and turned it into a goldfish.  But behind them was a great glow of heat rather than warmth as the Balrog came closer and closer; and even he could hear Saruman’s voice on the wind chanting spells to cause Caradhras to waken in wrath toward them.

       Frodo woke in the night shuddering with terror and cold, rose, and stirred up the fire on his small hearth, then sat in the chair before it and drifted back to sleep there.

       Yule was a joyful holiday there at the Cottons’ farm.  Frodo didn’t go to the Party Field where the Yule bonfire was lit, and was found asleep before the rekindled fire on one of the sofas in the parlor when they returned home, a letter to the King half written on the table.  He blinked himself awake as the rest came in, stamping their feet clean of the snow which had fallen that day.  By dawn, however, the snow was beginning to thaw as a surprisingly warm sun rose over the Shire.  Sam was exceedingly pleased with his gifts, and embraced both Rosie and his Master for the pictures.  The Gaffer was happy with the gifts he received of several shawls, liniment for his joints, a new mug Sam had brought him from Gondor, and a bag of seed potatoes Frodo had purchased for him to plant once he was in the new Number Three.  Rosie proudly wore her strand of glass beads Frodo had brought her from Master Celebrion’s shop and the lace shawl Sam had commissioned Marigold to make for her.  Frodo sighed to realize the promise bracelet hadn’t yet been given her, but Sam refused to meet his eyes.  No, until he was back in Bag End Frodo realized that Sam wouldn’t speak.  He hoped Rosie could continue in her patience.

       It was clear and cold when he again rode Strider to Michel Delving.  Bard made certain he had warm drinks by him throughout the day, and that the food he was offered was warm whenever possible.  Frodo was both grateful and amused.  Considering how many years Isumbard Took had been envious of Pearl’s attentions toward Frodo, it was a marvel that Bard could now be so solicitous.

       As he went to the Whitfoot home for the night Frodo found Bucca, Aster, and the children were visiting again.  All were glad to see him return, and Dianthus had made him a scarf and mittens as a Yule gift.  They were done in green wool and were quite heavy yet supple.  “My gaffer says as you could use these when you ride between Bywater and here,” the lass told him.  “I made them special for you.  My mum taught me how.”

       Frodo’s smile lit up his pale features.  “Thank you, Dianthus,” he said quietly.  “I’ll be certain to wear them while it’s cold.  I think I could have used them today on my way to Michel Delving, in fact.”

       “And you have a box from far away, too,” Dianthus told him.  “It arrived the day before First Yule.  The letter with it said to keep it in the cool room but not to let it freeze.”

       Cando rose hastily.  The possible contents of this box had intrigued him to the point he was itching to know what it might contain.  “I’ll go and fetch it,” he offered.

       Frodo looked up at him.  “Thank you.  If the directions said to keep it cool I might know what it is, but it’s better to be certain rather than guess, I suppose.”

       In minutes Cando was back carrying a small crate and a hatchet.  Frodo leaned over the crate and sniffed deeply, smiling with satisfaction before he signed for the lad to remove the lid.  Using the back of the hatchet blade Cando knocked the nails loose, and in moments the lid was off.  Frodo was delving among heavy paper, and brought out what appeared to be a bright orange ball.  His smile had broadened.  “Bless Strider,” he said.  “He remembered his promise.”  He held it to his nose and again gave a satisfied sniff, then held it out to Cando.  “Here--smell it.” 

       Cando gave a deep sniff, surprised at the tart scent, then handed it to his brother, who in turn handed it to his mother.  Frodo brought a second one out and gave it to Dianthus to smell.  “Is it a fruit?” asked Mina.

       Frodo nodded.  “Yes, from far to the South, down near the far coasts of Gondor, from Dol Amroth where Prince Faramir’s mother was born and where his uncle Imrahil is Prince.  It is called the orange fruit.  There are several that are similar to one another.”  He rummaged through the heavy paper again, then said, “Yes--here’s one of the others.  It’s called a lemon, and there are green ones called limes and larger, sour ones called grapefruit, although I learned I can’t eat those.  There’s still another called a citron.”  He looked at the two lads.  “Do either of you have a pen knife I can use?” he asked.  He used the knife to cut into the skin, then pulled the peel and much of the whitish membrane away.  “They grate some of the peel and use it to flavor some dishes and breads and cakes in Gondor,” he explained to Mina and Aster.  Once it was peeled he broke it into segments and offered each one.  “I hope this is a sweet one,” he said.  “Prince Imrahil warned me if the fruit sits too long it can begin to harden and the segments will taste dry and almost woody.”  He popped his segment into his mouth and closed his eyes in pleasure.  “Ah, this is a good  one.” 

       Soon the others were also sampling it.  Dorno was soon eyeing the smaller lemon fruit.  Frodo explained, “The lemon is much more sour, and its juice is often squeezed out and mixed with sugar and sometimes water to make a refreshing drink.  You don’t need to add sugar to the juice of the orange fruit, though.  And again the juice and grated peel are often used in baking, as is true of the green fruit called the lime as well.  Then there are smaller fruits than the orange fruit which are often even sweeter than the orange fruit is, although I don’t know what their name is.  I have seen and purchased them in the marketplaces, though.”

       “Do they have the type of fruits we have in Gondor?” asked Dianthus.

       “Oh, yes--strawberries, cherries, apples, plums, grapes, pears, and others.  They also have two kinds we don’t have here called peaches and apricots, for they need longer and warmer summers than we have to fully ripen.  Their fruit has an almost furry skin to it.  Pippin truly likes them, but I don’t care for them unless they are peeled.”  He smiled.  “They told us that this year, in spite of the war, the gardens and orchards and fields were especially fruitful wherever the ash from Orodruin fell.  How the Enemy would have hated that thought, that his ash assisted crops to grow.”

       “Why?” asked Dorno.  “Why would he care?”

       “The Enemy has hated the rest of the world, has hated us ever, those of us who never bowed down to him or allowed ourselves to be enslaved by him.  He caused Orodruin to pump out ash to make it easier for his armies to travel, for his orcs have ever hated the Sun, while his trolls cannot bear its light either, and will turn to stone if it shines on them.”

       “But that’s just a story!” objected Cando.

       “Oh, you think so?” Frodo asked.  “Did you never hear the story of my Uncle Bilbo and the Dwarves with whom he traveled and the three trolls they met?”

       “Yes,” Cando said, “but that’s only made up.”

       Frodo shook his head sadly.  “No, it’s not made up, and you’d best not say such a thing to Peregrin Took or Meriadoc Brandybuck, for the two of them were quite embarrassed by those stone trolls, they were.”  He suddenly laughed.  “You should have seen their faces when they came running back to us with the news they’d seen trolls, or the face of Aragorn as he knew what it was they’d truly seen and went to show them.  They’d run ahead, you see....”

       Soon all were laughing, and Aster was asking, “You mean it is true, Bilbo’s old story?”

       “Oh, yes, for I’ve seen the three stone trolls myself.  We stopped for a time to rest in the midst of them and Sam recited a humorous poem he’d written about a troll.  As for Strider--Aragorn had seen them often, of course, over the years since Gandalf had tricked them into arguing past sunrise.  Merry and Pippin wanted to stop at them as we returned from Rivendell, but Gandalf just harrumphed at them and reminded them they were the ones who’d been protesting we’d been gone quite long enough.  But I’ll never forget Aragorn picking up that rotten branch and casually swinging it at one of them there in the sunlight, and the branch breaking--much less him pointing out the bird’s nest behind the ear of one of them.  Pippin turned pinker than ever Sam thought to turn that day.”

       “What is Orodruin, though?” asked Dianthus.

       Frodo’s face went solemn.  “Orodruin is the proper name of Mount Doom, the fire mountain of Mordor where Sauron forged his cruelest weapons, including--including his Ring of Power.  The name for such fire mountains is volcano.  Heated rock from deep under the earth comes to the surface through them, heated to the point of being liquid, much as sand is heated by glassblowers until it becomes molten before they blow it into bottles and tumblers and vases and such.  They could tell when Sauron was most active and ready to attack the outer world again by watching the activity of Orodruin, for when he awakened it and it began to pump out lava and smokes and ash that was always the sign he was readying for yet another assault.

       “This time he was intent on destroying the land of Gondor, whose people dwelt closest to him and who had always withstood him most strongly.  Vast armies had he gathered, armies of orcs and trolls and Men, Men from Harad in the South and from Rhun in the East and Angmar from the far North, and Dunland from just North of Rohan and from Umbar South of the Mouths of the Sea.  But the greatest part of his armies were of orcs and trolls who do not love the Sun, and who needed to be protected from it.  So he woke Orodruin to pump out vast clouds of ash, causing a brown twilight to fall over the lands.”

       “We could see such brown clouds, far to the South of us,” Aster said.  “They built up through much of March.”

       “Yes, that was when the war raged,” Frodo said sadly.  “Sam and I, after we left Captain Faramir, saw the clouds of ash creeping across the sky, driven high in the air and carried abroad by the winds from the East to cover over the lands of Men.  Then came the day with no true dawn, after which all remained dark until the Men of Gondor, Rohan, and the Dúnedain of the North together vanquished the armies sent to besiege the capitol of Minas Tirith.  But there were yet more armies still gathered in Mordor, and ever Sauron tormented the mountain to keep the ash spewing that his orcs and trolls not have to hide from the light of Sun and Moon.  So it was until Aragorn led the Army of the West, comprised of Men of Gondor, Rohan, and such of Arnor as had been able to join him, three Elves, a Dwarf, and Peregrin Took to challenge Sauron’s might before his own Black Gate.  I cannot imagine the courage that march took.  But they had to draw Sauron’s forces Northward to the gate of his land, away from Orodruin.”

       “Why?” demanded Cando.

       Frodo didn’t answer for quite some time.  Finally he said, “Only at Orodruin could it all be stopped.”

       Dorno asked, “How?”

       Finally Frodo said solemnly, “His Ring of Power, Sauron’s Ring of Power, the one that could command all the rest, was forged there, and only there could it be destroyed.  Those carrying It had to be allowed to approach the Mountain unseen so that they could bring It there to Its destruction, for only with It gone could they hope to destroy the might of Sauron and Mordor forever.”

       “Did they do it?”

       Frodo nodded, reluctantly.  “Finally, when it was almost too late.  And then--and then it was almost for nought after all.  And in the end it was--it was treachery that led to the Ring actually going into the fire.  It was--it was ironic--the Ring of Power, in the end being destroyed almost by accident.”

       “Did that kill Sauron?”

       “The Maiar cannot truly be killed; but he has been reduced to nought but a spirit of evil will and has been thrust out through the Gates of Night with his master Morgoth, as is, I suppose, also true of Sharkey as well.”

       “But Sharkey was a Man....” began Bucca.

       Frodo shook his head.  “No, Saruman was no proper Man.  He was sent to Middle Earth to help teach the peoples here to stand against Mordor and Sauron, but he became corrupted by the thought of the great power which could be his should he find the Ring of Power.  He told the rest It was gone beyond finding, taken by the currents of the River Anduin through the Mouths of the Sea itself and lost in the depths of the Sundering Sea where It could not be found; but he knew this was a lie, and sought It for his own purposes.  He learned enough from others to finally make a guess at who had found It and where It dwelt for a time, and he learned of us, and sent his folk here to pretend to serve Lotho.  They were to seek for It; but by the time they came It was already gone and carried away.”

       “You mean the Ring of Power was here in the Shire all the time?” Cando wondered.

       “No, not all the time, but for about seventy-eight years It was here.”

       “But how...?” Dianthus asked.

       Frodo, however, was shaking his head.  “No, that is enough of the story.”  He gave a deep sigh, looking at the small crate of fruit.  Then his face grew somewhat stern.  “He sought to use the ash of Mount Doom to destroy the lands of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, but instead where the ash fell when the winds ceased blowing it Westward it blest the fields and orchards.”  His expression softened, and he gave a small smile.  “The city of Minas Tirith was grey with the ash, but a glassblower gathered as much as he could, and mixes it with his sand to make the most beautiful glass you can imagine.  One day if you meet Rosie Cotton, ask to see her beads she received from me for Yule, for they are made of volcano glass.”  His smile broadened, and he added, “And the increase in fruit led to the most odd filling of a bathing tub you can imagine.  Pippin was filled with a madness to pull a prank on me, and filled the bathing tub in our house with cherries and strawberries.  I was going to bathe and found it full to the rim.  And the next day we were all kept busy making cherry and strawberry jam!” 

       He looked up at Mina.  “Have you a bowl we can put the fruit in?” he asked.  Aster went and fetched a large bowl intended for salads, and soon Frodo and the three children were busily filling it from the small crate.  Suddenly Cando gave a small cry of triumph, bringing out a pair of small ceramic jars, and Frodo laughed.  “Aragorn sent us some of our own jam!” he said.  “Bless him!”  He looked at the runes drawn on the cloth tied tightly over the tops of the jars.  “This in the brown jar is cherry, and that in the blue one is strawberry.”

       The three children shared looks of surprise.  Were Frodo’s stories true, then?

       Not long after Frodo bade them goodnight and went to bed while Mina and Cando took the bowl and pots of jam to the kitchen.  “I don’t understand all this about enemies and armies,” Will said quietly.  “But clearly the four of them saw strange things out there in the outer world.”

       Aster was shaking her head.  “He says that the story of Bilbo and the trolls is true.  I always thought it was just a story.”

       Bucca and Dorno, however, were looking at one another.  “If the Ring of Power was here for seventy-eight years....” Bucca began.  He looked at his wife’s father.  “When did Bilbo leave the Shire with the Dwarves?  How long ago?”

       Will shrugged.  “I don’t know--maybe eighty years ago.”

       Bucca looked toward the back of the house where the bedrooms were.  “Almost eighty years?”

       Dorno said slowly, “Seventy-eight is almost eighty, Da.”

       Bucca nodded.  The conclusions he was coming to were disturbing.

74

       Mina woke up in the depths of the night hearing cries from Frodo's room.  She sat up abruptly, at first uncertain what noise had awakened her, listening carefully.  Once she realized the source of the cries, she rose quickly.  Will woke at that.  "Mina, what is it?"

       "It's Frodo.  He's calling out."

       She pulled her dressing gown over her nightdress, and hurried to the room which had once been her son's, finding Bucca was also coming out of his room.  He opened the door to reveal Frodo sitting up, his eyes unfocused, crying out in a strangled voice as if he were trying to keep the words from being heard, "They're calling for It, Sam, they're calling for It!"  Then he started to crumple.  "No, I don't know where it is!"  He twisted to the side.  "Hold my hand, Sam," he whispered.  "Don't let me put It on.  No!"  He jerked, and cried, "No!"

       Bucca looked at his wife's mother, the faces of both pale.  Then Frodo whispered something which called to her heart.  "Please, Mummy, make it stop!  Make it stop hurting." 

       Mina sat on the bed and wrapped her arms around him.  He was pale in the light entering the room from the lantern she always left burning low in the passageway, and shivered as she held him.  He looked at her, obviously not recognizing her.  "I'm so cold, Mummy.  It's so hot, but I'm so cold.  How can I be so cold when it's so hot?"

       "Shh, Frodo lad, shh.  It's all right.  Mummy's here, sweet lad," she said gently, holding him close.  "It's but a bad dream."  She looked up to catch Bucca's eyes.  "Get some water heating in the kitchen, as hot as you can stand to touch it," she whispered

       "What's wrong?" he asked.

       "His shoulder--it's cold--terribly cold."

       "Mummy?" murmured Frodo.

       "It's all right, dearling.  You aren't alone."

       "It hurts, Mummy." 

       At a gesture of her head, Bucca retreated to the kitchen to set the water to heat.

       "Where does it hurt, sweetling?"

       "My shoulder, where the pale King hurt me.  It's all cold again, and it hurts."

       "Does it hurt bad, dearling?"

       "Yes.  You could call Aragorn--he could help.  He would come."

       "He isn't here now, and it would take too long to have him come."

       "I'm so cold, Mummy."

       "Your cousin Bucca and I--we're going to try to make your arm warmer, dearling.  We're going to put warm cloths on it."

       "Yes, Aragorn does that, and Sam does it.  It will help."

       "All right, Frodo, I'm going to have to take off your nightshirt to do it."

       "I don't want you to see, Mummy."

       "I already know, Frodo.  And I have to do it to put the hot cloths on your shoulder."

       "It won't really heal, not in Middle Earth.  They told me."  His voice was quiet.

       "I won't pull the shirt off until the hot water comes, so now just lie back and relax, and sleep if you can."

       "Yes, Mummy."  He lay back, and closed his eyes, then shivered.  She wrapped the blankets close about him.

       Soon Bucca was back with the steaming water.  She wished she had a hearth in the room.  Bucca looked at her.  "I built the fire up in the kitchen, and set some towels on the airing rack in front of it to warm."  He indicated the small towels he'd brought with him.  "Will these do?"

       "I think so.  Help me get the nightshirt off of him.  And know this--he has scars."

       Together they sat Frodo up, and after unbuttoning the shirt's collar they carefully pulled it off over his head.  "It's so fine," Bucca said as he carefully draped it over the headboard.

       She nodded distractedly, her eye focused on the inflamed scar on Frodo's shoulder.  Bucca looked to see what had caught her attention, and she heard the sharp inhalation of his breath.  "Sun in glory!" he whispered, stunned.  He forced himself to look away, and taking a deep breath he dipped one of the towels into the hot water, then wrung it out and handed it to her.  She wrapped it over Frodo's shoulder and around his upper arm.  He was already wringing out a second towel, and as she wrapped it around Frodo's elbow he was readying a third which she wrapped about the left hand.  Then he was going out to refill the kettle and put it back over the fire, taking the nightshirt with him to warm with the larger towels.

       Aster came out of their room, pulling a shawl about her shoulders.  "What is it?" she asked.

       "Frodo's having a nightmare and can't seem to quite wake from it.  Can you keep the fire up to heat the house this end, and keep water heating for us?"

       They changed the water and towels twice, and finally wrapped the warmed dry towels about him.  It was while they were doing this Bucca caught his first sight of Frodo's back.  "Who whipped him?" he asked.

       "Is that what caused it?" she whispered.

       He nodded.  "Lotho's Big Men--one of them whipped one of the Applethorn lads one night--said he was being cheeky.  That's what it looks like on his back, only this is worse."

       Mina straightened, a fury building in her toward those who had whipped her cousin's son.  After he was dry she had Bucca bring in the nightshirt, and together they eased it over him, then the blankets.  Frodo looked better now, his face not quite as pale.  He'd never quite awakened through the whole procedure.  She nodded to Bucca as he slipped out of the room, and sat by Frodo softly singing one of the lullabies that she'd heard Primula singing to Frodo when he was tiny.  At last, convinced he was deeply asleep, she leaned over him and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead, much as she knew Primula had once kissed him, as she'd kissed Fenton.  "Sleep now, dearling," she murmured.  "The bad dreams have been chased away."  He sighed and turned on his side, turning toward the window.

       She went out into the passage and closed the door behind her, then into the kitchen.  Bucca and Aster sat at the table, each with a cup of chamomile tea, with a third obviously awaiting her.  She sat down stiffly, that rage toward whoever had done that filling her again.  "He's my own cousin's son," she said through clenched teeth, "and someone whipped him and jabbed something into his shoulder."

       "Who did?" Aster asked, her own face pale.

       "I don't know," Mina answered.

       "Why?" Aster asked.

       "I think," Bucca said slowly, "because he carried Sauron's Ring out of the Shire."

       "What?" asked Aster.

       "You heard what he said tonight, the stories as he told."

       "But how did the Ring ever come to the Shire to begin with?" Mina demanded.

       "I think as somehow Bilbo brought it back from his adventure with the Dwarves."

       "But that's just stories!" insisted Aster.

       "Maybe I used to think as those was just stories," Bucca said, "but I don't think so now."  When his wife looked at him open-mouthed, he continued, "You know as how we've always said 'When the King returns' and meant 'never.'  Well, there's a King again now, and the four Travelers all traveled with him, know him, honor him, even love him.  He even sent those fruits and all for Frodo, and apparently had that fine nightshirt made for him."  Aster nodded reluctantly.  "Then there's the story about the trolls as Frodo says is true, and that he's seen 'em.  He told about them brown clouds last spring, and we all seen them."  Again she nodded.

       "Well," he continued, "I think he's the one as carried the Ring out of here, and as that's why they left--to get It out of here.  I think as somehow--maybe through that old Wizard Gandalf--they figured out as what It was and realized It had to be got out of the Shire, and he took It."

       "But he said they took the Ring to Mordor to the fire mountain to destroy It," Aster pointed out.

       "But he never said as who they was, did he?  Well, I think as I know--I think it was him and Sam Gamgee."

       "Hobbits?" Aster asked, her credulity strained.

       "Yes, Hobbits.  Apparently when Bilbo left the Shire he left the Ring to Frodo."

       "But why do you think Bilbo had it to begin with?"

       "Think, Aster--what did Bilbo say in his stories as how he beat the giant spiders?"

       "He put on the magic ring as he found in Gollum's cave...."  She stopped, suddenly beginning to believe in spite of herself.  She looked at the mug in her hands, lifted it and took a great swig from it, and started to choke.  After her husband had pounded on her back and her mother helped mop off the front of her nightdress, she took a shuddering breath, then turned her gaze back to her husband.  "Then--Bilbo's stories--maybe they aren't just stories after all."  He nodded.  "And he wasn't never mad as we used to think."  He nodded again.  "And Frodo carried It away, with those strange Black Riders chasing him, across the Shire, then out of it, through the Old Forest.  Then that's why they went that way," she suddenly said, getting excited, "to throw the Riders off."

       He paused, then nodded.  "Yes, that makes sense."

       Mina said, "Him and Sam--both of them said something about him getting better in Rivendell, as if he'd been real sick."

       "Sick?" asked Bucca.  "Sick--or wounded?  That scar on his shoulder--it's not real old, but it's older'n those on his back as where he was whipped."

       Mina nodded.  "He told me--there in the bedroom--he told me he'd been told as it couldn't really heal.  It's older than the ones on his back, but it's also more irritated.  I think it's the wound that won't really heal.  He said that when I told him we'd put hot cloths on his shoulder."

       "But why don't he just tell folks?" Aster asked.

       Bucca shrugged as he looked down into his mug of tea.  "Until tonight, I'd of never believed it," he said simply.  "But it just keeps adding up.  Just keeps adding up."

       Will turned over as Mina slipped back into bed.  "Bad dreams?"

       Mina slipped into his arms.  "Yes, Will, he had bad dreams--real bad dreams.  They were memories of--of what happened to him--out there.  He was hurt bad out there--hurt real bad.  But he's resting better now."

       Will held her close, realizing that she needed comforting now.  Then he realized something else--Mina was crying.  "My cousin's son," she whispered.  "They hurt my cousin Primula's lad."

       "Who hurt Frodo?"

       "Those Black Riders, I think."

       Will held Mina closer.

*******

       Two days later Bucca had removed a number of shutters that had been damaged during the windstorms of late December, taking them to the carpenter's shop so some could be refinished and then to the blacksmith's to be fitted with new hinges, as many of the old hinges had about rusted out from the years they'd hung on what was the Whitfoot house.

       It was shortly after he arrived at the blacksmith's forge that he saw Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took ride into Michel Delving and the common stable.  Both were dressed in their mail, and today Pippin wore the black and silver tabard, a dispatch case over his shoulder.  Soon they emerged and headed for the Council Hole, stopping when one of the Took lawyers crossed the square. 

       "Hello, Semi," Pippin called.  "Has Frodo gone to the Whitfoots' for elevenses or early lunch?"

       "No," his cousin Isemgrin answered.  "He's talking to Odocaver Bolger about the state of Budgeford and Budge Hall when they were finally able to see to it."

       "Good, then we'll carry both off to the inn for lunch, then."

       Pippin and Merry soon were leading Frodo and Odocaver off to the inn; and finally leaving the rest of the shutters with the smith, Bucca followed them, sitting at a table near the door, watching the party seated at the table near the fireplace.  Pippin was bringing out a couple of letters out of his bag and presenting them to Frodo, who opened them and read them quickly, then asked a few questions before returning his attention to them, rereading each slightly more slowly, and apparently reading some sections off to the others.

       After they'd finished with their meal Merry went with the Bolger and Frodo back to the Council Hole while Pippin took his bag back to the stable.  Bucca, having finished his meal and ale, followed after.

       "...Then I'll leave you to see to your Jewel, Master Peregrin," Pease was saying as Bucca entered the stable.  "Got my soup heatin' up, I do.  Want somethin' warm, a cold day like today."  Pease touched his forelock and disappeared out the back door of the stable toward his cottage.

       Pippin was approaching the stall where his pony stood.  "Mr. Peregrin, sir, can I speak with you?"

       The Took turned, recognized Bucca, and smiled.  "Certainly, Mr. Sandheaver.  How may I help you?"

       "It's about Mr. Frodo, sir."  Something in Bucca's tone of deep respect caught Pippin's attention particularly.

       "What about Frodo?"

       Bucca paused.  "Did he tell you," he began carefully, "about the crate of fruit as the King sent him?"

       Pippin nodded.  "Yes, he did.  Once Aragorn realized that he could tempt Frodo to eat with the taste of the orange fruits he tried to keep them on hand."

       "He had troubles eatin' even then?"

       "Yes."

       "I see.  Well, he was talkin' of the fruits as they have down in Gondor and this and that, and as how the ash from the fire mountain helped the crops to grow."

       "Yes?"

       "And he said as how the Enemy's Ring was took there to be destroyed."

       "Yes."

       Bucca paused again, then asked quietly, "It was him as did it, wasn't it, him and Sam Gamgee, gettin' that thing to Orodruin?"

       Pippin's face was very serious.  "He told you?"

       Bucca shook his head in disgust.  "Course he didn't tell us.  Can barely bring hisself to speak of it at all.  But I can piece things together well enough."

       "I'm glad.  Does Will know?"

       "No--poor soul doesn't understand much of nothin' save that Frodo was bad hurt and is the best thing to walk into the Council Hole in the life of the Shire."

       Pippin nodded, obviously reluctant to speak.

       "Mina figured it out, though, that night."  He described the nightmare and what they'd found when they removed the nightshirt.  "What caused the wound on his shoulder?" Bucca asked.

       Pippin explained about Weathertop, the Morgul knife, and getting Frodo to Rivendell.  "He carried that shard seventeen days before they could open the wound the second time and get it out.  Everyone says no one else could have lasted that long, fighting it."

       "And you say if that thing'd reached his heart he'd of been gone?"

       Pippin nodded.  "He would have entered the wraith world, like the Nazgul themselves.  He would have become a lesser wraith, under their dominion.  They could have ordered him to do anything and he would have had to do it, no matter how awful."

       Bucca shuddered.  "So if he was so bad hurt how come he had to carry the Ring the rest of the way?  Hadn't he done enough, just gettin' It from here to there?"

       "The fewer who touched It," Pippin explained, "the better.  And the more powerful the individual who handled It the more easily It could corrupt them, and probably the quicker It would have taken them.  Frodo had already, without realizing it even, managed to find ways to counter Its influence for simpler things.  You won't want to know what It had been trying to get him to do to lasses for years.  And Gandalf told me that he'd even found a way to keep It from touching our minds most of the time--Merry's and Sam's and mine.

       "Besides," he continued, "no one asked him to do it--he offered to do it."

       "He offered?"  Bucca was amazed.

       "Yes, he offered.  Sam said that once those at the Council saw It, they started getting hot and bothered, and even then It was working on Boromir."

       "Who's that?"

       "The older son of the Lord Steward Denethor of Gondor."

       "Thought as that was someone called Faramir."

       "Faramir is the younger son of Denethor.  Boromir and Denethor are both dead now."  Bucca saw the gravity and grief in the face of the Thain's son and realized he'd seen both fall.  Pippin took a deep breath and continued.  "All were starting to grow excited, just from seeing It there.  Frodo could tell--and--and he'd been carrying It seventeen years, since Bilbo left the Shire.  He already couldn't stand the thought of not having It further."

       "How'd old Mr. Bilbo give It up, then?"

       "He'd put It in an envelope with his will and other papers and intended to put that on the mantel, but kept trying to put it all in his pocket.  At last he dropped it when Gandalf insisted it go on the mantel after all; and Gandalf swooped down on the envelope and put it on the mantel before Bilbo could touch it again.  Once It was on the mantelpiece,  Bilbo was able to leave Bag End and leave It behind.  But Gandalf told me that he was almost afraid Bilbo would draw Sting and try to use it on him.  Even when It was still mostly asleep the Ring still did Its best to get folks fighting one another for It.  At the Council Boromir was already starting to speak of it being folly to throw away the one weapon the Enemy couldn't counter.  While we were on our way South It finally worked on him to try to take It from Frodo, and that's when Frodo ran away, knowing he had to take It away from us to save us from Its temptation.  Only, Sam knew Frodo well enough to be on watch, and when Frodo disappeared, Sam ran to where he knew Frodo would go, and forced him to take him, too. 

       "Saruman--Sharkey's orcs found the rest of us.  They'd been told to capture Halflings, which is how we're known in the outer world, mostly.  The only Halflings they could find were Merry and me so they captured us.  Boromir was trying to protect us, so they used arrows on him, and--and they killed him.  Last I saw of him, he was beginning to lose consciousness, I think--leaned against a tree and then slid down to sit, leaning back against it.  Aragorn said that's how he found him a few minutes later.  He had at least five arrows in him, and Strider said at least three of the wounds were mortal.  There was nothing he could do to heal all of them."

       A tear was falling from Pippin's right eye, and he automatically wiped it away.  "So Frodo and Sam crossed the river in one of the three Elven boats we had come down the river in, and they went on to Mordor, while Strider, Legolas, and Gimli tracked the orcs who'd taken Merry and me.  It was a horrible journey for us, and worse for them.  Sam says that the Ring kept getting heavier and heavier, the further they went, especially after they got into Mordor.  The Nazgul patrolled the area all around Mordor, now riding on these huge winged things--not dragons, but like a huge featherless bird with a huge lizard's head.  They'd fly overhead...."  He began to shiver, and Bucca was reminded of how Frodo would do so at times.  "They were horrible, Bucca, horrible and horrifying."

       He paused for some minutes.  "They went on, on to Mordor.  Whatever we did, at least we were never truly alone.  They were, just the two of them, until they caught Gollum following them.  He'd been back in the Misty Mountains again, and was hiding in Moria when we went through there.  Gandalf and Frodo saw him there, and then he was seen on the borders of Lorien.  At least Sam, Frodo, and Aragorn saw him while we went down the river, and probably Legolas and Boromir as well.  When they crossed the river he followed them still.  They made him swear to show them a secret way into Mordor.

       "He tried to betray them, and Frodo was--was poisoned by a giant spider, like those in Mirkwood Bilbo told of.  Sam thought he was dead and tried taking the--the Ring and going on.  But then he heard orcs talking about finding Frodo's body and how the poison was intended to paralyze him for a time, and he realized he had to rescue him.  So he crossed into Mordor carrying It and had to find the way to get to him in an orc tower.  He managed to find Frodo and got him out of there, and Frodo took the Ring back.

       "Frodo became weaker and weaker, the further they went.  He was almost dead when they made it to the mountain, and Sam had to carry him up it until Gollum caught up with them again and attacked them once more.  Sam stayed back to fend off Gollum, and Frodo was able to go on into the Chamber of Fire--and the Ring took him at the last.  He--he put It on, and one last time Gollum attacked him and took It by force--then he fell in."

       Bucca considered.  "He said as it was almost by accident."

       "Gandalf and Aragorn say the same--all three were needed to destroy It--Frodo to carry It, Sam to get them there, and Gollum to take It actually into the Fire.  Gandalf says no one save Sauron himself could have withstood the Ring's will once they got into the Chamber of Fire--and he wouldn't have wanted to, since his will and the Ring's will were the same.  Even Isildur fell to It there, three thousand years ago, which is the only reason Frodo had to take It now.  I think Strider used to blame his ancestor--until he saw what It did to Frodo."

       Bucca looked at Pippin's livery.  "That a uniform or something?"

       "Yes, the garb of a Guard of the Tower."

       "You a soldier now?"

       "Yes, Merry and I both are.  I'm a knight of Gondor and a Guard of the Tower--I'm a captain, actually--and one of the King's own personal Guard.  Merry is a knight of Rohan and Holdwine of the Mark, for he rode to the battle with their Men and the Lady Éowyn and fought with her, saving her life in the end and helping destroy the chief of the Nazgul."  He drew straighter.  "But Frodo and Sam--they have been made Lords--Lords not just of Gondor and Arnor but of all the Free Peoples of the West--Elves, Men, Dwarves, Hobbits, Ents, and Eagles.  They won't tell you about it unless you insist, but they are."

       Bucca considered all this again.  "Explains a lot, it does."

       "Yes.  But please don't let him know you know--it embarrasses him.  And he doesn't want to remember it."

       "Problem is, though," Bucca said, "is how is he supposed to forget something like that?"

       Pippin nodded his agreement.

75

       Sam, newly come from a bath in the Whitfoot bathing room, sat upright in the chair near the fire in the parlor, dressed in clean clothing, a towel still over his shoulders as he sipped appreciatively at the mug of ale brought him by Mina.  “So, now most of the avenues along the Road have been replaced, and the orchards in the Marish and along the Brandywine, as well as the groves the other side of the Woody End.  We’ve set sixteen trees there in the orchards area the other side of the Hill, and replaced those along the New Row and the edge of the Water.  The oak grove nigh to Overhill’s been replaced, and the ash trees along the Bywater Road.  I’ve planted a new oak tree top of the Hill, and that silver nut from the center of the Lady’s box I planted by where the Party Tree stood.

       “Down in the Southfarthing we’ve replaced six cherry orchards, two of apples near the first Hornblower plantation, and four of plums near where Largo Longbottom’s smial was redug.  We was able to replace the dogwoods along the borders of the Goold’s leaf plantation, and all the poplars on the approach to the Grubbs’s pony farm.”

       Sam continued, listing sites around the Shire where he and his helpers had been, replacing individual trees, orchards, avenues, copses, woodlots, groves, and windbreaks; where they’d dug a few grains of the precious dust from the Lady Galadriel’s gift into the soil of burned fields, trampled gardens, uprooted vineyards, hacked hedges, and denuded banks before allowing others to replant them.

       “Don’t know for certain, o’ course, just what the dust from the Lady’s gift’ll do for the trees and gardens and such,” Sam said, after taking another sip of his ale, “but I’ll swear as some of the trees I planted here around Michel Delving and along the road from Hobbiton and Bywater’s already bigger now than they was when they went into the ground.  It’s a lot like watchin’ the new White Tree grow, Frodo.  You member as how it would seem to grow several inches each night, soon as it was planted where the old one had stood.”

       “How many of the burned houses and dug out smials have been replaced?” asked Paladin Took.

       “Almost all of ’em,” Sam said.  “All in the region about the Hill is done, save for Bag End itself.  Almost all of them belonged to family heads, or to close relatives of Mr. Frodo’s or the Thain or the Master.  Budge Hall for the Bolgers, the smial as Folco Boffins lived in with his mum in Overhill, that of Ned Boffins as is family head, those of Largo Longbottom and Maiser Hornblower in the Southfarthing, a few Tooks and Brandybucks as lived in the Marish, the ones along the Row, o’ course, quite a few in Hobbiton and Bywater as was friends or relatives of Frodo’s, again in especial the family heads o’ the Chubbses and Grubbses.  Still have about six to complete in the Eastfarthing, I understand, two in the Northfarthing, and four in the Westfarthing.  Pretty fast work by all, I think.

       “Freddy and Estella Bolger have finally been able to return to Budge Hall with their folks.  All had thought as they’d of been able to return in January, but turned out two of the back rooms had been all but collapsed, and had to be redug and shored up afore the family could move back in.  And we hope to have Bag End completed the end of March, first of April.”

       “Why is it taking so long?” asked the Thain.

       “Well, Mr. Frodo’s insisted as we work first on those homes for those as lost their places entire; and second--we’re findin’ as it’s far easier to replace things completely than it is just to have to piece things together.  O’ course, the visit of Gimli this last week helped a good deal, for he helped with a lot of the stone work.  There was no time to have tiles made to replace those as Sharkey and his folk broke, so we went to slate; and he helped redo the fireplaces in many of the bedrooms as well as helpin’ to place the new stone floors.  I’m just glad as the Lady Galadriel sent up those new carpets, for there’s no way as we could of replaced all of them otherwise.”

       Brendilac Brandybuck spoke next of the searches through the places the Big Men had stayed throughout the Shire, the evidence of perversion, fetishes, and theft.  “They often stole animals out of herds and flocks and would butcher them, cook them, and eat them all in a single day or evening.  We learned many lost any animals they didn’t take up into the hills or deep into the forest glades.  It may take years to rebuild the flocks of fowl taken.  Fortunately, they don’t appear to have eaten ponies.

       “We found eighteen major caches of confiscated goods in the Southfarthing, most on farms and plantations Lotho held.  We found five places there the Men appear to have stayed, and in such places we found evidence of the animals taken and butchered.”

       Frodo continued, “The lists of what was found in the caches and what has been described as missing have been compared, and there’s not a great deal that has been left unclaimed or remains missing.  Only one Hobbit appears to have realized that gold, silver, and jewelry had great value elsewhere and collected a good deal of it obviously in preparation for trying to make a life for himself outside the Shire, and that was Timono Bracegirdle.  Most others took such things either for their own use or to serve as gifts to those close to them, as Marco Smallburrow appears to have done for his mother.  Most of what is still missing involves small items of jewelry or utilitarian items which are difficult to differentiate from appropriately acquired ones.

       “The most distressing losses are the thirty-seven Hobbits across the Shire who disappeared and are unaccounted for, two of them infants.  We’ve even forwarded descriptions of the missing ones to Bree to be sought there in the Breelands.  Two of those who went missing were the Chubbs brothers who fled to Bree but who returned to the Shire in late November.  They’d been threatened by Bedro Bracegirdle, who’s been quite the piece of work for many years.  He was the bully of Westhall on the borders of the Westfarthing as he was growing up.

       “Six remain in custody in the new Lockholes, while a number of others are on house arrest under the supervision of their family heads.  The worst, however, appears to have been Timono Bracegirdle, who not only helped come up with the schemes to defraud individual Hobbits and families across the Shire, but who also directly took part in the ‘gathering and sharing’ and targeted items of value in the outlands.”

       Paladin and Saradoc sighed.  Their own lands had been less damaged than most of the other regions of the Shire, although they’d seen some houses, barns, fields, and copses burned; but realizing how little they’d been able to help the rest of the Shire protect themselves against the depredations of Lotho’s and Sharkey’s folks was still distressing.

       Merry and Pippin sat side by side, apart from the rest near the entranceway.  All turned to them.  After a look at one another, Merry reported, “No more Men have been found within the Shire since December, and only three Men have approached our borders from any direction save Bree, and they were easily turned back.  The King’s messengers have been bringing messages as they arrive from Aragorn or Lord Halladan or their folk, and so far have been approaching the Bridge at least once a week, where incoming and outgoing messages have been exchanged.  Gimli took a couple barrels of pipeweed with him when he left yesterday.  One will be shared with those Rangers who patrol the borders of the Shire and the Breelands, and the other will be sent South to the King, who will be glad to receive it for himself and his kindred from the North, and such Dwarves as are now aiding in the reconstruction of Minas Tirith.”

       Pippin added, “I’ve been delivering messages from Lord Halladan and the King as they arrive, those that are official.  Aragorn is pleased with how we’ve been able to care for our own affairs, although he’s requested that Halladan restore the patrols on our borders to what they were prior to the war in the Southlands.  He’s set a temporary ban on Men entering our borders without strict examination and the agreement of our folk as represented by Thain, Master, and Mayor; once he receives our last reports on our investigations on how things got to the point they did he will decide whether or not the ban becomes permanent.”

       “This King seems a sensible sort,” sniffed Paladin.

       Will asked, “But do we want to rely on those patrolling our borders to remain outside them?  What’s to keep them from entering themselves?”

       Frodo was shaking his head.  “Have any of those who in the past wore the stars of Arnor on their cloaks ever left the road or accosted any save in the few rare cases where their interventions aided those who met with them?  I remember hearing only three stories.  There were a couple of travelers on the road back when I was in my late twenties who’d tried to steal Hobbit ponies and were thwarted by the owner; when they struck and hurt him Rangers intervened and took the thieves away, after offering aid to the injured farmer--I wonder if one of those was Strider, in fact.  Then there were two cases of Men who’d broken into holes where folks were visiting elsewhere, and they were found by Rangers trying to get the goods out of the Shire and made to return them and then taken out of it again.  Oh, yes, and the time Milo Maggot fell off his pony and broke his hip--a Ranger gave him aid and then returned him to his home.  You remember that, don’t you, Uncle Sara?”

       “Yes, Frodo, I do,” the Master answered.  “I have to agree I’ve never heard any complaints about those wearing a star brooch who’d traveled the Road.  They have always been honorable, and when they’ve had to camp within our lands have brought their own food or have bought it and paid a fair price, have used fallen wood for their fires, and have left their campsites far nicer when they moved on than they were when they arrived.  I do not believe they will break the King’s ban themselves.”

       “What if they’re pursuing someone who crosses our borders?” Will asked.

       “When I met with Lord Halladan two weeks ago at the Bridge when he brought the message about the ban, he said his folk would send messages to the Master as swiftly as possible so as to alert us to danger.  He said none of his folk would enter the Shire without the King’s permission as well as the permission of Master, Mayor, and Thain.”  Pippin’s voice was quite certain.

       “The mills?” asked Will.

       “All the new mills have been torn down or restored,” Frodo reported.  “Four were never touched to begin with; six were easily refitted with proper stones and water wheels and the boilers removed; nine still need to be redone across the Shire.” 

       “And those horrid Shiriff Houses?” Mina asked.

       “All were down within three weeks of our arrival.  None was fit for any proper Hobbit use,” Merry told her.

       All looked to one another.  Saradoc Brandybuck smiled.  “Well, it appears the Shire is well on the way to being back to normal.  I personally am glad we’re having this feast tonight to honor all who’ve worked on the restoration.  Are we ready to go to the Council Hole?”

       All indicated they were ready indeed.  Mina took the towel from Sam, and by the time she returned the rest stood waiting near the door, Will leaning on a cane and Frodo having helped Sam to don his jacket.  They were quickly on their way to the banquet hall, the four Travelers walking together with Brendi .

       Paladin peered back over his shoulder at the younger Hobbits.  “At least Frodo’s put on some weight at last.”

       “His color’s looking better as well,” the Master agreed.

       Will nodded, “Yes.  And he’s not been having as many nightmares, from what we can tell.”

       “Nightmares?” asked Saradoc.

       “Yes.  Guess he had a pretty hard time of it out there from what Mina and Bucca have been able to get out of him.”

       “What kind of nightmares?” asked Sara.

       Will shrugged.  “You’ll have to ask him, I think.  He and the Took lads have done a wonderful job clearing up the Mayor’s office so far.  We had documents filling the room when they rescued me, according to my nephew.  Gordo says over two-thirds have been taken care of and filed so far, and new contracts and wills and so on are being taken care of as they come in.  Hillie’s been dealing with complaints and reports on abuses by Lotho and his folk, while Bard, Tolly, and Frodo examine the specific contracts initiated or written by Lotho, Timono, Marcos Smallburrow, and some of the others who worked hand-in-glove with them.  Isemgrin and the other Tooks are doing full reviews of each incoming document looking for any irregularities, and Frodo expects to have a conference of lawyers from all over the Shire and Buckland in April dealing with keeping the profession honest within our borders.”

       “Bard has been keeping me advised about much of the work here,” Paladin said.  “Eldred is pretty pleased with how things are going as well.  Thinks that he and Semi may not be needed that much longer.”

       “Just over four months,” Will continued, “and they’ve done so much, the four of them.”

       Saradoc nodded his agreement, and Paladin finally did the same.  Paladin glanced back at Frodo and the others.  Pippin was speaking eagerly, his face alive with humor, and the others were laughing--no, not all the others--Frodo was smiling, but not laughing.  Was he rubbing at his shoulder again?

       Will made Frodo sit in the Mayor’s place again, and sat at a lower table with Mina and several from Tookland and Buckland.  Sam sat at the head table beside his Master, Rosie Cotton sitting beyond him.  The other Cottons sat at another table with Sam’s brothers and sisters and their spouses, all of whom had worked in the rebuilding and replanting and restoration.  Folk who attended tonight had come from all over the Shire and Buckland, and all had helped in cleansing the land of the memory of Lotho and Sharkey’s evil. 

       Frodo stood.  “Tonight,” he said, “we wish to thank all of you present not only for coming, but for doing.  When Sam, Merry, Pippin, and I returned from our journey we were shocked at the changes we saw.  When we realized how deep the damage was, how widespread it was, how many had lost so much, it hurt deeply.  At first it seemed humorous, the idea that Men would enter the Shire and try to take over its running and try to enslave our people--and then it struck home.

       “Well, that is over now, and the Shire is once again our own.  No Men remain here, and by the King’s decree they may not enter our land again without his permission and ours.  And so much destroyed by Lotho’s orders and Sharkey’s has now been restored despite all they tried.  Almost all whose homes were destroyed have had them restored; where Sharkey sought to hack, burn, uproot, and poison the natural beauty of the Shire, hope for its return has again been planted in our soil.  And we thank you--all of you--for helping to bring this to be.  And we honor you for what you have given of yourselves to restore the Shire.”

       He and the others at the head table rose, and bowed deeply to those who filled the room.  Then he, Peregrin Took, Sam Gamgee, and Meriadoc Brandybuck remained standing and turned briefly West, then sat, and the signal was given for the food to be served.

       Eglantine Took and Esmeralda Brandybuck were in the kitchens where they’d helped in the preparation of the meal and now oversaw the serving.  Esmeralda looked out at her younger cousin and former fosterling with a lurch in her heart.  “He’s so very thin.  What has happened to him?” she asked.

       Eglantine shook her head.  “I don’t know for certain, but he’s gained weight since he visited us a couple months back.  Believe me, Esme, he looks much better.”

       “I wish he would take enough time to visit us,” Esme said.

       “Would you like for us to visit with him tomorrow?  We can come back from the Great Smial if you’d wish.”

       “Yes,” Esme said with decision. “I’d very much like that.”

       Merry and Pippin were staying at the inn in Michel Delving for the night with Sam, while Rosie Cotton stayed with the Whitfoots in Aster’s old room.  Frodo was to spend much of the next day showing them what was going on in the Council Hole, much as he’d done for Will, Brendi, the Master, and the Thain today.  Esme and Lanti decided to join the younger Hobbits at midmorning, and quietly let Frodo know this during the banquet.  Frodo found himself anticipating this with mixed feelings, pleased at being able to see Esme while concerned that his cousin Eglantine would once again begin badgering Pippin and himself.  Noting Frodo’s quickly masked look of apprehension, however, Sam determined he and Rosie would stand interference.

       The foreseen problems, however, didn’t manifest themselves.  Perhaps it was merely Esmeralda’s presence that helped restrain her brother’s wife; but Eglantine kept her questions about their time in the outlands in check, and listened courteously as Frodo, Bard, and Hillie explained the new filing system being developed for property acquisitions, the separate system they’d put together for questionable contracts, the investigations of Lotho’s and Timono’s own works, and so on. 

       They accompanied the party into the storage tunnels and were shown how many of them had been cleaned up and given new walls and vaulted ceilings to better protect grain, foodstuffs, and other excess goods to be stored in them; and they looked at a few of the cells which had been left as they were while under the reign of Lotho’s Big Men so that folk could see for themselves how those held prisoner there in the Time of Troubles had been housed.  As closely as possible the wooden beams which had been nailed over Lobelia’s cell had been fitted together as they’d been so that visitors could see how she’d been kept imprisoned; and the same for the cells in which Fredegar Bolger and two others had been kept.  They then looked into one of the new Lockhole cells, and could clearly see the difference between how this prisoner was kept compared to those held by Lotho and Sharkey.

       Frodo was quiet during much of this tour, letting Pinto Longsmial and those who kept the storage tunnels describe what had been done and show how things had been compared to what had been updated and improved.

       They then went to the Whitfoot house for lunch, and after Frodo and the other Travelers returned to the Council Hole to complete reports to be sent jointly to the King, his nominal aunts remained there with Rosie to visit with Mina, Will having gone to the inn with Gordo and a few of his Whitfoot relatives who’d come for the banquet the preceding evening.

       “Will looks much improved,” Eglantine commented.

       “Oh, he is,” answered Mina.  “Almost back to his proper weight, although the Healers don’t want him to gain quite as much as he was before--they say it would be too much for his knee.  He’s now able to get around with just the cane where before he was having to use crutches.  He doesn’t have to take as many naps, and is beginning to putter in the garden.”

       She turned to Esmeralda.  “You wouldn’t believe the condition he was in when he was found,” she explained.  “Little more than skin and bones, his face totally without color, in a good deal of pain, had a good deal of trouble with his digestion.  That’s much better, and he’s now able to eat proper meals.  Frodo, also, seems able to eat more regular meals as well.”

       “More regular meals?” asked Esme.  “Was he not able to do so before?”

       Mina nodded.  “At first he’d barely eat much of anything.  In fact, he was the one to advise me how to feed Will at first, and said that the King himself had advised him this was how those who’d been deprived of proper meals should be treated that they be able to return to proper eating.”

       “Was Frodo deprived of proper meals or something?” persisted Esme.

       “I’m not certain, for he won’t speak of it, but it appears likely.  He and Sam Gamgee were separated from the rest for a couple months, and appear to have not been able to get a good deal in the way of food and drink during that time.  From the little Sam and Pippin have told us, all four of the Travelers willingly entered danger to assist others, and all four were seriously injured and came under the King’s own care.”

       “What kind of person is this King?” asked Lanti.

       “He appears to be quite warm and to hold a great deal of love and respect for all four of our lads,” Mina said.  “Certainly when they speak of him their eyes light up and they’ll usually speak freely, even of the times when they first met him and had no idea he would be the King if all went well in the war.  I understand that when they first met in Bree he looked quite rough and much like a scoundrel; but he served in the patrols in this region himself and often spent months at a time mostly on his own in the wild.  At first he didn’t speak a great deal about himself, although as they journeyed further he began to open up. 

       “They were shocked to reach Rivendell to find he was good friends with old Bilbo.  They’d begun to realize he was a loremaster along the way from Bree, and that he had quite the singing voice.  But once he finally was made King, Frodo said that he began singing regularly, far more than he had during their travels; and now that he’s married to his queen the two sing together frequently.

       “Both Frodo and Pippin have also spoken of his intense skill as a warrior, while Merry speaks of his cleverness as a strategist and administrator and Sam of his love of gardening and growing things.  All speak of how great a healer he is as well.  Frodo says that it’s very difficult for most people to lie when he asks questions, and he’s only seen a few who can continue lying to themselves about what they’ve done or their motivations during audiences and trials he observed.  He says that at times the Lord King Aragorn has quite the Elven light about him, and it’s obvious he is indeed descended from the Sea Kings and Eärendil the Mariner.”

       “But Eärendil is an old story,” protested Eglantine Took.

       “Apparently many of the old stories are not so much just stories as much as they are history,” Mina said.  “We’ve been getting quite the education, Will, my daughter and grandchildren and Bucca and I.”

       Esmeralda commented, “I’m certainly glad of the hospitality you’ve shown my younger cousin.”

       Mina smiled sadly.  “Don’t forget that Primula and Rory were my own cousins as well, Esme.  Frodo’s family to me, too, you know.  And he’s the age Fenton would be, if....”

       “Yes, I know,” Esme said gently.  “I wish the two of them had been able to be closer.  I think they would have been good friends.”

       Mina looked down at her hands.  “Yes,” she said quietly, “I think they would have been so.  It was my great hope they would once Frodo came here to the center of the Shire.”

       Rosie sighed.  “I barely member your Fenton,” she said, “but then we Cottons didn’t come here all that much save for the Free Fair.  He was a well spoken lad is about all I member.”

       Mina nodded, smiling at the younger lass.  “As is your Sam.  Has he spoken yet?”

       “No, although Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry tease him somethin’ awful about it.  Master Frodo, though, he says as Sam’s not likely to speak till he’s back in Bag End and Sam’s certain as he’s took proper care of.”

       Eglantine smiled.  “Sam’s done quite the job helping to get the new trees planted and the holes and houses redone and the Quick Post reestablished.”

       Rosie nodded.  “He’s been away almost all the last month, and will be goin’ out again tomorrow.  It’s always so quiet about the farm when he’s gone.  He’s supposed to of moved back into Number Three with the Gaffer and Marigold; but he still stays a night or two at the farm each time he comes back to the area.  My brother Tom’s spoken, and he and Goldy intend to marry in May, and they’ll be returnin’ to live on the farm.  I suspect as Sam’ll speak as soon as his Master’s back in his own place, and I doubt as he’ll want to wait so long, myself.  Probably we’ll stay there in Number Three and see to the Gaffer and Master. Frodo both once we’re married.”

       “He does seem very devoted to Frodo.”

       Rosie nodded, smiling solemnly.  “Always has been, my Sam.  Even more so as they’re back now.  But then, they went a long way together, the two of them--a long, dark way.  They’re as close as brothers.  And the new King Aragorn Elessar--and a fine lookin’ Man he is, for Master Frodo’s done a picture of him for Sam to keep, he has--the new King loves them both, loves them both very much.  Made them both Lords of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, he did.”

       “Who?  Merry and Pippin?”

       “Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin?  No--they’ve both been made knights and soldiers.  No, it’s Master Frodo and my Sam as been made lords, not Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin.”

       “But why?” demanded Eglantine.

       “For what they done to fight the Enemy.  Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin learned to fight with their swords, and learned to fight well, they did.  Master Frodo and my Sam--well Mr. Merry says as they fought the Enemy with their wills, and managed to bring him down.”

       Esmeralda Brandybuck and Eglantine Took looked at one another, not understanding at all what Rosie had just said.

76

       Gimli drove away from the Shire feeling both satisfied and disturbed.  He’d arrived at the Brandywine Bridge to find Merry awaiting him, and he’d stayed that night at the house at Crickhollow where Merry and Pippin lived together.  That the two of them were living separately from their families was a surprise, particularly as neither seemed disposed to explain precisely why.  The next day Pippin accepted the dispatches Gimli had brought with him and saddled Jewel to accompany him to the central Shire. 

       They’d gone first to the Cottons’ farm in Bywater where he was able to see Frodo briefly before he must set off for Michel Delving.  Frodo was so happy to see him--and yet he was distracted at the same time.  He was frequently rubbing at his shoulder, and there were fine lines of pain on his face which would appear more obvious when he was deep in his own thought.  Let him become aware anyone was examining them, however, and he’d suddenly become charming and seek to hide them away.  He was decidedly thinner than he’d been when Gimli saw him last, although Sam, during their brief visits in Hobbiton, informed him Frodo had actually put on quite a few pounds from what he’d weighed on their arrival.

       It was obvious to the Dwarf that Frodo wasn’t particularly well.

       Gimli stayed with the Gaffer and Marigold in the new Number Three on New Row, and he was highly impressed by the work and craftsmanship he saw put into the place.  His father and the others who’d gone to Erebor with Bilbo had so obviously admired Bag End, as had Dorlin from his visits when Merry and Pippin were so much younger.  It was obvious from the work put into the reconstruction of Number Three that Hobbits prized comfort, warmth, and food, and spent a good part of their efforts making certain their homes were apt to all three.

       As a Dwarf Gimli was accustomed to a subterranean life; he was given an inner bedroom which nevertheless had a cozy hearth that drew well; it had more than adequate ventilation; and the bed and accommodations were extraordinarily comfortable.  Paneling and brickwork lined the walls; floors were of brick overlaid with comfortable carpets, with wood planking laid down in the bedrooms.  The kitchen and the several pantries and other storage rooms were lined with skillfully hung cupboards and shelves, and the round doors were marvelously hung.

       His first look at Bag End had, therefore, come as a distinct shock, for it had clearly been nearly destroyed.  The vaulted ceilings were higher in this smial than those in the Gamgee home, and it was obvious to Gimli that Gandalf would have been able to stand upright in the rooms, although he would have had to have leaned over or crouched down to make it through many passages and doorways.

       It seemed nothing had been left unmarred.  The floors had been removed, showing the gravel and sand on which they’d been laid, now being carefully leveled preparatory to the new flooring being set into place atop them.  Most of the original paneling had been removed completely and was being replaced; a few of the support beams had also needed total replacement as well.  There wasn’t a single beam or ancient root from the great oak tree which had once stood atop the Hill and through whose root system the smial had been dug which didn’t show signs of hacking with a variety of edged items, from knives to swords to axes.  Most of the hacks had been carefully filled and smoothed; in some places it had been necessary to remove whole sections and splice in new woodwork to fit.  The patience and skill of those who worked on this was obvious.

       The state of the room which Sam explained had been Frodo’s own bedroom was beyond belief, for the fireplace and wainscoting had been attacked with what appeared to have been a heavy maul of some sort, and all the panes in the intricately designed window had been smashed.  A young Hobbit lad introduced as Frodo’s young cousin Pando Proudfoot rose from where he’d been carefully gathering each sliver of stone, wood, and glass to greet Gimli courteously, then knelt to continue his patient work.

       “From what we can tell, the chimneys themselves wasn’t hurt none, and all draw well.  Have some chimney pots to replace; but mostly it’s just the facing here as needs to be redone,” Sam explained.

       “I see,” Gimli said.  “Well, I’ll be glad to redo this myself.”  He sniffed.  “Still smells only of Frodo in here,” he commented.  “So, no one else stayed in here after he left the place?”

       “Not as we can tell,” Sam answered.  “I’m not certain as which had the room destroyed, that Sharkey or Lotho--both hated the Master, after all.”

       “Well, that Saruman was no better than he ought to have been,” sniffed the Dwarf.  “No wonder the Valar sent Gandalf back as the White, supplanting the fool.”

       In short order Gimli was working laying the floors, gladly allowing young Pando to assist him.  In the center of each room’s flooring where the stones were placed he would set in a great eight-pointed star he carefully pieced together of white marble and quartz; the rest of the floor was the black slate.

       “What’s the star for?” Pando asked.

       “Well,” Gimli said, pausing briefly to look at the young Hobbit whom he judged to be in his early teens, “the eight-pointed star is one of the signs of the Dúnedain, or the Men of the West, from whom the rulers of Gondor and Arnor are descended.  As such, the stars are also the signs of those who serve those lands, and there’s no question that Frodo Baggins has done that and continues to do so.”

       “How did he serve the lands of Gondor and Arnor?” asked Pando.

       “He was willing to give himself to see Sauron thrown down,” Gimli answered.  “He and Sam both were willing to do that for the sake of the whole world.”

       “Do you know the rulers of Gondor and Arnor?” asked Pando.

       The Dwarf asked, “Know him?  Lad, I’m one of the King’s Companions, as are Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Peregrin Took, and Meriadoc Brandybuck--and a pestilential Elf named Legolas, and the Wizard Gandalf.”

       “You don’t like Legolas?”

       Gimli looked surprised.  “Not like him?  What ever gave you that idea?  No, Legolas and I have become brothers, to the amazement of our own folk, for Elves and Dwarves haven’t ever gotten along well together throughout the history of Arda.  That we are now so close appears to have taken all by surprise.  But there’s no denying that he remains an Elf for all he now appreciates Dwarven sensibilities, and he takes fine delight in baiting me when he can.  Of course, though, I bait him back.”

       Pando shared the Dwarf’s grin.

       As he worked Gimli would often sing songs in Dwarvish under his breath, and occasionally one of Bilbo’s walking or drinking songs as well.  Pando would join in when he knew the song, and the clear voice of the Hobbit child and the gruff one of the Dwarf would rise together, making the rest of those working to restore the smial laugh and smile at the oddity and yet undoubted beauty of the combination. 

       On the last day of Gimli’s visit he worked on the fireplace in Frodo’s room, carefully redoing the entire facing in white marble he’d brought with him from Gondor, for the Lady Arwen had advised him before he left to bring such with him.  Once all was in place he took out his carving tools and carefully carved a tree on each side of the mantelpiece in low relief, with the mantel itself apparently comprised of intertwined branches.  Pando watched him with amazement, his eyes growing wide with delight as he watched the shapes form under Gimli’s chisels.

       In the very center again Gimli carved a single eight-pointed star, setting a piece of clear crystal in its center.  Then he went into what had been Bilbo’s room, where Lotho had slept during his tenancy, and there did the same on the mantelpiece there with trees and star.  “Let those who come after know the Ringbearers rested here,” he grunted as he finished.

       Then he had Pando and his father help him unload the carpeting sent from Lothlorien by the Lady Galadriel, and carry it inside.

       Several of those who’d been working on the plastering had stopped to admire the finished stone work, and a few had gone into the two bedrooms where the carving had been done to examine that.  Bolo Proudfoot looked at the carpeting with interest.  “You don’t want that laid now, do you?”

       Gimli shook his head.  “No, not until you lot are all done, and the plaster’s set and been painted.”  He now stopped to examine the work they’d been doing in return.  “It’s almost ready now,” he commented.

       “Almost,” Bolo said, “but the plaster needs to set several days to cure properly before we can paint it all.  Then we’ll see to the laying of the carpets and the replacement of the curtains and the rehanging of shelves and cupboards and the bookshelves in the study.  The first loads of furniture are due in three week’s time.”

       “That’ll do well enough,” Gimli grunted.  “Just as long as everything’s proper by the time Frodo’s ready to return here.”

       “Are you one of the Dwarves as went with old Bilbo?” Bolo asked.

       “No,” Gimli smiled.  “My dad traveled with Bilbo.  No, I went South from Rivendell with Frodo and the others, and with the Lord Aragorn.  I was one of the Ringbearers’ companions.”

       “That one of the titles for the new King as they keep speaking of?” asked Bolo.

       Gimli laughed outright.  “Aragorn--a Ringbearer?  No, not he--not he at all.  No, not Aragorn son of Arathorn.”  He wouldn’t say anything further, but soon took his leave, returning back down to Number Three.

       Gimli had tried to tell the Gaffer what all his youngest son had accomplished, but wasn’t certain as to how much the old Hobbit had heard, much less understood.  There was no question that the Gaffer was largely deaf nowadays, for he’d suddenly interrupt in the midst of one of the more exciting bits of whatever story Gimli was telling to look around the room with satisfaction and relief and say, “You know, I’d wondered if’n I’d see my own place again.  And it’s been given back again, you see.  That Mr. Frodo--a real gentlehobbit as ever was, he is.  A real gentlehobbit.”

       How much Marigold understood of what she heard couldn’t be told--not for certain; but she kissed Gimli warmly as she gave an enormous hamper of food into his arms as he finally set his pony cart for his return South.  Grinning somewhat foolishly, the Dwarf gave her and Young Tom and the Gaffer his final salute and set off down the lane, preparing for his trip back East to Bree and then South once more to the King’s side.  He detoured to the Cottons’ farm to bid farewell to Frodo there, and found him sitting, wrapped in his Elven cloak, on a low fence rail looking off across the Shire, a few silver hairs now clearly showing at his temples.  He had a book with him, but it was closed in his left hand.  His face was sad and tired, and his right hand fingered the jewel the Lady Arwen had given him.

       “Well, Frodo,” Gimli said quietly, “I’m off again.”

       Frodo turned and smiled, again managing to hide the lines of pain and the tiredness he’d shown so shortly before.  “You are?  Will you take these letters with you?” he asked, reaching inside his cloak for wherever he’d pocketed them.  “I’m sorry you must go so quickly, for I’ve barely been able to see you.”

       “It’s been only a short time I could stay,” admitted the Dwarf as he alit from the cart and accepted the letters and stowed them into his pouch.  “But I can bring back a fair report to Aragorn and Arwen, for I can see how hard all are working to restore the Shire, and especially you.”

       Frodo’s smile died away.  “And what have I been able to do?  I tried to restrain many of those who would have fallen on the ruffians in vengeance and hatred, and I’ve tried to make sense of the mass of paperwork left in the Mayor’s office.  But they just don’t understand--not even Merry--why I hated seeing Hobbits take up weapons.  And the investigation of Lotho and his cronies has shown so much pettiness and vindictiveness and sheer lust for power over others.  I’d never in my life expected to see such in the Shire.

       “And what the Men did--I’ve found signs of at least seven murders, and I am loth to tell the families that this is what has happened to their missing kin.  Saruman and Wormtongue admitted Lotho is dead, but we can’t find what was done with the body, although Saruman indicated Gríma might even have been induced to eat him.  Why would anyone stay with someone like that, who demeaned him for so very long, who reduced him to a crawling worm indeed at the end?  It was as bad....”  He stopped, his face going whiter, spots of color only on his cheeks.

       “As bad as what the Ring tried to do to you?” asked Gimli gently.

       Frodo turned away and shrugged.

       Gimli placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, then moved to take his right hand between his own.  “It’s hard to see anyone demeaned so.  But you didn’t want to fall, Frodo Baggins, and so you’ve been able to come back.”  He sighed, pondered what he wanted to say.  Finally he made his decision.  “Bilbo sent me a letter at Yule, telling me he was being granted the right to go to Aman when the next ship is finished, and that he was going.  I don’t know--I don’t know if he’s aware I’ve been granted that right as well.”  Frodo looked into his eyes, amazed.  “Yes, a Dwarf had been granted the right to enter the Undying Lands, Frodo Baggins, although I’m not certain as yet I’ll really go.  Oh, I suspect in the end I will go--but not now.  If I go, it will be after Aragorn and Arwen have gone before me, and it will be with Legolas.  He won’t leave until after that.”

       Frodo continued to look at him with such an odd expression on his face.  At last Gimli said, “I hope you’ll accept your invitation also, Frodo Baggins.  If anyone ever deserved it, it’s you, far more than me.”

       Frodo continued to examine his face--never had he seen a look on the Dwarf’s face that was so tender.  Suddenly he found himself breaking into tears, and Gimli was pulling him close, holding him tightly to his chest.  “It’s all right, laddie,” Gimli murmured into his ear.  “It’s all right.  We only want to see you able to know full easing and joy once more.  We all love you, you know, you stubborn Baggins.”

       At last, when the brief bout of weeping was spent, Gimli loosed him, smiling into his eyes.  “You take care of yourself, Frodo,” he said, once again holding Frodo’s right hand between his own much as Sam often did.  “You take care, and the stars continue to shine down upon you.”  He kissed Frodo’s hand, then turned away abruptly to climb back into the cart.  “You think carefully, Ringbearer,” he said as he gave a last salute; and then he was turning the ponies back out of the farmyard, and was at last on his way.

       Now as he crossed the Brandywine Bridge and saluted those who watched at the gates, he remembered that last look from Frodo.  Would he accept the right to go on the ship?  He hoped fervently the Valar would bring that to be.  Otherwise he judged Frodo probably hadn’t two more years left to him.

*******

       It wasn’t uncommon for Mr. Frodo to sleep through first breakfast, and occasionally all the way through to elevenses.  But on March 13th he hadn’t come out even then, so Old Tom knocked at the door.  “Mr. Frodo?” he called.  But instead of the call he expected, he seemed to hear murmuring.  Concerned, he opened the door and peered in.

       Frodo had moved the chair from in front of the fireplace to near the window, and he’d been sitting in it last night when Tom had looked in to say goodnight, fully dressed, but wrapped over his clothing in a blanket as he looked out at the brilliance of the stars.  Now he lay huddled in his bed, his face pale and drawn as if with pain.  He was clutching the gem he wore on the chain around his neck, pulling hard at it from what the farmer could tell.  The chain must be dragging deeply into Frodo’s neck and shoulders, he thought.

       “It’s gone now,” Frodo said, looking blankly at the Farmer.  “It’s gone now, and all is dreary and empty without It.  I’m so empty, don’t you see?”

       “Mr. Frodo--are you all right?” Tom asked, deeply concerned.

       Frodo shook his head.  “A year it’s been gone, almost a year.  And I’ve been so hurt.”

       The farmer entered the room and knelt to look into the other Hobbit’s face.  His eyes were still distant, and the lines of pain were deeper, more obvious, undeniable--and then suddenly Frodo seemed to see him, looked at Tom’s with surprise, and he looked startled.  With a supreme effort of will Frodo shook himself, then stretched.  “I’m all right,” he whispered, then more loudly insisted, “I’m all right, Mr. Cotton.  Just had some--some disturbing dreams is all.  What time is it?”

       “A half hour afore luncheon,” the farmer told him.  “You’ve missed both breakfasts and elevenses.”

       “I have?  Fear I’ve lost--lost track of the time.  I’ll be out in a moment.”

       Still unsure, Old Tom left Frodo in the room and retreated to the kitchen where Rosie was already setting the table.  “Is he up?” Rosie asked.

       Tom nodded.  “He is now, but it's as if’n he was lost in some dark thoughts, it is.  Not certain as what’s goin’ on in that head of his.”

       Frodo joined the family at the table, and Lily watched him closely.  He was particularly pale today, and seemed to be working hard at appearing normal as possible, she later thought.  He ate very little, drank some juice, and listened politely to what the others said, not saying much himself.

       Afterwards he put on his cloak as if he were going out to groom Strider, but when Jolly went out to see to the rest of the hay nets he found Frodo sitting on the floor of the barn, leaning back against the door to Strider’s stall, clutching at his leg.

       “Mr. Frodo,” Jolly called, kneeling by the older Hobbit, “are you all right?”

       “I fell,” Frodo answered in a distant voice.  “I fell.  Think--I think I twisted my leg.”

       Jolly found Nibs, and together they got Mr. Frodo back into the farm house and into his room.  His ankle was a bit swollen, and their mother, having made certain he could move his toes, indicated that Frodo would be well soon enough and chased them out of the room, calling for Rosie to help her in poulticing the ankle.  “No need for a healer, I think,” she said, “and those lads would worrit the wings off a fly, given the chance.  You, lass, is there hot water in that kettle?”

       “Yes, Mum,” Rosie assured her as they she set it and a basin on a table.

       Lily checked the herbs that Rosie had brought with her in the basin and nodded.  “Those’ll do well enough, I think,” she said.  “Now go and fetch the arnica.”

       Rosie nodded and slipped out of the room while Lily called for Jolly to bring her another faggot of wood to build up Mr. Frodo’s fire, then instructed Mr. Frodo to remove his trousers and get under the covers if he could, waiting outside the door until she heard the muffled indication from their guest he was indeed in the bed.  Once all was to her liking and the fire had been built up some, at last she uncovered the injured leg and reached for the first of the cloths she’d had steeping in the basin with the herbs, then paused before actually applying it, examining the dim scars she could see on his ankle.  She’d occasionally thought she’d seen scars on Frodo’s ankles, but had held herself from asking after them.  Now she looked up into Frodo’s face and saw the wariness he was barely hiding, and decided now was not the time to ask.  “It’s a bit swollen, but nothing serious,” she said, which was honest enough.  “We’ll keep it poulticed today and tonight, and tomorrow it ought to be much better, I’m thinkin’.”

       “Thank you, Lily,” he said, softly.

       He remained in bed much of the day, eating almost nothing, although he was drinking a fair amount of water and the tea Rosie brought him.  Near dusk Rosie came in to tell him she’d drawn him a bath.  She slipped one of Sam’s leaves into the water, and when he emerged from the bathing room he appeared more relaxed.  Lily renewed the poultice, and they left him to sleep with a cup of Sam’s tea and a plate of fruit-filled biscuits by his bed.  When Rosie came to call him to breakfast he’d drunk the tea, but had only nibbled at the biscuits from what she could see.

       Frodo used his ankle as an excuse, but Lily and Rosie were both certain that what bothered him was more than that.  When it was time to return to Michel Delving he sent word that he wasn’t able to ride properly, and remained the rest of that week and the next on the farm.  By the fourth day he was able to remain up long enough to see to Strider, and he fixed first breakfast on the High day as he often did; but he spent most of his time in his room.  On the twenty-fifth they woke to find him gone.  A note on the table indicated he’d been restless and had decided to go out for a walk as he used to do when he lived at Bag End.  He returned after noon, but where he’d gone no one knew.  Jolly was certain he’d actually gone to the stables and had nestled down in Strider’s stall, but the rest weren’t so certain.  However, there was no question that when Rosie went to brush his Elven cloak for him she found straw and hay clinging to it.

*******

       Gimli accepted the mug of ale offered him by Aragorn and Arwen and sat back, comfortable for the first time in five wet days when he’d hurried the ponies across Rohan and Anorien.  “Yes, they’re well enough, or so they seem--except for Frodo.  They tell me he’s put on weight since his return to the Shire--well, if so then he must have become ill during the last leg of the journey, for he’s much thinner than he was when we left you at Orthanc.”

       He could see as Aragorn’s jaw clenched, and that Arwen’s face became solemn.  Aragorn asked, “What of the damage Sam spoke of--the trees cut and all?”

       “There are signs of stumps having been grubbed out everywhere I was within the Shire, all along the West bank of the Brandywine, along the Road, and especially about the area of the Hill and the Water.  Sam’s been very busy the last month, out and about the entire Shire, replanting and all.  I saw him briefly when I first arrived in Hobbiton. 

       “I was brought into Bag End itself and shown the place--you’d not believe it at all, Aragorn.”  He shook his head with remembered amazement.  “It was savaged.  It was such a shock after having just been taken into Sam’s father’s place where I was to stay--I remember being told by my father and the rest how comfortable Bag End was, how filled with light it was for all of over half of it being underground, how warm and elegantly appointed.  Number Three had only recently been finished, and as much like the old one as possible they say, although the floor used to be mostly laid planks they tell me and now had a good deal of quite fancy brickwork to it.  Beautiful workmanship.  They said that most of the wainscoting and paneling and interior woodwork had been removed entire, and so they were able to replace it almost perfectly.  The plaster work was marvelously finished, and the walls warmly painted and the woodwork polished.  Most comfortable place.  Hobbits are able to do the most wonderful ventilation systems, you see, and make the rooms even furthest in feel airy.

       “But Bag End--they left the hole, but did their best to destroy the place nonetheless.  Walls scored, woodwork hacked and stabbed and pounded, mallets apparently used to crack the tiled floors, mauls used on the fireplace in Frodo’s own room.  Sancho Proudfoot, a cousin of Frodo’s who lives in one of the redone smials on the Row, tells me that in some rooms it appeared the Men had just urinated on the walls, and the carpets were purposely ruined.  He said that the woodwork in what had been Bilbo’s room and later Lotho’s was stained with what he feared was blood--it had to be completely redone.  He said that food was purposely dropped onto the carpets and ground into them, as well as other things.  He’d never dreamed anyone could do what had been done there.  He said it was easier looking at the gravel pit they’d made of the Row than the horrors of Bag End.”

       “And Frodo saw that--what had been done to his home,” Aragorn said, his face grieved.

       Gimli nodded reluctantly.  “Yes, he saw, when they first came back to the Shire.  He hasn’t been back to Hobbiton since, and won’t do so until it is redone, for he couldn’t abide being there as it was.  But it was nearly ready for the carpets to be relaid when I left, and they said it was about three weeks’ work before all would be in readiness for his return.”

       He sighed, then added, “From what I can tell, the four of them cannot tell fully what happened.  Both Frodo and Merry have a difficult time trying to even explain what happened to them and what they did, and Merry’s folks at first seemed to see only that he was hurt and began overprotecting him.  Pippin’s folks can’t begin to understand and don’t want to hear the details, for they are more than they can accept.  Sam’s folks have been told a fair amount and understand that Sam is seen as a Lord in the outer lands, but they just don’t know enough to understand everything.  As for Frodo’s own folks--they just don’t understand.  They see the paleness, the frailty, the reticence, and they don’t understand.  They see the determination and are glad of it, but don’t quite understand that, either.  But they do care--they care a good deal for Frodo.”

       Aragorn sighed.  “Maybe if I write to the Thain and the Master....”

       Arwen also sighed and placed her hand on his.  “If they won’t accept it from their sons, will they understand it from a stranger?”

       He looked at her unhappily.  “I don’t know--I just don’t know, my beloved.”

77

       “Aunt, are you well?”  Hyacinth asked as she leaned over Lobelia’s bed.

       Lobelia lay quietly under her coverlet, one of the few things she’d accepted that had been sent to her from Bag End.  Lotho had, after all, had that made for her before they moved into the grand smial, a gift to mark their arrival at the top of Hobbiton society, or so they’d believed.  She turned her head slightly to look at the younger Hobbitess, noted the caring reflected in her face, the true concern in her eyes.  “For the moment,” she was able to rasp out.  Talking had become difficult.  “Sit down.”

       Hyacinth Bracegirdle did as ordered, taking Lobelia’s wizened hand in her own.  “Would you like some broth, Aunt?”

       The old Hobbitess shook her head slightly, all she could manage.  “No.  Won’t be long.”  She fumbled her left hand under the covers where she kept two letters by her, brought them out, held them to her younger cousin.  “Read--please.”

       Hyacinth took them as she’d done daily since Lobelia had taken to her bed.  She unfolded the first and began to read, the letter Frodo had written Lobelia expressing his own grief at Lotho’s death.  Then she began reading the second one:

My dearest Cousin Lobelia,

       I have been overwhelmed since Bartolo pressed the deed for Bag End back into my hands.  I cannot begin to tell you how much this means to me, for I cannot easily return to the borders of the Shire again, and indeed have been warned against doing so for very long at a time.  Bag End has been the one place where I have been truly happy since the deaths of my parents so long ago, where I knew finally the joy of belonging, where I knew Bilbo’s unconditional love, where I have known acceptance and pleasure and laughter.

       I have not been fully well since my return, and it rankles to be dependent on others, although it appears that this is as it will continue for me.  To know I might return to what I still think of as my own home, to hear Sam again puttering in the gardens I know he loves so well but which I never thought myself able to give to his keeping and care once more, to hear the children playing on the Row, to hear the Gaffer’s constant stream of advice and aphorisms, to hear in the distance the soft movement of the Water and the wind in the grass of the Party Field, to smell the flowers blooming outside my windows--it is an easing to me.

       I don’t know how long I have left--but hope that before I must leave I might finish much of what I’ve begun, to see the Shire restored indeed, to see the last of the fear and resentment leave our folk.  I hope to finish with all the documents that had filled the Mayor’s office.  I hope to see all those who serve the laws of our land rededicated to seeing the law used not to take from others but to fulfill all.  I hope to see the trees Sam has planted and will continue to plant take root and begin to spring up in place of those cut down on Sharkey’s orders.  I hope to see the gardens begin to bloom.  I hope to see the delight in learning I see in the eyes of those such as my young cousin Pando and in Dorno and Cando and Dianthus Sandheaver and my younger Brandybuck and Took cousins enriched.  I hope to see those who were dispossessed willing and able to share the bounty they know with others.  I hope to see at least the first of my Sam’s children born to him and his Rosie.  I hope to see Pippin and Merry freed from their reticence and able to speak more freely of what has happened to all of us.  And I hope to see you again, glad of your decisions.

       I’m sorry I cannot come to visit you now, for I find I cannot travel throughout the Shire as I once did.  Know that I give thanks for the loss of the great barriers that once divided us.  The great journey I had to make outside the walls of this place was well worth it, to know the end of that.

       May the Valar keep you, and the stars continue to shine upon you.

                            With my love always,
                            Your cousin, Frodo Baggins

       Lobelia smiled as she finished reading the second letter.  “Read it again,” she requested, and Hyacinth complied.  As she finished it, she noted that Lobelia’s eyes had shut, and she was still smiling softly, even gently, in her sleep.  Then she realized that this was more than sleep which had claimed the older Hobbitess.

       “Oh, Aunt,” Hyacinth said softly, caressing the cooling hand.  “Oh, Aunt, at last it’s over.  Rest well.”

*******

       Bartolo read the will to those gathered, including Peregrin Took as representative of the Thain and Benlo Bracegirdle as head of the Bracegirdle family and Roto Sackville as head of the Sackvilles.  Benlo seemed pleased enough with what he heard, while Roto just seemed relieved.  Other than a relatively small bequest to Hyacinth, Lobelia had left the bulk of her estate to the deputy Mayor to provide for reparations for those who’d lost so much during the time of troubles.  When he was done with the reading Bartolo closed the will with obvious frustration on his own part, and gave it into Benlo’s hands.  “Well,” Bartolo said, “I’ll be providing you with those of her deeds I have access to, but it will be your look out to get the rest of hers and Lotho’s properties sorted out.  I hereby wash my hands of the rest.”

       Benlo looked at his younger cousin with interest.  “Well, you might not have made out too well with the way she rewrote her will,” he said, “but in the end you did far better than you might of done.  If you’d been closer to Timono, there’s a good chance you’d be in Michel Delving this moment.  Be glad, cousin, you were honest, for I doubt Timono’s going to come out of this well at all.”

       Bartolo shrugged and looked away.  “Maybe you’re right,” he said grudgingly.  “But I’d still have liked to have Bag End myself.”

       “At least you’re honest about it.  But I suspect in the end you’d have found as little comfort there as did Lotho and Lobelia.  It’s back in the hands of the one who’ll see it best cared for and who will see it shared as is proper.”  Benlo sighed.  “Now I get to go through all those deeds myself.  Not looking forward to that.”

       Bartolo gave a wry smile.  “I don’t envy you, Benlo.”

78

       Sam returned two nights before Frodo finally returned to Michel Delving, and found that the spider bite was again draining.  Frodo had become aware of it and had tried to cleanse it himself and to keep it properly covered, but how well he’d done was questionable, and he couldn’t say for certain how long the drainage had lasted to date.  Sam got it cleaned and rebandaged with a spent leaf of athelas over it, and made certain that Frodo had some of his freshly brewed tea at hand, and Frodo seemed to rest well that night.  Sam made a note to himself to remain in the Michel Delving area to be at hand for the next few days so he could check on the wound morning and night, and after a bath of his own fell into his own bed in the room next to Frodo’s and slept deeply.

       The two of them rode out together the next morning, and it was plain Frodo was already out of condition.  He was tired and grey when they reached the stable in Michel Delving, and Sam saw to the stabling of the two ponies, the removal of the tack, and the grooming of both while Frodo walked slowly to the Council Hole to begin work again.

       Isumbard spoke quietly to Mina about Frodo’s condition, and she began sending over offerings of small amounts of food and drink at hourly intervals.  By the time Sam finished his own work at the planting Frodo was ready to head for the Whitfoot place and to bathe and fall into his bed, once Sam saw to the bite on the back of his neck.  The wound wasn’t discharging heavily, but still steadily, and seemed intent on taking its own time to heal this time.  None at the Cottons had been able to tell Sam when the drainage had started, for none had noted it.  Mina asked about it, but Sam shrugged.  “One of the wounds as he picked up durin’ our journey,” he said.  “It opens right regular, it does, and drains, then just sits there the rest of the time.”

       “Is that why he didn’t come back earlier?” Mina asked.

       “Maybe,” Sam allowed.  “But Lily and Rosie both tell me he did turn his leg, fallin’ in the stable.”

       Mina gave him a shrewd look.  “Seeing as how much weight he’s lost again,” she said, “I find myself wondering just what it was that caused him to fall in the stable.”

       The second day Frodo was back the new will of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was laid on his desk, and Frodo read it with growing surprise, his face growing more quiet as he read.  With it were letters from Hyacinth and Benlo Bracegirdle and Roto Sackville describing the death and the reading of the will.  Frodo read them over, then folded them carefully and slipped them inside of the envelope which had held the will, then slipped the gold coin with the black seal upon it which had been her private bequest to him into his pocket.  He signed to Isumbard Took.  “I need to get out for a time,” he said.  “Lobelia’s died, and I’ve been made the executor for the greater part of her bequests.”

       Bard looked at him with disbelief.  “You?” he asked.

       Frodo nodded.  “Read it.  I’d never have believed it possible, but it appears that Lobelia did indeed know a change of heart.  May the Valar bless her.”

       After wrapping the Elven cloak about himself and slipping the water bottle over his shoulder, Frodo went out, and Bard looked after him with concern before turning his attention to the will.

       Sam and his helpers were taking a break from their labors to return to the inn for luncheon.  As they entered the square before the Council Hole they saw a figure cloaked in grey-green exiting it slowly.  Sam paused as he noted that today his Master appeared to be shining particularly brightly, and commented as an aside to the ones closest to him, “You lot go on ahead and get yourselves your lunch, and I’ll see if’n my Master needs ought.  I’ll be along directly.”  Leaving them to make their way to the inn, he hurried over to where Frodo waited.

       Frodo had paused as he spotted the group of Hobbits reentering the village, and smiled with relief as he saw Sam coming toward him.  Sam noted the smile, and saw just how pale he was as well.  No question Frodo had lost weight again in the past few weeks, and Sam determined he’d not leave his Master for so long again if he could manage it.  Yet, his overall expression right now was one of joy, Sam noted.

       “Master, has ought happened?”

       “Lobelia!  You won’t believe it, Sam.  But I don’t wish to discuss it here in the middle of the square.”

       “Right.  Well, come on, and we’ll see to some lunch, if you think as you can manage it.”  At Frodo’s brief nod Sam put his arm about his friend and together they turned again toward the inn.  As they entered Sam asked the innkeeper, “May we have the private parlor, Bobbin?”

       Bobbin was surprised, but thought quickly.  “Well, certainly you may, Master Sam, Master Frodo.  Come this way.”

       As he showed them into the room, Frodo said, “Should my cousins Isumbard or Peregrin Took or Meriadoc Brandybuck come looking for me, please have them join us here, Bobbin.”

       “Of course, sir.  Now, will you both be wishing luncheon?”

       Sam made the decision.  “Just some bread rolls and a selection of sliced meats and cheeses, and some winter apples if’n you have ’em, please.  And a mug of ale for me and a cup of your wine for Mr. Frodo.”  After Bobbin had left, Sam looked at his own hands and sighed.  “Can you hold on a bit, Frodo, till I get some of this muck off me?  I’ve loam all over myself, I do.”

       At Frodo’s smile he went out to the washstand outside the back door to the inn, returning some minutes later looking decidedly scrubbed.  Sam sat himself just as Bobbin and the lass Pippa who served part time returned with plates and the platter of requested food.  As Sam began seeing to preparing plates for his Master and himself Bobbin returned again with the drinks and a pitcher of water and a couple tumblers.  Frodo took one of the tumblers and drained some of the tea from his water bottle into it, stoppered the skin, and took the glass and drank from it gratefully.  Finally he began to explain, Sam listening attentively.

       “Who’d a’ thought?” Sam asked when Frodo was through, his own look of incredulous amazement a match for Frodo’s own.  “Who’d a’ thought the old lass had it in her?”

       “I know, Sam.  When someone like Lobelia makes such a complete change, there’s so much more hope for the world, isn’t there?”

       And more hope for yourself as well? commented the one who argued.

       Perhaps, Frodo returned.

       The next evening Benlo Bracegirdle arrived with the first of Lobelia’s deeds.  Frodo had gone to an early dinner at the Whitfoots’ with Sam before Sam left back for Hobbiton, after which he returned to the Council Hole to meet briefly with Bard and Tolly, who’d come late that day from the Great Smial, having been busy on the Thain’s business earlier.  Frodo returned to the Whitfoot’s house upset, and Mina was concerned as to what the Bracegirdle might have said to him.

       The following day Merry and his cousin Berilac arrived, and after speaking privately with Benlo at the stables Merry came to seek out Frodo and questioned him closely.  When Mina saw them, Merry appeared worried and Frodo had a closed expression, going to his bed soon after Merry left him at the door, refusing any dinner.

       The following morning early Frodo, looking very tired, accepted the scantiest of first breakfasts, and armed with his water bottles he went to the stables, collected Strider, and headed back to Bywater, his face set with determination.  Mina watched after him with worry, then went in to strip the bed to wash the linens.

       Under the bed as she started to sweep she found a single piece of paper.  It took a good deal of patience to tease it out from its hiding place, but it proved to be a picture of a great black figure with no head yet a high crown above its massive shoulders, a woman from among Men standing before it with a sword in her hand, Meriadoc Brandybuck behind it with a sword in his own, prepared to stab its point into the back of the knee of the headless figure.  She was looking at this when she heard a hallooing from the front of the house, and then Will’s voice answering it.

       As she came forward she heard Merry Brandybuck asking about Frodo.

       “I’m afraid as he’s already left, Merry,” Will was saying.  “But Mina can tell you more.”

       Mina tried to smile, although she wasn’t certain how convincing it was.  “Yes, do come through to the kitchen, Merry, for I have a question myself.”

       “Good enough,” Will beamed at the two of them.  “Then I’ll be off to the inn to see Gordo.  I find I enjoy being a Hobbit of leisure.”

       Once she had Merry seated at the table she asked, “Do you know what Benlo Bracegirdle said to Frodo the other day to get him so upset?”

       “No,” Merry said, “but I know my questioning of him yesterday didn’t help matters.”

       “What were you on him about?”

       “I was wanting to know why he suddenly was refusing to tell me he had been through a bad patch.”

       “Did he tell you?”

       “No--just informed me I wasn’t his keeper, then went Baggins stubborn on me.”

       “Do you have any idea what is bothering him?”

       Sadly, his face tight with concern, Merry nodded.  “Yes, but I’m not at liberty to say, Mina.”

       She decided to take a chance.  “Does it have anything to do with this?” she asked, turning over the picture which she’d left there face down when she went in to see who had arrived.

       Merry’s face went as white as Frodo’s at the sight of it.  “Oh, Frodo,” he whispered.

       “Is that him?” Mina asked.  “It looks so much like you....”

       “No, it’s not Frodo.  You’re right, it was me.”

       “What’s it of?”

       He closed his eyes and shook his head.  He was holding his right hand in his left and rubbing at it much as Frodo would rub at his shoulder.  Suddenly concerned, Mina reached to touch him, and realized his right hand had the same coldness to it she’d felt the night she and Bucca had been drawn to help Frodo deal with his nightmare.

       She rose immediately and checked the heat of the water in the kettle, then brought it and a shallow pan to the table, pouring the water into it.  When she felt the water was cool enough not to scald she pressed him, “Here, put your hand in here.”

       She refilled the kettle and set it again to heat.  When his color was finally better she asked, “If that’s you and not him, why are you concerned as he drew this?  Did he see it?”

       “Not except in his imagination, for he wasn’t there--he was perhaps hundreds of miles away.”

       “Did this happen in Mordor?”

       Merry paled again.  “No--not in Mordor.  I never went there.”

       “No, he went there with the Ring, though, didn’t he--him and Sam Gamgee?”  Then, at his expression she added, “No, he didn’t tell us--we figured it out, Bucca, Aster and me.  We figured it out, and Peregrin Took told Bucca as we had it figured right.”

       Merry took a deep breath.  “Well, Pippin’s the one who seems best able to tell others, him and Sam.”  He looked at the picture again, then pointedly away, shuddering.  “Yes, that happened, before the walls of the city of Minas Tirith, which is the capitol of Gondor.  I went there with the Riders of Rohan to help fight against the army Sauron had sent against it.  Pippin was there already, taken there by Gandalf after he--after he faced Sauron himself through a Palantir.  Gandalf went there to warn the people of Gondor that the enemy’s force was on the way and to help as he could.”

       Mina asked, “What’s the one with the crown and no head?”

       Merry’s answer was low, almost a whisper.  “The chief of the Nazgul, the Witch King of Angmar, Lord of the Ringwraiths.”

       Seeing him starting to pull his hand out of the water she asked, “Want it heated up, or do you need a towel?”

       He shrugged and looked at her.  His mouth twisted a bit.  “Perhaps both?”

       She nodded and brought over the kettle and a towel.

       Merry poured a bit more of the steaming water into the pan and placed his fingers back in it.  Slowly, deliberately, he told her the story, finishing, “As I said, he wasn’t there--he was in Mordor at the time, trying to get to the Mountain when I was taken into the Houses of Healing with the Black Breath.”

       “Why does his left shoulder and hand get the same as your right hand?  Did he stab it, too?”

       Merry shook his head.  “No--he was stabbed by it--just two weeks after we left the Shire.  We almost lost him.”

       “Bucca tried to explain what Pippin had told him.  Something about a magic knife of some kind?”

       “Elrond and Aragorn both called it a Morgul knife, a bewitched blade intended to make him into a wraith like them.”

       She thought again, and sighed.  “So just thinking about the--Wraiths--makes your hand go cold, and his shoulder?”

       He nodded.  Finally he said, “As we were returning last fall, we crossed the Bruinen, the ford where we last saw them as Black Riders as they’d chased him all the way from Bag End.  We crossed there just on the anniversary of the day when he was stabbed last year.  He went--he went strange, apparently remembering when he was stabbed, or perhaps the whole nine of them threatening him there as they did.  Exactly what he thought of we don’t know, for he wouldn’t tell us.  He went all grey, and would barely eat for days.  Sam started making his special tea about then and began giving it to him--found some kingsfoil in the ruins of an old Dunedaín settlement and took starts and culled some leaves and began adding the leaves to the tea.  Frodo has been drinking it ever since--kingsfoil and willowbark and chamomile usually, I think.”

       “Kingsfoil?  Does that do any good?”

       Merry pursed his lips and shrugged.  “Some, but apparently not for everybody who uses it.  Let Aragorn or Elrond or Elrond’s sons use it on you, and it’s very powerful.  And apparently Sam is able to use it properly for some reason.  It certainly helps Frodo.”  He sighed.  She took the kettle back, filled it again, and put it again over the fire.  He continued the story.  “Gandalf wasn’t rushing us, considering how Frodo wasn’t eating properly and tired easily.  He was much better, though, when we got to Weathertop, the place where he was stabbed.  That was on the anniversary of the day on which Lord Elrond was finally able to remove the shard of the Morgul knife from Frodo’s shoulder.  Again Frodo went all quiet and somewhat grey.  He put his head down as we went by it, and again that night and the next morning he barely ate.  He’d lost a lot of weight again by the time we returned here.

       “He’s gradually been getting better since we returned--until, apparently a couple weeks ago.  Then he didn’t come here.  That was about a year after he was--he was wounded in the neck as he was crossing into Mordor.”

       “What caused the wound?”

       He looked at her.  “You’ve heard the stories of the great spiders of Mirkwood Bilbo fought, the ones who bit the Dwarves?”  As she nodded, he continued, “Apparently the mother of them all lives in the Pass of Cirith Ungol, and they went into Mordor that way.  She poisoned him there, on the back of his neck.  Every couple months, it seems, the wounds get infected again and start draining.  Neither Lord Elrond nor Aragorn would agree to probe the wounds to see what she might have left behind in the bites, for they say it’s a terribly delicate place to work, and it might leave him crippled.”

       “I see.”

       “From what Gandalf and Aragorn could figure out, Frodo was poisoned on the thirteenth of March, and then the Ring was destroyed and he lost his finger on the twenty-fifth.  I suspect that he was plagued by nightmares and memories on the anniversaries as well as pretty much of that time between.  It was the darkest time of all for him.”

       “Pippin told Bucca he was close to dying when Sam carried him up the Mountain.”

       “Yes, so Sam told us after they were rescued and they awoke.  They were both almost dead when they were found, and they stayed in healing sleep for two weeks.  Then it took weeks for them to really begin to recover, although Sam healed much faster than Frodo did.”

       “He never did truly heal, did he?” Mina asked.

       He shook his head, his face sad.  “No, he never truly has.  It frustrates him so, and he tries to hide it.  He can’t eat properly, he has these horrible headaches at times, and we all have nightmares.  Aragorn says that it’s to be expected, and that he has them, too, for he’s certainly seen his share of horrid things in his life.  He says they will grow more manageable with time, but they’re certainly nasty for us when they start.”

       She thought, then asked, “If--if the King hadn’t come to you while you had the Black Breath and healed you however he did it, would you have died?”

       “Yes.  All four of us would have died had Aragorn not been able to heal us.”

       “Pippin, too?”

       “Yes.  He was injured before the Black Gate.  A troll attacked their position and injured his friend Beregond, then tried to bite out his throat.  Pippin stabbed it at just the right angle and killed it, and it fell on him and Beregond and one other.  Pippin’s ribs were broken and his hip disjointed and I’m not certain what else--it took hours to find him.  When they brought me from Minas Tirith he was lying in the healers’ tents and he looked horrid. 

       “And they had put up a canvas curtain about the beds they’d had brought for Frodo and Sam, with just tree branches over the top.  Frodo was barely recognizable for days, they tell me.  When I got there he was so very, very thin, moreso than Will or Freddy when we brought them out of the Lockholes.  He barely moved, and I’d have to feel carefully to note a heartbeat.  His breathing was so shallow at first you could miss it.  They had to feed them sips of broth and water every fifteen minutes for the first three days, Gandalf told me.  The next few it was more at a time at slightly longer intervals.  It was once an hour, all day and much of the night as well once I arrived until just before they woke.  Sam and he were so weak when they awoke, but as I said--Sam got better, Frodo so much more slowly.”

       “So now he’s angry with you because you tried to find out if he’d had another bout of the memories?”

       Merry nodded.  She rose and fixed them both tea and brought out some scones which Frodo hadn’t eaten for breakfast.  “They’re bringing over a load of his furniture from Buckland today.  Sam wants to move him back into Bag End by the third.”

       “I pray it helps him,” Mina said.

79

            He woke on April 4th with a feeling of unreality, for the bed was oh, so familiar; the mattress was familiar and gave in just the right places; the sheets and blankets had so familiar a feel; the way the sunlight entered from the window was so familiar and yet subtly different.  Yet although the odor of the bed was familiar, that of the room was not.  There was a scent of new wood in the floor planks; the odor of stone was unusual; the plaster and paint both had the scent of newness to them.  He sat up in his own room--and yet it was not as he remembered.  The walls had been painted the same colors, but they were not faded by all the years he had lived here, here in this room.   The fireplace was beautiful with its hints of tree trunks and intertwined branches, and the Star of the West in the center; but never had he had such decorations, much less a hob in his bedroom.  There was his dresser, his wardrobe, his pipe sitting on the mantel, his own cheerful rag rug lying by the bed, the door to his shallow dressing room.  There were the shadow pictures of his parents over the mantel, the small wooden box with a dwarven cloak brooch Bilbo had given him as an adoption gift, his silver backed brushes lying on the dresser. 

            The clothes kist from Gondor was new, of course, as were the wind rods hanging from his bedroom window frame.  Only the small desk and its chair were missing, and he decided he didn’t need them here.  Sam would need them, Sam and Rosie--and he began to smile for he had decided how things would be made right in what had been Bilbo’s room--when Sam and Rosie married they would have it.

            He’d done four more weddings, three in February and one in early March.  He almost hoped Sam and Rosie would ask him, and he almost hoped they’d ask the Thain or Will.  Marigold and Young Tom had asked him, and he’d marry them in May.  Could he bear to see those expressions he’d seen in others in the faces of Sam and Rosie, with him indicating the marriage was made?

            He had to admit it--he was jealous--jealous of his Sam, jealous that Sam had left the Shire knowing that, if he returned, he could hope to claim Rosie Cotton, he could hope to marry her and know her love, accept it as his due and give his in return, could hope to have children by her, build a family.  The Ring had stolen that hope from Frodo, for if he’d ever claimed that kind of love It would have taken great delight in twisting it into something quite other than he’d ever hoped to have, and instead of love from his wife he’d have known fear and loathing or utter obedience--most likely both.  Instead of loving their dad, his children would have trembled each time he came into view, either cringing away from him or clinging to him in fear of a world which must be worse than the life they knew.

            Now that It was gone--what had he left to offer a wife?  A comfortable home, a plentifully filled series of larders and pantries and cold rooms, a beautiful garden, and an alliance with a Hobbit stripped of the ability to know full joy, unable to love freely, filled with feelings of guilt and haunted by memories of destruction, stripped of even the identity he’d known for the past year, one who could go from laughter to pain far faster than he could go from pain to laughter.  One whose hand kept lifting to find something that was no longer there, who kept listening for whispers that were gone--save in his dreams, who couldn’t fill the resulting emptiness even with work or purpose, and who had no real use for pleasure any more.

            Sam had his own nightmares, but he could set them aside at need.  He had his scars, but they didn’t define him.  He wasn’t filled with pain constantly, had no great failure to remember.  He’d completed his mission to get his Master there and back again.  He’d been able to use his sword effectively when necessary, to use his wits when necessary, to use his Hobbit ability to hide when necessary.  And now he accepted the love offered him and returned it.

            The smile at the thought of Sam and Rosie having Bilbo’s old room had long since faded, and he shivered as he sat in his bed, looking about his restored room and rubbing at the ache in his shoulder.  Then his gaze fell on the star in the center of his mantelpiece, and he took a deep breath, forcibly putting the envy behind him.  No, he refused to allow that envy a place in him.  He owed Sam far, far more than he envied him.   He closed his eyes and composed himself, and finally rose, intent on examining the whole place to see what was the same and what was different.

            The old cold room was almost identical to how it had been, for here apparently the Big Men had not bothered to come.  There were the shelves along the wall, and the extra packs, some of the chests in which clothing had been carried, and various cartons were stored--and, he saw with a smile, Sam’s pack.  The pantries and larders had all been redone with new cedar paneling behind fruitwood to discourage mice and insects.  The newer cold room had been scrupulously cleaned, and the shelves replaced.  The kitchen had all new surfaces on the counters, new shelves for the dishes, the cushion for the kitchen settle had been redone, the two work tables had new tops, the pump handle had been replaced.  The kitchen table with its benches along the sides and the chairs at head and foot was the same, at least, brought back from Crickhollow.  Again new cushions in a cheerful red had been made for the benches and chairs and tied on carefully.  He stirred up the kitchen fire, added in some kindling and finally some larger sticks of wood, and at last set the familiar kettle, polished to a brilliant shine, over it.  The pump worked even better than it had before and apparently had been properly primed.  He suspected the leather had been replaced as well.

            It was the floor here which was decidedly different, being black slate instead of the familiar cheerful tile; and in the center again was the Star of the West.  He smiled to see that star, the work of Gimli as had been true of that on the mantel in his bedroom.  He went back to the cold room to fetch six eggs and set them to boil, then went down the passage to examine the rest of the chambers.  Again the passage was now floored with black slate with the Star of the West in the center of all, although Sam had told him there was a runner intended to lie over the stonework.

            The furniture in the dining room hadn’t yet been brought, and so it remained yet empty.  The study, on the other hand, was almost as he remembered it, although the carpet was definitely different, obviously Elvish.  He closed his eyes and sniffed deeply, smelling odors from Lothlorien, clean and fresh beyond the scent even of the Shire.  He opened them and saw the desk with its slanting face, to the side his stationery box Bilbo had given him, his box of inks, his box of drying sand with its silver sifter, the blotting paper.  It was given back--his life; given back, but changed, as he had returned, but changed.  Some of what was here in Bag End had been patched, some repaired, some replaced, some yet the same--even as it was with himself.  He caressed the surface of the desk, missing the information his third finger would have told him, knowing in his memory what it was.  He turned and left the room, went on down the hall to the entrance.  Lamps had been replaced; their ropes and chains all new.  Some wall sconces were original, others made to match or chosen to complement.

            The door was the original door, and the outside had been carefully smoothed and repainted the familiar green, just as the Gaffer and later Sam had repainted it each spring as long as he could remember.  A rope had replaced the familiar bell chain, although the knob on it was the one he remembered.  The bench on which he’d sat beside Bilbo for an evening pipe was there, the top slat replaced but the sides as they’d always been.  The window boxes had been replaced, but then they’d been replaced at least four times since he came here to live anyway.

            He went back inside, closing the door behind him.  The parlor was different.  His chair, which had been Bilbo’s before him, was there, but the table which had stood beside it was gone--sold to Lotho.  The sofas had been sold to Lotho, too; and only one of the small tables he remembered remained to the right of the fireplace.  But the portraits of Bungo and Belladonna were there, as well as the portrait he’d done of Bilbo that Ham had framed which stood on the right end of the mantel; and the mantel clock Pippin had once dismantled ticked solemnly as it had always done, there between the pair of silver candlesticks Balin had given Bilbo during his last visit.  The sight of those candlesticks brought back the memory of the Chamber of Mazarbul, and the tomb there, and he moved forward to touch them gently, knowing his uncle’s friend had now been dead for many years, and his tomb itself had been desecrated by troll and orcs, and was buried now under rubble.

            He went back up the hallway, looking at the second parlor which no one had ever really used since Belladonna’s death, the first of the guest bedrooms and then the rest in turn, most of them empty now, for their furniture had been sold with the smial and had been destroyed.  The only room which hadn’t been damaged or its furniture destroyed was the room opposite the master bedroom, that in which Lobelia had slept; the furniture here was hers, the bed hers, the chairs hers as well.  Why Sharkey and his Men had left the room untouched was one of the many mysteries of their time.  Its door had been locked when they first came to seek Lotho, but the key had hung in its place in the first pantry where the keys to all the rooms had hung.  Why had no one unlocked it after Lobelia had been drug away to Michel Delving until he’d come here with Pippin, Merry, and Sam?  Frodo shook his head, then shut the door again.

            Bilbo’s room was much as it had been, save the walls and floor had all needed to be redone.  As in his room the planks laid for the floor were all new as well as the wainscoting and the paint on the walls.  But it was the familiar big bed which sat there now, what had been Bungo’s and Belladonna’s bed, then Bilbo’s, the bed long enough to allow even Gandalf a nearly normal sleep, as long as he slept on his side and had his knees bent a bit.

            Frodo paused as he looked at the mantel and saw that here, too, Gimli had left his mark, the tree trunks and branches, the Star of the West.  Tears slipped down his face, yet he was somehow reassured by that change, although he couldn’t have said how or why.  He left it and went back to the kitchen again, took the eggs and poured off the boiling water, cooled them under the pump.  He set out butter and knives and plates and forks and spoons, then a pot of currant jelly--May’s currant jelly which he’d always liked--then sliced bread and was toasting it when Sam entered the back door.  He looked up, smiling to see his friend enter.

            “Do you feel up to a second breakfast?” Frodo asked.

80

            Frodo and Sam stood watching as Merry and Pippin arrived on the fifth with another wagonload of furniture and items, some brought back from Crickhollow, some items from the mathom rooms and holes from Brandy Hall, part of it furniture and items from Frodo’s parents’ home.  Berilac came after them driving still another wagon filled with mattresses and bedding.  Isumbard arrived a short time later with Ferdi bringing extra bedsteads from the Great Smial, Pimpernel and her son Piper in the trap behind them bringing new curtains for the extra bedrooms.  Marigold had come to help for the day, and had a luncheon ready when they arrived.  Frodo helped as he could, but was soon relegated to sitting in his chair in the parlor, a mug of Sam’s tea on the chest which had been placed beside it, entertaining Piper with stories while the rest worked at unloading the carts and setting up bedrooms.

            Lobelia’s furniture was removed from the room opposite that which had been Bilbo’s to the furthest bedroom, and her personal items carefully boxed for shipment to her niece Hyacinth.  Meanwhile the room she’d taken was restored again as a nursery as it had always been, for in it Bilbo had slept until he entered his teens, after which it was generally slept in by the youngest cousins to visit.  Frodo had never slept in it, though, for Bilbo had always insisted he have the room next to the master bedroom, the one which in Bilbo’s youth had been his from the time he turned ten until the deaths of his parents left him Master of Bag End.  Now the youth bed which Lotho and Lobelia hadn’t wanted went back into the room, and the cradle, and the small table and chairs and box of toys which had been moved to Frodo’s room when he visited as a small child and then returned to the nursery after his mother refused to allow her son anywhere near Lobelia.  Merry had slept here when he was small, and later Pippin had as well, until both were considered big enough to merit their own rooms.

            Into the room which had eventually become Merry’s was placed a longer bed from the Great Smial which it was said had been made for Bandobras; a second which had been made for the Old Took, who had insisted his bed be the equal of that of the Bullroarer, went into the room which had become Pippin’s room, although it had always seemed that no matter where he started the night in the hole he’d usually end up joining Merry until he was into his late teens, much as Merry had been accustomed to slipping into Frodo’s room to sleep cuddled by his brother-cousin when he was a little one.

            Frodo, Piper, and Pando Proudfoot, who’d joined them, looked into the two rooms once they were announced finished, and Frodo had laughed at the longer beds.  “They ought to have kept that at the Great Smial for you to use there,” he commented to Pippin.

            Pippin grinned ruefully.  “Well, Da appears to have finally come to terms with me being taller than normal, and has had a new bed made for me--one that is not only longer than usual but wider, too.  Said the way I take up room in a bed there will be no room for a bride--supposing I ever take one--in one of normal width.  I saw it the last time I had dinner with him and Mum, and immediately sent off to Strider to order linens and blankets from Gondor.  I’ll swear it nears the size of his own bed in the King’s room in the Citadel.”

            Frodo, Pippin, and Merry all laughed at that.  Pando asked, “Why is the King’s bed so big?”

            Frodo smiled.  “Aragorn is quite the tallest individual among Men we’ve seen, and we’ve now seen quite a lot.  The Kings of Gondor have mostly been quite tall, so the King’s bedstead was made to accommodate their extra height and the width of their shoulders.  When the Lady Arwen sleeps there alone she must feel quite lost in it, for all she is Elven tall.  The four of us could have slept in it comfortably with room for at least two more sideways across the bottom, with none touching the others.”

            Pippin nodded.  “Actually, Strider’s bed couldn’t fit in any of the rooms in Bag End--they’re just not big enough.”

            “Then where will he stay if he comes to visit you?” Piper asked.

            Frodo’s expression became more solemn.  “He won’t visit us here, for he’d be the last to break his own edict.  We’d have to go outside the Shire to see him.  He might come to the Brandywine Bridge, but that would be the closest he’d come.  Most likely he’d have us come to meet him in Bree.”

            Folco Boffin and Fredegar and Estella Bolger arrived then, and soon Estella and Pimpernel were seeing the beds made while Frodo and Freddy retreated to the kitchen to help with tea while work began on unloading and placing the furniture for the dining room.

            By bedtime all was in place, and the wagons had been taken with the ponies down to the Green Dragon in Bywater for the night.

            Frodo woke from his nightmares some hours later, heard the sounds about him indicating he wasn’t alone in the hole, and sighed.  He was relieved somehow to know so many others were there, too, at the same time he was feeling a bit overwhelmed.  He tried to sleep again, but failed, and finally gave it up, rose and put on some of his oldest clothes, wrapped his Elven cloak about him and walked down the passage to the door, opened it and walked out.

            He stood upon the stoop for a time, hearing the sounds which again were so familiar, yet lacked the creak of trees and the rustle of the hedges.  He walked quietly down the steps and through the gate, then down the lane to the party field and walked into the center of it, drawn by the Light of the small sapling which was growing there now.  He leaned down to touch the small crown of leaves, a bright golden green even in the dark of the night, and again closed his eyes as the scent of it brought the brilliance of Lothlorien into his memories; and much as he’d been aware of the life of the White Tree in Gondor he felt here a similar awareness, a similar throbbing of new life eager to rejoice in a world which surrounded it with love.

            Suddenly he was aware of the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn turning to him, having become aware he crouched by the mallorn tree of the Shire; he realized Lord Elrond was turning from his thoughts and study to recognize who else walked abroad in the night; was aware the Lady Arwen stood, singing quietly, in the gardens of Minas Tirith, her singing increasing in delight as she realized he’d become aware of her.

            Ringbearer, we delight to greet you, he heard from several directions.

            My Lords, my Ladies, he returned.

            There he stood, none of them speaking further, just in quiet communion through the medium of the mallorn, finding the mutual awareness was enough.  Overhead the clouds which had come and gone throughout the previous day finally cleared, and he straightened in relief at the beauty of the heavens and the stars which shone on him.  He seemed to hear the voice of the Lady Undomiel speaking directly to his heart, Rejoice, Iorhael; we rejoice in thee, Cormacolindor.

            For the moment he did rejoice.  At last he pulled away, bowed to the tree, and went back up the lane, back through the gate, back through the gardens, which were once again awakening to delight and joy and blossom, the daffodils giving off their rich scent; the hyacinths adding their own perfume; the white Elven lilies giving back the beauty of the stars.  He walked around to the back of the Hill to the path he’d taken so often up to the top, and stopped as he saw the thick stump where the great oak had been felled, and the hopeful shape of the young tree planted beside it.  Tears fell for the tree lost, and thanks were expressed silently for the small sapling that showed its intent to follow its example for endurance and beauty.  He knelt by the small tree, and caressed its stem gently, thanking it for coming here, wishing it a long and joyful life, hoping that Sam’s children would one day play in its shade, hang their birdhouses in its branches.

            When Merry joined him he wasn’t surprised.  “Restless?” Merry asked him.

            “Yes, a bit.”

            “Such a brave little tree, to seek to grow here where its predecessor stood for so long.”

            Frodo nodded.

            After a time, Merry said softly, “I’m sorry I pressed you so hard the other day, Frodo.  You know I did so only because I love you so, because I care so much for you.”

            “I know, Merry.  I’m sorry for closing you out.”

            Together they sat leaning against the stump of the old tree, putting their arms about one another.

            Then another came up the back of the hill, and after a moment Sam joined them, sitting on Frodo’s other side.  And for the remainder of the night they sat together, watching the quiet movement of the stars, feeling the gentle breeze of their Shire ruffling their curls.

            Pippin joined them, and the four of them together watched the sun rise on the new day. 

            Finally Sam said, “This was what we was fightin’ for, for all to know their homes.”

            Merry sighed, “A year ago today, Frodo, Sam, you two came back awake for us in Ithilien.  What a way to celebrate your birthday it was, Sam.”

            “The best birthday present you ever gave us,” Pippin murmured, “both of you coming back to us.”

            Frodo sat, surrounded by the others, his eyes downcast.  Just how much he’d come back was still in doubt, he thought.  Yet--yet there had been moments of fulfillment in the past year in spite of all else.  He thought of the communion he’d felt there by the mallorn, and smiled softly in spite of himself, suddenly glad of the warmth surrounding him. 

            Rejoice, Iorhael, said the one who argued.

            I rejoice.

            That is as it should be.

            Frodo hugged the others to him.

*******

            Sam rode off to the Cottons’ not long afterwards as the other three went in to fix first breakfast.  When he returned with Rosie it was time for elevenses, and they gladly joined the others.  Frodo smiled to see the promise bracelet on Rosie’s wrist at last, and when he was chased off by the others when the meal was over he retreated to the study, where he was followed soon after by Sam--a Sam suddenly shy.

            “Well, Sam,” Frodo asked, “when will you come to join me here in Bag End?”

            “It’s like this, Mr. Frodo,” Sam began.  “I hadn’t spoken afore, havin’ a job to see to, you know; but now I have, and Rosie’ll have me....”

            Frodo found a delight in watching Sam flush and in getting him finally to admit to his desires.  He gently teased him, and finally said, “Then get married as soon as you can and join me here, here in Bag End.  There’s room here for as large a family as you’d ever wish to have, after all.  And you’d never be far from the Gaffer, who’ll be just down on the Row, and you know the Widow Rumble will always see to him when you aren’t by him.  Plus both Marigold and Daisy are close at hand, and May not that far away, either.  There’s no need right now for you to feel torn in two, you know--never that.  That is, of course, as long as Rosie is willing to put up with a decided old bachelor like me.”

            “Oh, Frodo----”  Sam embraced him.  Then he pulled away, flushing somewhat.  “There’s one other matter, about the marriage itself--if’n you wouldn’t mind, for that--for that we’d wished--we’d wanted for it to be performed by----”  His face grew even redder.  Finally he said, half to himself, “There’s nothin’ for it.”  Then, all in a rush, “Would you do it for us--here, at Bag End?”

            “When?”

            “May first?”

            Frodo laughed with delight.  “Of course, Sam--of course!  And you and Rosie will have Bilbo’s old room as your own.”

            Again Sam flushed.  “We’re not needin’ so grand a place as that.”

            But Frodo was shaking his head, his face growing solemn with pride.  “Lord Samwise the Brave, Courageous, and Faithful is worthy of far more than the master bedroom of Bag End.  It is the least I can give you, you know, that and the gardens for your very own.”  He felt tears of joy filling his eyes.  “After all, Sam, a year ago in Ithilien I mourned I couldn’t give you that--and now I can.”

            “A year ago, Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin and me--we was goin’ to come back and bring the Master and the Thain and the Mayor all three down on Lotho and make ’im sell Bag End back, to us if’n you wouldn’t buy it back yourself.  Mr. Merry--he was already aware of how Lotho Pimple was out cheatin’ folks, and how he was openin’ hisself to serious trouble.”

            Frodo reached out again and drew his friend to him.  “Oh, Sam, my own Sam, how I rejoice in you--you, Merry, and Pippin.  A joyful birthday gift you’ve given me--the best birthday gift ever.”

            Isumbard, once he’d been advised of the impending nuptials, offered to write up the marriage contract for the two of them, then for Marigold and Young Tom as well, once the rest of the Cottons arrived to join the celebration and he realized there was a second wedding already being planned.  Ham and Hal arrived soon after with their families, and May brought the Gaffer up the Hill just before Moro and Daisy showed up with the birthday cake, followed closely by Daddy Twofoot and his family and the Widow Rumble.

            One of the kists Gimli had brought for Sam had been filled with items he’d purchased in Gondor for this day, including fine shirt studs he’d had made for his brothers, brothers-in-law, Rosie’s father and brothers, Merry, and Pippin.  For Frodo he produced the blown glass bird which as he’d anticipated was received with delight.  He’d brought bolts of cloth for his sisters and sisters-in-law and Begonia Rumble and Lily Cotton, and a special bolt of cloth for Rosie herself of a shimmering silk that looked different colors depending on which way she turned it.

            For his father he’d had a waistcoat and vest made of fine Gondorian materials, and now promised him a shirt and trousers to go with them to be made by Moro and Daisy.  For the rest attending, he had a variety of bracelets and ribbons he’d purchased for the ladies and lasses, and cloak brooches and neck scarves he’d brought for whatever gentlehobbits who might be there.  Piper was thrilled with a cloak brooch in the shape of a flying bird, and for the Chubbs and Proudfoots who lived on the Row he’d brought strings of silver bells to hang on their doors.

            After all else was done they went down to the Party Field to see the mallorn tree, and to rejoice in the golden blossoms which had opened that morning.  Frodo smiled, tears again threatening to fall.  He couldn’t have wished a more perfect birthday for Sam.  And, as he watched Merry walking hand in hand with Estella he felt relieved.  He might not see their wedding, but he knew they’d be happy.

*******

            “All right, you lot, let’s stand a bit orderly, there.  Elanor, Frodo-lad, Rosie-lass, Merry-lad, Goldilocks, Pippin-lad.  It’s your Uncle Frodo’s birthday and old Mr. Bilbo’s birthday as well today, and as you’re all too young to join in the toast, we’re goin’ to sing for them now.  Yes, I know as Mr. Bilbo ain’t likely to be there to hear, but I’m certain as Mr. Frodo wishes to hear you now.”

            And sweet voices of Hobbit children were lifted in the hymn to Elbereth they’d heard first from the Elves they’d met in the Woody End following Gildor Inglorion, and Frodo smiled to hear them joining Sam’s voice.

            Beneath the White Tree of Gondor Aragorn and Arwen stood with their daughter and son, and they sang the same hymn, joined by Legolas and Gimli and the King’s brothers.

            As he slept Frodo smiled, and Merry and Pippin, peeping in from the door, smiled in relief to see that smile and the faint glow of Frodo’s form reflecting the starlight shining in through the window.

81

            Sam rode out the next morning with Mr. Frodo, but when Frodo turned toward Michel Delving Sam went on to the Woody End.  He’d written a note last night, and he hoped that as he planted a few more trees today he might see an Elf.  For once he wasn’t disappointed.  The sound of silver bells on rich harness caused him to smile and rise from where he’d been planting a rowan seedling, and he turned to see a white horse approaching from the West carrying a shining figure on its back.  He bowed deeply, and the Elven steed stopped by him.  Only the shifting of the Light told him that the rider had dismounted.

            “Lord Glorfindel,” Sam said.

            “Lord Samwise,” the Elf returned.  “You wished to see one of my folk here today?”

            “Yes, my lord,” the gardener answered, straightening and pulling out the letter from inside his vest.  “I was wishing to beg some seeds and starts from Lord Elrond and the Lady, if they’d allow it--for the comfort of my Master.”

            Glorfindel appeared both amused and touched.  “Plant starts?” he asked.

            Sam nodded.  “Athelas and more elven lilies and flowers.  I took some starts from kingsfoil as I found along the way, but it’s not enough yet.  He’s hurtin’ often, sir.  His hand don’t hurt him no more, but his shoulder does too often, and he’s still havin’ the nightmares and the memories plaguin’ him.  Sometimes there’s just nothin’ as he can hold onto, until he’s barely able to hold on inside his skin.  He feels guilty, then feels guilty for feelin’ guilty.  One moment he feels fine--the next he’s hurtin’.  Let anyone say the wrong thing and what happiness he showed will fade right away.  He lost weight as we was comin’ home from Rivendell; then again last month.  He can’t talk about what he done less’n he’s angry.

            “He loves the stars.  Will go up on the top of the Hill, and will sit there all night watchin’ the stars, or sleepin’ under ’em.  I want him surrounded by love and healin’ and beauty as will help his heart when he goes up there.”

            “I do not believe this request would be denied, Lord Samwise.  I will be glad to deliver it as you’ve requested.”

            “Thank you, Lord Glorfindel.  Yesterday and today he’s been better, but it don’t last all that long, it seems.”

            “And you ask nothing for yourself?”

            Sam flushed.  “Well, the flowers and all--I’ll admit as they’re as much for me as for him, for I delight in them, too.  But I can reach for my happiness, I can.  My Rosie--she said yes yesterday, and we’re marryin’ in two weeks.  But he don’t feel as he has anythin’ left in him to offer a wife.”

            Glorfindel smiled as he took the letter and remounted Asfaloth.  “May the Valar bless your marriage, then, Lord Samwise; and I will speed your request.”  With a deep bow of his head he turned his horse Eastward and went on his way.  Sam watched after, feeling relieved.

            While Frodo was busy in Michel Delving, the daughters of Hamfast Gamgee and the Cottons were preparing Bag End and the Party Field for Sam and Rosie’s wedding.  No one knew where Samwise Gamgee had come up with the gold he had given his bride’s mother to buy all she did, and most assumed that this was being paid for by Mr. Baggins; but every time Frodo tried to pay for anything he was told that it had already been taken care of, and Frodo realized that Sam, as had Aragorn before him, was using some of the gathered funds from Gondor to pay for his wedding, having decided to save the gift from Mr. Bilbo to serve as the basis for the dowries of whatever daughters he and Rosie might in time produce.  He’d sent the request to Aragorn to withdraw the needed funds from his account, and a small bag had been included in the kist with the gifts for his birthday which he now used.

            Frodo meanwhile sent a second missive to Bree ordering another barrel of Butterbur’s ale, to be delivered to the Brandywine Bridge three days before the wedding and accepted by Merry and Pippin, who would bring it with them in the wagon.

            Two times Frodo went to Michel Delving to serve in the Mayor’s office.  The last of the documents from the time of Will’s imprisonment was filed; the last of the partnership agreements and loan and property acquisition contracts filed by Lotho, Timono Bracegirdle, Marco Smallburrow, and the other lawyers under investigation had been retrieved from the archives; the new room for the archives and the new filing system for property sales had been put into use so that as the investigation progressed it would be easier to find specific contracts as necessary; and three of the Tooks had happily returned to the full service of the Tooklands and its folk.  Hillie continued with his evaluations of the complaints which had been made; Tolly was going through the remaining Sackville-Baggins and Smallburrow contracts while Eldred examined those specifically written by Timono for anyone else and other business dealings by the same individuals looking for patterns of acquisitive behaviors.  With the addition of the reparations payments made by those who’d lost property or businesses and so on in the Time of Troubles there was a need for a committee to review each claim to see whether or not it was valid--already one family had tendered a claim for the cost to replace ponies it was known they had never possessed to begin with.

            During the last few days before the wedding Frodo chaired the meeting arranged for all the lawyers of the Shire, the Mayor, the Thain and the Master and their heirs, and the family heads for the most prominent families--including the Bracegirdles--in which the specific strategies crafted by Timono, Lotho, and Marco were discussed, the legalities discussed at length, and how anyone who tried such tricks in the future or allowed contracts with such questionable clauses included in them to be presented would be treated once they were caught.  “And you can be certain,” Frodo added, “that you will be caught.  Perhaps not immediately--but you will be caught and investigated.  I wouldn’t suggest anyone try such tactics in the future.”

            Also the process by which claims for reparations would be made, investigated, and paid was laid out, discussed, and amended, with promises that this information would be passed to family heads and village heads throughout the Shire within three weeks.  It was with relief that Frodo announced afterwards to Isumbard, Tolly, Hillie, and Everard that he was now going to take ten days off to do a walking trip to Buckland to see his relatives in the Hall as soon as Sam’s wedding was finished, and that they were in charge while he was gone.  They went together to the inn that night for dinner, and all wished him well in his holiday.  Frodo finally returned to the Whitfoot house to reclaim his saddlebags, thanked Mina and Will for their hospitality for the past few days, made certain they’d be attending Sam’s wedding, and went to the stable at last to begin his return to Bag End.

            As he went up the lane to the Hill he felt a feeling of simple pleasure to be returning to his own home, and not to some place where he lived by the courtesy and hospitality of others.  And when he opened the door to know that after he returned from Buckland it would be to once again be a part of a family of his own choosing, he smiled with relief.

            The next morning was the last day before the wedding, and Frodo found himself facing a Samwise Gamgee who was utterly flustered.  The boxes of flowering bushes promised by the nurseryhobbit from Overhill had to be sent back, for he found they were infested with mealyworms and leafcutter caterpillars, and he didn’t want them anywhere near the new gardens of the Row or the new trees along the Water, or especially near the gardens of Bag End.  The ribbons purchased for the flowered platform on which the band was to play were the wrong color; a cat had been drawn into Bag End by the smell of the fowl being cooked for the wedding feast and had eaten choice bits off of four birds; the brewer for the Green Dragon wasn’t certain he’d have enough ale and wine for the party afterwards; and the layers for the wedding cake Sam was certain were lopsided and wouldn’t work.

            Frodo listened to the ongoing litany of fears, worries, and apparent disappointments and at last called in Young Tom and instructed him to take Sam to the Green Dragon and have three ales with him, then get him home to Number Three and force him to eat a meal and take a rest.  Once Sam was dragged off over his protests, Frodo stepped in and told a frustrated Marigold to finish with the cake and not mind her brother, got Merry and Pippin, who’d just arrived with the barrel from the Prancing Pony, to take over dealing with the folk from the Green Dragon; decided the ribbon would work anyway, and watched the arrival of Hal’s family with more boxed flowering bushes than he’d planned to bring originally and helped decide how to arrange them to best effect.  He himself hurried into the village to purchase more poultry, which the Widow Rumble took from him as he headed back up the Hill, volunteering to see them done.  He helped Lily and Nibs wrap countless bundles of sweets in squares of muslin and tie them with ribbon, then helped set out the fresh candles, letting down the ceiling fixtures on their chains so the candles could all be changed, then pulling them back up into place and refastening the chains to the cleats on the walls.  He helped sweep floors, then went to the kitchen were he helped knead the bowls of bread dough which would be allowed to rise slowly over night and baked fresh in the morning.  He fetched and carried as was needed by those working in the kitchens, watching as Lily and Estella Bolger boiled countless eggs collected from all over the Shire, then shelled them, cut them in half, deviled the yolks, and refilled them, Frodo finally setting trays of them in the cool room covered with fine cloth to keep them clean until they were served.  Geli Proudfoot and Daffy Chubbs helped Marigold put fresh flowers and greens into all the rooms, and then to prepare the flowered bower in the garden where the marriage would take place.  Hal’s wife saw to the placing of tables in the party field for the wedding feast while her husband and Ham erected the ale tent and the serving tent.

            Near evening Merimac, Berilac, and Brendilac arrived with Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck from Brandy Hall, bearing with them fine cured hams and smoked roasts, and a number of blankets sent as a gift from the Lord Steward Halladan, blankets which had been brought to the gates at the Brandywine Bridge about an hour after Merry and Pippin set off from Buckland, blankets Frodo carried into the smial and saw placed in the cupboard in the master bedroom.

            Then he wasn’t seen for a time, not until Merry and Pippin began seeking for him, finding him at the last sitting on the floor in the room which on the morrow would be Sam’s and Rosie’s, his face pale, clutching at his shoulder.  Merry knelt in front of him.  “Have you been working all the day, Frodo Baggins?”

            “I was needed,” Frodo informed him, looking at him defiantly.

            “Well, you aren’t needed now, you know.  Let’s get you into bed so that you’ll be in shape to perform the wedding tomorrow, after all.”  Between them Merry and Pippin lifted him to his feet and saw him into his own room, helping him out of his clothing and into his nightshirt, and placing him in his bed.  Then Pippin hurried off to the kitchens to fetch him some tea and toast spread with May’s currant jam.  Frodo sipped at the tea, but didn’t appear interested in the toast.  He lay back, holding Lady Arwen’s gem with his left hand while rubbing at his left shoulder with his right one.

            Sam returned not long after, having been kept away purposely by Young Tom most of the day, and found all well in hand, Bag End shining and filled with flowers, the cake iced, the pavilion ready down in the Party Field, the barrels of ale carefully stacked with the great one from Bree set apart from the rest in a place of honor, the boxes of flowers set up beautifully, the ribbons not looking nearly as awful as he’d thought they would that morning, the cool room filled with food ready to be served on the morrow.

            “But where’s Mr. Frodo?” he asked.

            Merry and his parents had gone down to the Ivy Bush, and Pippin sat in the parlor with Beri, Brendi, Freddy Bolger and Estella, each drinking from a goblet of wine.  Pippin looked up at him.  “From what I can tell he was busy all day making certain all would be well for you tomorrow, and Merry and I insisted he go to bed a time ago, a while before sunset.  I’ve not heard a peep from him since.  I suspect he’s deep asleep by now.”

            Sam went down the hall to Frodo’s room and peered in, finding Frodo was lying in his bed, apparently asleep.  He slipped into the room and took the mug he found there, half empty.  Sniffing at it, he recognized this was plain tea, and shook his head.  He went into the kitchen now empty of all save good smells, the table already set for breakfast, and went into the cool room to fetch some of his special tea for Frodo, looking about at the bounty there.  He felt such a wave of thanksgiving in his heart for all who had worked so hard this day as he searched through all else for his covered pitcher, finding it finally right where he’d left it in the corner nearest the door.  He refilled Frodo’s mug, and took it back to his Master’s room.

            “Hello, Sam,” Frodo said quietly as he reentered the chamber.

            “Hello, Master,” Sam answered as he set the mug down on the table by Frodo’s bed.  “You didn’t eat the toast?”

            “I wasn’t really hungry,” Frodo answered, looking pale as he sat up carefully.

            “Thank you for insisting Tom take me off.  I was so busy tryin’ to see to everything I was gettin’ half mad, I think.  I hope as you didn’t push yourself too much today, tryin’ to make up for it, though.”

            “Oh, I helped, but made certain the rest did the most of the work, Sam.”  But as he took the mug his hand was shaking somewhat, and Sam helped steady it.  Frodo drank from it thankfully, finally emptied it down.  “I didn’t realize till now how much I missed having that by me earlier, I think,” Frodo said.  “I’ll sleep well enough now, Sam.”

            Sam smiled down at him.  “Thank you for all, Frodo,” he said quietly,

            Frodo smiled.  “It’s been little enough I could do for you, Sam.  We all owe you so much, you know.”

            When Sam returned shortly after with the mug refilled to set it back by the bed, Frodo seemed to be asleep once more.

            Early in the morning Frodo awoke, and drank from the mug Sam had left for him.  Feeling much better, he finally rose rather shakily and went to the privy and then the bathing room where the fire under the boiler was neatly laid.  It still took three tries before he could get it alight, which disturbed him.  He went back to the kitchen, and went into the cool room where he stole a couple of the deviled eggs off the nearest tray and downed them.  Finding Sam’s pitcher in the corner he filled a clean mug and drank it slowly, then cut a slice of bread.  He saw the fire built up under the ovens, and finally went back to his room where he smoothed his bed, then got out the special suit Arwen had made for him and set it out to put on.  Wrapping himself more tightly in his striped dressing gown, he returned to the bathing room, filled the tub from the boiler, and finally shed his nightshirt and got into the bath, glad of the warmth with which it surrounded him.  He didn’t remain long, however, and returned to his room where he donned his pants and braces, and the quilted silk shirt he’d been given to wear under his mithril corslet.

            Merry, Pippin, and Estella Bolger were fixing a light breakfast when he returned to the kitchen, and he could tell the first few of the loaves of bread for the wedding feast were already baking in the oven.  “Sam’s left orders you aren’t to exert yourself today,” Pippin informed him.  “Did you sleep well?”

            “Mostly,” Frodo allowed, and took his place at the table.  “Good morning, Aunt, Uncle, Beri,” he said, as more of the Brandybucks came in.

            “Good morning, Frodo,” Saradoc smiled.  “Are you certain you won’t ride back with us this afternoon?  You don’t have to walk, you know.”

            “Uncle Sara,” Frodo answered, shaking his head, “I haven’t had a proper walking trip since I returned.  I want a chance to see how Sam’s trees are growing, you know, and to rejoice for just being home and at peace once more.”

            “You are looking terribly thin,” Esmeralda commented, her expression concerned.

            “I’m well enough,” Frodo insisted, but privately Merry and Pippin sided with Merry’s mother.

            Frodo ate sparingly, then went back to his room where he finished his dressing and carefully brushed his hair.  When he bent over to brush his feet, however, he was hit with a wave of nausea, and sat down rather abruptly in the wooden chair from the table which had taken the place of his old desk, and was sitting there looking rather pale when Brendi peeked in.  “Frodo,” he said, suddenly concerned, “are you all right?”

            “I think so,” Frodo insisted again.  “I just begin to wonder if I might not have overdone it more than I’d thought yesterday.”  He looked down.  “I was starting to brush the hair on my feet when I--I felt tired again.”

            Brendi fetched the foot brush and carefully brushed Frodo’s feet for him.  “You were at it all day, were you?”

            “Yes.  Sam was a mass of nerves, trying to see to everything and feeling totally overwhelmed.  I had him dragged off and made certain that all was being done by those best suited to do each, and was just doing what I could to help.”

            “You need to rest more, cousin,” Brendi commented, assured Frodo was properly groomed.  “Now, stand up if you can, and let me see you.”  He paused, taking in the beauty of Frodo’s clothes.  “Now, that is the most glorious suit I’ve seen.  Did you bring that back from Gondor?”

            “The Lady Arwen made it for me, and sent it to me shortly after I returned.”  Frodo sat back down on his chair again.  “Brendi, will you take my mug for me to the kitchen, rinse it out, and bring me some tea Sam has ready in the cool room?  It’s in a covered blue jug in the corner to the left.”

            “You wouldn’t want fresh?”

            “This--this is Sam’s special tea, and it helps me feel better as I’ve told you before.  Doesn’t appear to matter if it’s cool.”

            Brendi was soon back with the tea, and Frodo sipped at it, then drank more of it.  Finally he stood upright, his color better.  “Did you bring the will and the rest of the documents with you, Brendi?” he asked.  Brendi went to fetch the papers from his bag, and they went together to the study to discuss them and see them stored away in the locked drawer of the desk.

            Today Frodo stayed quietly in the study, writing some at the book he’d promised to Bilbo, finishing much of the next chapter while the rest saw to what needed done today; at last he set the chapter aside, and went to the store room and fetched the new pack which had been Sam’s gift to him at Yule.  He took it to his room and packed it for his intended walking trip this evening.  Once he had two outfits in it and a nightshirt and what else he might need, he returned to the study, and was there when Sam arrived with his brothers and Young Tom.  Together they came in, and Frodo rose, smiling. 

            Sam paused in the doorway, his glance admiring.  “That the suit the Lady Arwen made for you, then?”

            Frodo smiled.  “Yes.  And those are the vest and waistcoat she made for you?”

            Sam nodded.  The vest was of a maroon brocade, and the jacket of a warm brown embroidered with leaves in golds, browns, and maroon to match the vest; the buttons were of clear glass with gold leaves inlaid in them.  “She certainly knows the way to make clothes suit the person, doesn’t she, Master?”

            “Indeed.  Have the Tooks arrived as yet?”

            “No, not yet.”

            “Who’s going to stand up with you?” Frodo asked.

            “Tom and Merry.”

            Frodo’s eyes widened, for rarely did a groom have more than one friend stand up with him.  Sam continued, “And both Marigold and Miss Estella are going to stand up with Rosie.  And I found there was somethin’ in the pocket of the vest when I put it on.”  He brought out a small bag of dark green silk and held it out to Frodo. 

            Curious, Frodo took and opened it; inside lay two rings of mithril, each carved with a wreath of roses about its center; and one of the braided marriage cords such as had been used to bind bride and groom at the weddings of Aragorn and Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn.  Frodo lifted it out and laughed.  “So, our King and Queen appear to intend you to be bound together indeed as is done by the Dúnedain.  Would you like that, Sam?”

            “I wouldn’t mind, but I hadn’t had time as yet to discuss it with Rosie.”

            “Did you intend to exchange wedding tokens?”

            “Well, we’d wanted to, but hadn’t decided what as of day afore yesterday.  But these--these would be special ones--if’n they fit, of course.”  He looked at them critically, then smiled.  “Course, considerin’ who sent them, I’d be surprised if they don’t.”  He held up his right hand to show the ring that served as his token to access the account held by the bankers in the Fourth Circle of Minas Tirith.  “After all, this one fit as soon as he give it to me.  He sent it back to me with Gimli.”

            Frodo nodded.  “I can adjust the ceremony to include the cord, and there’s no problem with exchanging tokens, of course.  Do you think Rosie will mind?”

            “Will you ask her, Master?”

            “If you wish.  Now, then, Ham, would you mind fetching Merry for me?”

            Merry arrived in a moment.  “You are attending on Sam?” Frodo asked him.

            “Yes, he’s asked me.”

            “Which will hold the marriage token for you, Sam?”

            Sam looked from Young Tom to Merry and back, and after a moment gave a small nod, turned back to Frodo and said, “Mr. Merry will.”

            Frodo took the smaller of the two rings and handed it to Merry to hold.  He looked at Tom, who was rather pale and shaking, and smiled.  “You were probably wise to indicate Merry should do it.  Aragorn had a bit more choice, as he had seven stand up with him.”

            “Seven?”  Tom looked shocked.

            “Yes, seven, including Sam and me and his foster brothers and two of his cousins and the Lord Prince Steward Faramir.  The older of his two cousins was so nervous....”  He related the description of the morning of the King’s wedding, how Aragorn had had to fasten his mantle himself and the jibes about Halladan’s own wedding, the threats to drop the King into the fountain should he faint.  Tom was soon laughing, as were Hal and Ham as well.  “It was quite lovely and moving by the end of it, actually; but I think that had anyone even dared to suggest that they knew of a reason not to allow the marriage Lord Elrond, who was performing it, would have skewered them with a look!”

            “Indeed,” Merry said.  “He asked, glared at the entire company, which I think included half the population of Minas Tirith, which was more than the entire population of the Shire, and all took an involuntary step backwards!”

            Briefly Frodo described what would happen and the order in which it would occur, then asked first Young Tom, then Merry, and finally Sam to tell it back to him.  He rehearsed with Sam what he was to say, and at last indicated he was satisfied.  “Out with you, then,” he said, rising again and shooing them out to the passageway.  “It’s time for me to meet with the bride now.”

            Sam led the others out to the kitchen as Frodo walked down to the parlor in time to greet the Cottons as they arrived from Bywater.  Rosie had a huge blanket wrapped about her to keep her wedding dress both hidden and clean, and Frodo soon had her and her father in the study, having sent Jolly off to fetch Marigold and Estella.  While Estella was going over her part in the marriage ceremony to come the Tooks arrived, and in a moment Isumbard was entering the already crowded study with the marriage contract, which Frodo automatically opened and examined.  He took up a pen and made slight amendments in two places, then smiled his acceptance.  “Well done, Isumbard.  Bard, could you take a small table--perhaps the one by the window in my bedroom--out and set it just in front of the bower on the right, to my left, for me?  And ask Sam to take out a candle to use as a Presence Light.”

            Bard looked at him with surprise.  “What’s that?”

            “I was explaining that Aragorn had sent a marriage cord as is used in the weddings for the Dúnedain of Gondor and Arnor, and Sam has asked that it be used in the wedding here, out of respect for our Lord King and Lady Queen who sent it.  A Presence Light indicates that the Valar and the Creator themselves also serve as witnesses to the joining.”

            The Took looked a bit surprised at such an element, but could think of no objection to it.  He nodded, turning to hurry out to discuss this with Sam, finding Sam had already anticipated this request and had the table and a candle in a glass holder already out there.

              Once Bard was gone, Frodo again turned to Estella and had her begin anew, then turned to Rosie to examine her.  At last he sent the three lasses off to the parlor, and turned to Old Tom, rehearsing what he was to say several times.  When Frodo indicated he was certain the farmer knew his part, Tom asked what changes Frodo had made in the contract. 

            “I was just adding in Sam’s title, since this wedding is reflecting a bit of Dúnedain tradition as well as our Shire ceremony.”  He indicated Tom was free to inspect the document.  It didn’t take long for the farmer to spot the amendment the first time it occurred, where it was indicated this was the contract of marriage between Samwise Gamgee and Rosie Cotton.  Sam was now identified as “Lord Samwise Gamgee of the Free Peoples of the West.”

            “What’s that about?”

            Frodo smiled gently.  “We told you before that Sam is honored by the King himself and is famous in the outside world.  Well, for his part in the fight against Sauron, he has been made a Lord, and this has been recognized by not only the people of Gondor and the Dúnedain of Arnor, but also by the people of Rohan, the Elves, the Dwarves, the Ents, by Hobbits as represented by Merry and Pippin, and, we are told, even the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains.”

            Tom looked confused.  “By birds?” he asked.

            Frodo’s smile widened.  “You remember Bilbo’s stories of the Eagles saving him and the Dwarves, and the conversations they had?  I assure you, those were not merely stories.  According to both the Elves and the Dúnedain--and the King himself--the Great Eagles sometimes serve as the messengers of the Valar to those here in Middle Earth; and Aragorn told me in a letter a few months ago that he’d had occasion to speak with Gwaihir at least three times in recent months--when the Eagles aided Gandalf to rescue Sam and me from the destruction of the Mountain, and then twice in the King’s Hallow above the city of Minas Tirith.  The Great Eagles are as much Children of Iluvatar as are Elves, Men, Dwarves, Hobbits, and Ents.”

            “I’m still not completely certain just what Ents are, myself,” Tom Cotton commented.

            “The shepherds of the trees of Fangorn Forest.  Not a numerous people, but certainly an unusual one.  Do you think you are ready now?”

            Frodo came out to greet the newer guests, and went out to welcome Will and Mina when they arrived with Aster, Bucca, and the children.

            Soon all were gathering at the beginning to the gardens for the wedding, and watched as Frodo set the marriage contract on the small table with the box of inks and a new quill, there in front of the flickering candle burning in a glass holder.  Then when all was ready Sam came out wearing a green wreath on his head, accompanied by Merry and Tom, one on each side and a half step behind him.  They took the positions Frodo indicated, and waited.  May Gamgee and Lily Cotton raised the song of the bride as had been sung or played time out of mind in the Shire for weddings, and the bridal party emerged, Old Tom Cotton in his finest with his daughter’s arm on his elbow, Estella and Marigold dressed in soft golden dresses, each holding a single yellow rose tied in gold and green ribbons; Rosie herself in a gown made from the shimmering fabric brought her by Sam from Gondor, a flurry of lace from her petticoats showing beneath, lace with gold and green ribbon at her bodice and tied at the back of her wedding crown of golden and white flowers, a bouquet of flowers of white, gold, and rose in her hands also bound in gold and green ribbons.

            Frodo smiled with pride and joy to see Sam standing so tall and straight that day, once again as proudly as had stood Aragorn by his bride.  His heart was beating swiftly.  Suddenly Frodo felt the pain he had known from time to time in his chest, surprisingly intense for a second, and then as swiftly dulling.  Briefly it was difficult to breathe; he waited a minute, then was able to take a slow, deep breath.  He closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to stand steady, for he was determined not to ruin Sam’s day.  He opened his eyes as the song ended, smiled into Sam’s eyes, and finally felt ready to begin.

            “And why this day do you come before this company, Samwise Gamgee, my Lord Samwise son of Hamfast?”

            Sam flushed at the title, but straightened even more, if that was possible. “It is my deep desire to take this Hobbitess Rosie Cotton as my wife, to take her as mistress of my hole, to bring her into my family, to be the mother of those children who may be given to the two of us, and to share my life with her for the time given us together,” he responded.

            Frodo’s mouth twitched at the last phrase, for that Sam had added on his own.  He turned to Farmer Cotton.  “Why this day do you come before this company, Tolman and Lily Cotton?”

            Old Tom stood quite straight.  “To see our beloved daughter Rosie married to Samwise Gamgee, if she will have him and if he will have her.”

            “Why this day do you come before this company, Rose Cotton?”

            “To take this gentlehobbit and Lord of the Free Peoples, Samwise Gamgee, as husband, to enter his family, to become mistress of his hole and mother to all children that might be given us.”  At this Tom set Rosie’s hand in Sam’s and stepped back to join his wife.  Many murmured at the strange title Rosie had given her bridegroom, but all fell swiftly silent.

            Frodo looked about the company.  “This day have Samwise Gamgee and Rose Cotton come before all to be wed.  Is there any reason why she should consider not accepting him as her husband, or why he might do the same for her?”

            Odo Proudfoot called out, “Because he left the Shire and he might take it into his head to do such a fool thing again?”

            Unlike weddings among Men, it was common in the Shire for such reasons to be listed and considered.  Rosie turned toward Odo.  “I know as why he did as he did, and I’m proud of him for it.  If’n he hadn’t, then perhaps I’d of had reason to think otherwise,” she announced.

            Sam was flushing, but kept his head up proudly.  “I had a job to do as needed doing, Mr. Proudfoot, and I did it fair and square.  I’ve no reason to be shamed for what I did, and no other does, neither.  I wouldn’t speak afore, for until I knew as I’d come back safe and able to take her as wife I felt as I had no right.  Now all is set right, I’ve spoken, and she’s answered me.”

            Lily Cotton spoke also.  “Tom and me, we’d been wonderin’ as why Sam hadn’t spoken; but once we realized he’d done so that he not bind her to him when there was a chance he might not return, and he’d not leave her a widow with barely the chance to know life as a bride and wife, we are right proud of his thoughtfulness and the level of responsibility as he’s shown.”

            No one else could think of a reason to object, and when he was convinced the question had been addressed adequately by bride and groom and Rosie’s family, Frodo looked about the company, then nodded.  “As bride, groom, and their families hold no further concerns on this, and as no other possible objections have been spoken, then it is in gladness I continue.”

            He turned to bride and groom.  “It is no light thing to marry, for marriage is not simple.  From this day, the bride’s first commitment is to her husband and the children they may bring into this world; and the groom’s first commitment is to his bride and the children she may bear him.  You must not let others come between you--not brothers or sisters or parents or friends.  You must bear with one another’s weaknesses and rejoice in one another’s strengths.  You must seek to keep your own tempers in hand, and discern between your frustrations at life and your feelings toward the one you take as spouse this day.  You must support one another as you can, even when illness and want strike.  In this way you are better able to offer the help you can to kindred, neighbors, and others in need.  Do you understand all of this?”

            As bride and groom indicated their understanding, Frodo smiled.  “Then rejoice, for if you are willing to accept this and to turn first to one another, then you are indeed ready to marry.”  He took the right hand of each and laid them together.  “Samwise Gamgee, do you not only love this Hobbitess, but respect her?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Do you wish to have her ever by your side for the time granted you together?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Are you willing to keep your commitment to her even when others might seek to draw you away?”

            “Yes, I am.”

            “Will you do your best ever to see to it that she and those children born to you are well provided for, and that none want for shelter, food, clothing, or love?”

            “Yes, I will.”

            “Will you do your best not to diminish her dowry so that if you should be taken before her time, she and those dependent on the two of you will not be left in want?”

            “I so promise.”

            “Will you refrain from loosing your temper at her and your family?”

            “Yes, to the best of my ability.”

            “Will you do your best to respect her love for the family who raised and love her?”

            “Yes, I will.”

            He took their left hands and laid them together, crossing them over the clasped right hands.  “Rosie Cotton, do you not only love this gentlehobbit, but also respect him?”

            Her voice was steady and gentle.  “Yes I do.”

            “Do you wish to have him ever by your side for the time granted you together?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Are you willing to keep your commitment to him even when others might seek to draw you away?”

            “Yes, I am.”

            “Will you do your best ever to see to it that he and those children born to you are well cared for, and that none want for shelter, food, clothing, and love?”

            “Yes, I will.”

            “Will you do your best not to diminish his earnings or your dowry so that if you should be taken before his time, he and those dependent on the two of you will not be left in want?”

            “I so promise.”

            “Will you refrain from loosing your temper at him and your family?”

            “Yes, to the best of my ability.”

            “Will you do your best to respect his love for the family who raised and love him?”

            “Yes, I will.”     

            “Are you willing to enter his family and accept the added family ties and responsibilities so granted to you, and not to abuse them?”

            “Yes, I am.”

            Again Frodo smiled.  He took the braided cord out of his pocket, and holding it up he addressed the company.  “As you have all heard, we who are now known as the Travelers have sojourned amongst the Dúnedain of Gondor and Arnor, the descendants of the people of the Kings of the greater realm of which our land is part.  We have been companions of the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, the King Returned, Lord of both the Northern and Southern Kingdoms.  While we were with the King we attended his own wedding, and that of the Lord Prince Steward Faramir of Gondor to his wife, the Lady Éowyn, sister of Éomer, King of Rohan.  Our King and Queen have sent this cord to be used in the ceremony binding Sam to Rosie as husband and wife, in keeping with the customs by which they themselves were married.  Both bride and groom have agreed to this change in our ceremony out of respect for the wishes of our Lord and Lady.”

            He then turned to Rosie and Sam.  “Samwise Gamgee, you have chosen to take Rosie Cotton to wife.  Do you do this full willing, in joy and delight in her and your choosing?”

            Sam answered, his voice fervent, “I most certainly and gladly do.”

            “Rosie Cotton, you have chosen to take Samwise Gamgee as your husband.  Do you do this full willing, in joy and delight in him and your choosing?”

            She answered, “Oh, yes, I surely do.”

            “So be it then.  Let all bear witness these two take one another full willing, in delight, before all this company and the witness of the Maiar, Valar, and the Creator.  Let all see them this day handfasted together.”  So saying, he looped the cord around their joined hands.  “In token of the promises you have made to one another before this company, we now bind your hands together.”  Having drawn the loop tight and loosely knotted it, he indicated they should turn to the company.  “See them bound now, one to the other, bound in body and spirit, to rejoice with one another, to grieve with one another, to serve alongside one another, to give and receive from one another, to survive both the harmony and the disagreements they will know, from this day forth until death alone breaks this bond.  Do all see and agree?”

            Merry and Pippin led the rest in the response, “Yes.”

            He touched their shoulders, and they turned back to him. 

            “So it will be, then,” Frodo said as he unbound the cord and draped it over his arm.  “As you have chosen to exchange marriage tokens, let it be done now.”

            Merry handed the ring he held to Sam, who took it and slipped it on the ring finger of Rosie’s left hand as had Aragorn with Arwen.  “Rosie, I take you as my wife, now and for the rest of our lives; and I pledge myself to you alone.”

            Rosie accepted the ring Marigold held.  She took a deep breath.  Frodo had advised her she might use whatever words she wished at this time, and he wondered what she would say.  She looked into Sam’s eyes.  “Sam, I take you as my husband.  It’s been a long wait for this, but I’ve waited as patient as I could.  And it’s been worth it.  I’ll never love anyone else as I’ve loved you and as I’ll love you from now on.”  She put the ring on his left hand. 

            Frodo felt the intense pride again, and again a pain in his chest which seemed to spread to his shoulder.  Sam was smiling at Rosie, holding her hand, and she was looking up into his eyes, her own expression tremulous.  Again Frodo closed his eyes and took careful breaths, then opened them again to say quietly, “Then it is my honor--it is my honor to pronounce you husband and wife.”  They looked at him briefly, then turned their eyes back to one another, and very gently they kissed, then kissed again, more deeply.  Frodo felt the temptation to laugh gently, but knew he couldn’t through the pain, although it was again waning.  When again they pulled apart, searching one another’s eyes, Frodo announced, “Behold the new husband and the new wife!  And may the Powers and the Creator smile on them ever.”

            Again Sam and Rosie looked at him, and then Sam, whose left arm was still about Rosie, reached out his right one to embrace Frodo, and immediately Rosie was putting her own arm about him as well.  Frodo’s face paled further, although there were faint pink spots on his cheeks.  Sam murmured gently, “Thank you, Frodo.  Thank you, Master.”

            Frodo said softly, “To see you so happy brings me joy, my Sam, Rosie.”  He carefully pulled away.  “Today is for the two of you.”  He stepped back, offering a silent prayer that the two of them would find a lifetime of joy together.  He moved to the table and signed the marriage contract, then opened the registry book he was required to keep for the weddings he performed.  Others were moving toward bride and groom to embrace them and wish them well as he leaned on the table until the weakness again passed.  Finally he was able to straighten, and as the others finally moved back Sam and Rosie came with their attendants to sign the document and the book, followed by Merry and Estella, Young Tom and Marigold as primary witnesses.  Then the contract was signed by Fredegar, Ham, and Hal as the final three witnesses,

            Frodo took it and held it until he judged the ink was dry, then rolled it as he’d seen Elrond do in Minas Tirith and bound the cord about it, tying the complex knot as Aragorn had insisted he learn to do during one evening in Edoras after the marriage of Faramir and Éowyn.  As he did so he smiled, thinking of the wiliness of his friend who was now his King as well, making certain Frodo was ready to integrate Dúnedain custom into Shire ceremonies.  Once the knot was tied he held the contract out and indicated Sam should place his right hand on one side of the cord, then that Rosie should do the same on the other side, withdrawing his own hand.

            “Your lives will now be more complicated in many ways, and simpler in others,” Frodo counseled them.  “I cannot foresee much of what you will know, but I do know that there will be the days of anger as well as the days of happiness; there will be quarrels as well as delight between you.  You will often be tired, sometimes too tired to finish all you would prefer to see done.  This is simply the way life is, after all.  The Dúnedain say that the use of the many colors in the cord reflects all the moods you will know, the kinds of days you will know, the days of joy and the days of frustration, the days of peace and the days of grief.  I know, however, that the love you are willing to continue to share with one another will aid you in getting through them all.  And in the end you will find that even the days of greatest sorrow are still blessed, for nothing worthwhile lasts forever in this world, yet is still renewed beyond the bounds of Arda.”  He looked deeply into Sam’s eyes, hoping to plant the seed of acceptance that his own love would never fail them in the gardener’s heart.  “May Iluvatar bless you both,” he whispered to them alone.  He took the contract from them and entrusted it to Merry to hold until the new husband and wife could see it properly placed, then turned away to the garden bench where he sat, leaning forward, his left forearm lying along his leg, his right hand rubbing at his shoulder.

            Brendi saw the paleness and the hint of pain he couldn’t completely hide, and went inside to find a clean mug, then filled it with the last of the tea from the blue pitcher, setting the empty pitcher in the sink.

82

            Among the last to arrive for the wedding were Folco Boffin and his cousin Narcissa and her mother Ivy.  They found themselves standing rather back in the crowd of onlookers, and could see little enough of the principals.  Narcissa looked amazed at Merry and Pippin, and whispered, “How tall they’ve grown while they were gone!” into Folco’s ear.  “What happened to them, do you know?”

            He whispered back, “They say that they met some kind of tree folk in a great forest who had some kind of magic drink that helps the tree folk to grow--or maybe it helps their trees to grow--I’m not completely certain how it works.  Merry and Pippin drank it, not realizing how it would work on Hobbits, and they found they were starting to grow again until they’re now even taller than Frodo.”

            Narcissa thought the comments about “Lord Samwise” were some odd kind of private joke between Frodo and Sam, and privately found them rather in poor taste for a wedding.  That Rosie also used the address confused her, but then she forgot about it as now they were all using just “Samwise” as was proper.  The addition of the bit using the multicolored cord in binding the hands she found she actually liked, finding the language used here odd yet moving.  And certainly what she could see of bride and groom indicated they were at ease with this, and that they were indeed rejoicing that the day of their marriage, so long anticipated throughout the region of the Hill, had finally come.  As for their kiss--it was beautiful, as was the three-Hobbit hug that followed it.  That there was a special friendship between Frodo Baggins and his gardener had long been recognized, and was now officially acknowledged by all.

            But she couldn’t see Frodo clearly until he’d moved to the table where the marriage contract apparently lay by a flickering candle in a glass jar.  She wondered at the inclusion of the candle on such a bright day, then again forgot about it as at last she focused on Frodo. 

            She was shocked, for he was very pale and far thinner than she remembered him being.  Yet he stood with the same grace she’d always known in him, and once again she found her heart stirred by the mere sight of him.  She’d known him all her life, although until he moved to Bag End she’d seen him rarely enough.  She’d loved him since the year before he came to Hobbiton from Brandy Hall, from the first time she saw him dancing with the other tween lads behind the ale tent at the Free Fair at Michel Delving.

            After the wedding was finished all moved down to the Party Field.  Sharkey had ordered the Party Tree cut down, and it had lain there, its leaves going limp and dead, for three weeks before the Travelers returned from their journey.  Now a strange young tree grew there where the oak had stood, one with silver bark, golden-green leaves, and golden blossoms.  Many went forward to examine it curiously, and she heard Sam explaining it was a mallorn tree, a special Elven tree which grew only one other place in all of Middle Earth, in the hidden Elven land of Lothlorien where the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn ruled.

            More interest, however, was given to the tables of food and drink, and then to the dancing.  She danced with Folco, then looked around for Frodo, and saw him sitting at one of the tables, watching the others dance with what seemed to her to be a look of longing in his eyes.  She wondered that he didn’t break down and ask one of the lasses to dance with him--he was well known to be among the most gifted of dancers the Shire had ever produced, after all.  But before she could go to him Berilac Brandybuck had asked her to dance, and when she looked again Frodo had disappeared.  No, he wasn’t among the dancers, and she wondered where he’d gone.

            She finally turned down an invitation by one of the Cotton lads, and spotted Fredegar Bolger sitting in the shade of one of the pavilions.  She was amazed to be able to recognize him, for he certainly could no longer be referred to as “Fatty,” as slender as he now was.  He now looked much like Frodo had looked before he mysteriously left the Shire.  He was, she realized, a fine figure of a Hobbit, far finer than she’d ever thought to imagine hid within the fat he used to carry.  She made her way to him and flopped beside him as if exhausted by the dancing she’d already done.  “A beautiful wedding,” she murmured.

            He nodded his agreement.  “Indeed, not that I’d expect any less from a wedding conducted by our cousin Frodo,” he commented.

            “He certainly lost a good deal of weight,” she continued.

            “Yes, and unlike me, he could ill afford to do so,” he replied.

            “Do you know why?”

            He shrugged.  “Apparently where he and Sam ended up going they had a difficult time finding proper food and water.”

            “Then why did they go there?”

            He shook his head.

            “Do you know where he’s gone now, Freddy?”

            “No, I didn’t even notice him leaving.  I’ve been looking for him during the last dance, but he’s apparently slipped away.”

            “Would you like to dance the next one with me?” she asked him.

            He slowly and sadly shook his head.  “I can’t dance any but the slowest dances,” he admitted.  “My heart was damaged by the near starvation I suffered, or so the healers tell me.  Oh, I’m not really ill,” he hastened to reassure her, “but neither am I as I was before I was imprisoned, and they tell me I must never allow myself to gain so much weight again, or it would likely kill me.”  He sighed.  “I actually find I don’t really mind as much as I’d once thought I would.  I find I can move more easily now and have actually more endurance for a number of things than I used to, although I am not to work strenuously or allow myself to grow very upset.  Some days, though, I think the constant reminders not to let my emotions run away with me are more upsetting than allowing myself a good fit of anger.”  He smiled at her, and she found herself returning the smile.

            Then Brendilac Brandybuck was approaching her and asked if she’d dance with him, and with a nod to Freddy she joined Brendi in the area set off for the dancers.  Merry was dancing with Estella Bolger, and now Beri was dancing with his cousin Melilot, while she noted that Freddy’s eyes seemed fixed on Melilot and was watching her with admiration.  Then the swirl of the dancing moved her further away, and she saw Sam dancing with Rosie, his expression filled with a single-minded tenderness of focus.  Both Rosie and Sam seemed to be positively glowing with delight, Narcissa thought.

            It was late afternoon before she saw Frodo again, now walking slowly down the steps from the smial to the lane, then to the Party Field again, in conversation with Brendi and Freddy.  Then he was being drawn aside by the Master and the Thain, and she could tell both Saradoc and Paladin were as concerned by the extreme slenderness of their younger cousin as she was.  He was apparently fending off their questions and inquiries as to his well-being, however; and she saw him next on the other side of the field, sitting in a chair which had been procured from somewhere, watching the party, his eyes sad again, although he was clearly watching the dancing with admiration and appreciation for the skill of dancers and musicians.

            Then Pippin had borrowed a flute and began playing a lively song Bilbo had written, and Frodo joined Merry and Brendi and Isumbard in the singing of it.  The next tune Pippin played, however, was quite different, and after repeating the first few measures, Frodo and Sam began to sing the words, the clear voice of Frodo Baggins and the deeper one of Samwise Gamgee filling the waning afternoon with wonder.  They weren’t singing in the Common Tongue, and she found herself wondering what the song was about.  Something about growing things, she finally decided, although she couldn’t say exactly why she thought that.

            Soon after, the guests began taking their leave, and her mother was indicating she wished to return home before sundown.  They took their leave of bride and groom, and finally she found herself close to Frodo.

            “Good night, Frodo,” she said, and he looked at her and paused a bit, as if remembering something. 

            “It was good of you to have come, Narcissa, Cousin Ivy, Folco,” he said.  “Give my love to your mother, Folco.  I’m so glad she appears relieved to have a home once more.”

            “I will, Frodo,” Folco told him,

            And then they were going through the gate into the lane and turning toward home in Overhill.  She looked back and saw Frodo standing, still and shining in his garb of dark silver with the soft blue shirt.  She sighed.  He had always been strikingly good looking--now, in spite of his thinness he was somehow even more attractive--to her, at least.  She wished she’d had the chance to speak to him for any length of time.

*******

            After Narcissa was drawn away by Brendi, Fredegar Bolger had set off deliberately to find his cousin Frodo.  He finally determined that Frodo was no longer in the Party Field, so he went up the lane to Bag End and went in, finally finding Frodo sitting, of all places, in the second parlor, which had almost never been used by either Frodo or Bilbo.  He sat in one of the stiff chairs which stood there, his face markedly pale and almost colorless, rubbing at his shoulder.

            “Are you ill, Frodo?” Freddy asked.

            Frodo looked up, startled.  He started to deny it, then looked away.  “It’s nothing--just my shoulder again.  It hurts often enough.”

            “You could have danced.  Narcissa was so hoping to have at least one dance with you, you know.”

            Frodo looked down at the floor and shrugged.  “I can’t really dance any more,” he said in a soft voice.

            “You can’t have forgotten how,” Freddy insisted.

            Frodo shook his head, glancing briefly sideways at his cousin before returning his attention to the floor again.  “No, I haven’t forgotten how--I--I just can’t--can’t sustain it any more.  I’m not as strong as I was,”

            “Have you danced since--since what it was you did?”

            Frodo’s nod, when it finally came, was reluctant.  “Yes, in Gondor.  But it was enough to show me I’ve not recovered, and am not likely to ever recover enough to dance as I used to do.  I danced the Husbandmen’s Dance for Aragorn and Arwen at their wedding feast, and afterwards I almost collapsed.”

            For a time Freddy thought on that, then said, “I’m sorry--you were always the best one to dance that, you know.”

            Frodo lifted one shoulder, and turned his attention further away.  Finally he said, his voice almost grudging, “It’s probably best I didn’t stay down there in the Party Field, for I’d have terribly disappointed Narcissa.  She deserves a partner who can keep up with her.”

            “In the old days it was hard to find any lass able to keep up with you, Frodo.”

            Frodo’s expression was somewhat twisted as he looked into the wine glass he took from the small table beside which he sat.  “As you said, that was in the old days.  Well, the old days are gone, and much of me with them.”  He turned to look directly at Freddy’s eyes.  “I was almost scoured out, Fredegar Bolger.  Almost completely scoured out.”

            “Pippin says--says that you almost didn’t come back.”

            Frodo again lifted a single shoulder.  “We all almost died out there, you know.  I, however, was the one who kept practicing to do it for real.  I didn’t quite believe, when I awoke, that I was alive, you see.  It was a bit of a shock to find I had survived after all.”  He sighed and finished the small amount of wine still left in the goblet.  “I suppose I should go down to be there when the guests leave.”  He rose slowly, and together they walked out of the second parlor.

            “So that’s where you’ve been,” Brendilac Brandybuck said as they entered the hallway.  “I remember Bilbo used to say that the only ones who found that room comfortable were the stiffest backed old hens the Shire produced.  You still not feeling good, Frodo?”

            Frodo sighed.  “I take it Uncle Sara sent you to search me out?”

            “And if he did?”

            “Well, I think I could face just him; but at the moment he comes paired with Uncle Paladin, and much as I love him and Aunt Lanti I am still trying to keep from being cornered by the two of them.”

            “Why?”

            “Neither is willing to listen, or to try to fill in for themselves what we can’t quite say.  Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme would be willing to do that, at least, although they do have the habit of trying to protect those they love nearly to the point of smothering.”

            Brendi found himself laughing.  “They do tend to do that at times, don’t they?  Although they aren’t quite as bad as Merry might make out.  But there was a reason why my father decided we’d move outside the Hall.”

            Frodo looked at him with interest.  “There was?  After me were you and your dad their next intended infants?”

            “Well, you remember how Dad slid down the bank to the Brandywine and broke his leg so nastily?  They kept folk with him twenty-four hours a day until he was ready to crawl into a storage hole to escape the unwanted forced company.”

            Frodo laughed.  “I’d wondered.”

            “Maybe,” Freddy suggested, “you should accept the extra coddling and go to Buckland in one of the wagons, though.”

            “I’m not helpless--I merely pushed myself too much yesterday and as a result my shoulder is aching today.  It’s been aching for a year and a half, and not even Aragorn or Lord Elrond could ease it much when it was insistent on hurting.  And I’m not going to push myself at all.  I intend to walk only until I am tired, and then I will camp.  I wish to have a bit of time to myself--just to myself.  So far I’m never completely on my own--there’s always Mina or Bard or the Cottons or Sam there to keep an eye on me, although I must say they do try to remain discrete about it so I don’t feel totally swaddled in wool batting.”

            “And who was it insisted Sam and Rosie move in with him so he wouldn’t be alone here in Bag End?” asked Brendi shrewdly.

            Frodo shook his head, but gave a laugh anyway.  “But I have a trip through the Westfarthing I hope to take soon to see some of my less notorious kin.  I need to build myself up to it.”

            “By walking clear across the Shire?”

            “It’s not as if I hadn’t done that before, particularly after walking so far across the whole of Middle Earth.”

            “But when you returned from that trip, you did it on pony back.  I note that healer King of yours didn’t want you walking back.  How long did it take you before you could walk from the center of his city to the outer gates?”

            Frodo’s cheeks flushed, while the rest of his face went paler.  By this time they were over halfway down the lane to the Party Field, and Saradoc and Paladin together were approaching them, intent on making their presence felt.

            He was pleased when Pippin borrowed the flute and began playing Bilbo’s drinking song--one of his more lively and suggestive ones.  Many eventually joined in with it, and Sam flushed as he laughed.  Then Pippin played the hymn to Yavanna that the Queen used to sing when she worked alongside her husband and Sam in the gardens, and Sam and Frodo found themselves singing it together.  It was marvelous to sing it once again.  When they were done Frodo went to the edge of the field to nod to the departing guests and accept their best wishes for Sam and Rosie, who were just returning to the hole, and suddenly there were Folco, Narcissa, and Ivy.

            For a fourth time since the destruction of the Ring, Frodo Baggins felt an immediate attraction to Narcissa Boffin, one which was different from that he’d felt for Linneth in Minas Tirith or the Lady Éowyn or the Lady Arwen Undomiel.  What he felt for them was, he knew, a fascination for the purely beautiful and exotic (for Hobbits, anyway), and the unattainable.  This was a deeper thing, a completion of sorts of the stirring he’d begun to know years ago when he’d finally gotten over his love for Pearl Took and had noticed the love in Narcissa’s eyes and had found himself responding to it--until the next time after Bilbo’s leaving when, with It in his pocket, he found himself tempted to do quite ungentlehobbitly things to her.  Shocked at those feelings, he’d found himself wanting to cringe away from her, a reaction he knew would hurt her deeply.  Instead he had carefully schooled his features to a correct expression of cool disinterest, a response that in time became his standard reaction to lovely Hobbitesses who tried to catch his eye, or who had done so unwittingly.  He’d remained unaware of the fact that this disinterest had hurt her also, a situation the Ring Itself had found amusing. 

            The habit of responding in this fashion he found, to his shame, lingered; but what interest could he show her now, after ignoring her for so long, and considering the state of his health both mentally and physically?  No lass should have to deal with his feelings of guilt, his swift changes of mood, his physical weakness....

            One more time the Ring, though It was now gone, triumphed at stilling desire for that kind of love in Frodo Baggins; and when he finally started on his walking trip to Buckland Frodo found himself purposely putting thoughts of the beauty of Narcissa’s smile from his mind, forcing himself to attend instead to how much growth the trees and flowers Sam had planted were showing along the way.

*******

            Mina had followed the wedding of Sam and Rosie with deep interest.  That Sam and Rosie had agreed to the changes in the ceremony for the King’s sake was interesting, and she found the Gondorian elements fascinating, from the binding of the hands to the holding of the rolled and tied marriage contract.  She heard the tenderness of Frodo’s voice, saw the fascination in Rosie’s eyes, the gentleness in Sam’s expression as he looked between his bride and his friend.  And she caught, in a moment of distraction as Ivy Boffin drew her daughter after her, a moment when Frodo looked after Narcissa with a look of distinct longing--a look he rapidly schooled away.

            For over twenty years Frodo Baggins had danced the Husbandmen’s Dance yearly at the Free Fair in Michel Delving, until at last a frustrated Ivy Boffin demanded he not be allowed to dance again considering how his lack of response to the love her daughter showed him--or any other lass, for that matter--apparently left those roused by his skill and grace heartbroken.  Mina had been angry for her cousin’s son; but as she had watched him walk about the Shire apparently blind to the attempts of any lass to catch his eye after Bilbo left him master of Bag End, she had to agree Ivy had a point.  Eventually the other Hobbitesses gave up even trying to draw his attention, but it had appeared Narcissa’s heart was totally focused on Frodo to the exclusion of all others.

            Frodo now stood at the gate to the Party Field, for Sam’s sake making many variations on the theme of Thank you for coming.  He was particularly pale again, she noted, and she sighed, for she suspected he was going through another of his bad patches.  But as she and Will made their own farewells she privately made up her mind to speak with him when he returned from his walking holiday to Buckland.

*******

            Lily Cotton was watching Frodo as well, and as had Mina she realized that, in spite of his obvious joy at officiating at Sam and Rosie’s marriage, this was not a particularly good day for him.  Lily had known for years that Samwise Gamgee had pledged a good portion of his large heart to the young Master at Bag End; now that Frodo had spent so long on the Cotton farm she began to realize why.  There was something about Frodo that drew love and caring, which made folk desire to stand by him and protect him as they could. 

            It was not as one-sided a phenomenon as it might have been, she realized, for Mr. Frodo gave the same consideration to others as well.  He was aware of the most minute interests and needs of those he was about, and often he had paused to speak with young Nibs, only to have the young Hobbit confess to him hopes and longings he’d not confided to anyone else, not even his adored older sister, much less either of his parents.  When Frodo came to stay at the farm, Young Tom had been reserved at first, a reserve that was much based on a level of envy Tom felt for the unique relationship his best friend shared with his master to the exclusion of all others.  By the end of the second week, however, Tom was going out of his way to draw Frodo’s smiles of approval, and he’d appeared much steadied by the older Hobbit’s attention and advice.  Jolly was quickly drawn to do more of his crafts work in Frodo’s presence, and the deputy Mayor’s appreciation of Jolly’s talent and skill was unfeigned.  As for Rosie--her growing regard for Frodo Baggins had come to rival Sam’s own, in spite of the concerns and hurt she’d felt when Sam had left the Shire without warning, following Frodo into unknown dangers.

            Lily and her husband had always liked Frodo, but had recognized a level of reserve in him that bordered on a shyness both found surprising and somehow endearing as well.  Before the Travelers left the Shire he’d come to the farm with Sam on occasion, would pitch in with a will at the harvests, would do anything asked of him with full willingness and a quiet competence; and his grace at dancing and his attractions as a storyteller had been greatly honored and appreciated.  On the return, however, he’d proven the most changed of the four, obviously recovering from deep hurts, willing to tell almost any tale except for the darker ones of what had caused him so much pain while he was gone.  He was weaker than he’d been, and tired so easily, was often withdrawn and, Lily had come to understand, in great pain he made efforts to hide from others that he not burden then with his own discomfort.

            She realized that Frodo managed to somehow bring out the best in her children, her husband, in Sam, and in herself as well.  She found herself in awe of this apparently unconscious talent in him.  Only two things disturbed her about him--his increasing hiding of his pain and weakness, and his continued lack of response to the specific awareness of him many of Rosie’s female friends and other Hobbitesses showed him as an available and attractive gentlehobbit who ought to be finding a love of his own.  She, too, intended to speak to him of how unfair he was being to himself and particularly Narcissa Boffin, who’d loved him so for at least three decades.

            Yes, she thought, the next time she had occasion to be alone with him she would have more than a few words with him.

83

            Sam and Rosie watched after Frodo as he walked down the Hill.  Sam felt unease about his master, but recognized he could not forbid Frodo to do as he pleased.  He found himself quietly invoking the Valar to keep Frodo safe.

            The Sun set and the last of their families left, and finally Sam and Rosie were able to retreat into Bag End and close the door behind them.  Catching Rosie’s eyes, Sam’s fears for Frodo were forgotten, and he smiled.  “I think, Missus Gamgee, as we’re alone now,” he said.  He took a long breath and examined her closely.  “Missus Gamgee--I never thought when we was goin’ through Mordor as I’d ever be able to say that to you, you know.  And now--” his eyes examined her with a sense of wonder, “--now we’re married--really married.  You’re my wife!”  He reached out a tentative hand and stroked the side of her face, his smile broadening, and a matching smile mirrored his on her face.

            Suddenly he was reaching for her and pulling her to him, and they kissed, then kissed more deeply--and more deeply still.  When she murmured, “My Sam!” and initiated the next kiss he began breathing more heavily.

            Rosie was surprised when, during a moment taken for both of them to breathe freely and look on one another once more, he pulled back and his face grew solemn and even concerned.  “Rosie--Rosie, I’ve tried to tell you as what we did, for if we’re to be husband and wife, you really need to know.”  She nodded.  He drew her into the parlor and he sat down on the comfortably soft narrow sofa that stood to the left of the fireplace, then pulled her down onto his lap, giving a jolt of surprise to realize how much he wanted to consummate their marriage right then; but he had one more thing to prepare her for.  “Rosie, you know as I told you I was hurt a few times, and you--you can’t of ignored the scars on my forehead.”

            “And the one on the side of your head as well, Sam.”

            His nod was just slightly delayed.  “Well, my Rose-bud, I have a few more.  Mine’s not as bad as the ones Merry and Pippin have, and nowhere near as bad as the ones as Mr. Frodo has--but I have ’em, and they’re bad enough.  The ones on my forehead--one was where I was grazed by an orc sword in Moria.  The other is from when I fell when that Gollum tried to knock me out with a rock so as he could get to Frodo to take the Ring from him.  The one on the side of the head--that’s where he actually hit me with that rock.”  She nodded her understanding.

            “I got several from when I’d fall in Mordor, especial when I fell on the side of the Mountain of Fire.  And there’s some from where hot ash fell on me and burned me.  That’s most on my back and my feet and my arms.”  Again she nodded.  “I was bit twice by that Gollum, once on my left shoulder, and the other time on the right side, close to my neck.  Was tryin’ to bite my throat out, he was.”  She turned rather pale.

            “Then there’s the ones on my legs on the fronts from when I was crawlin’ on the side o’ the mountain aside Frodo, part of the time with him on my back, even.  And--and I have places on the backs o’ my legs and my behind where I was hit with a whip by one o’ them orcs, the slavedrivin’ one I’d hoped to be able to kill.  I suppose as he is dead now, and good riddance.  What he did to me was bad enough--but he kept hittin’ my Master, again and again, seein’ as he was havin’ difficulty in keepin’ up, like.  Oh, I wanted to strangle him, or take his whip away from him and drive it down his throat--make him eat it if I could.”

            “Why are you tellin’ me this, Sam?” she asked.

            “The scars--they’re not as bad as they was, but--but they’re right ugly anyways.  I just think as you should know afore you have to see them.  If you want the lights out so as you don’t have to see ’em--well, I’ll understand.”

            She sighed.  “Samwise Gamgee, you and Master Frodo--you went to the ends of the earth and back to help protect us all.  You think as I don’t want you however you look, as long as I’ve waited for you to speak?  And you think as I’d be disgusted by some scars as I know show just how brave and how much of a hero as you are?  Think again.  I know as how them scars was got, and I’ll be proud of every one of them.  I’ll be proud of them ’cause I know as how they was got and ’cause I’m proud of the Hobbit as carries them.”  She ran her finger down the side of his cheek, and he flushed, his attention focused fully on her.  She leaned forward to kiss him again, and he kissed her back.  She rose, and taking his hand, pulled him to his feet, leading him back through the smial to the master bedroom, now theirs.

            The room was full of flowers, and before leaving Lily had come in and lit the lamp and candles about the room.  Frodo had come here before taking his goblet of wine to the second parlor, having decided to change the blankets on the bed for two of those sent by Lord Halladan.  These were beautiful things in golden brown shot through with twists of many colors in the threads used in the weaving of them, and Rosie looked on them in delight.  A bottle of wine and two glasses sat on a tray on the desk with a platter of early fruit and candies.  The light caught the facets of the crystal set into the star carved by Gimli on the mantel and sparkled on the panes of the round window.  Rosie and Sam stood, side by side, looking about the room which had been fitted for their habitation, and they slipped arms around one another’s waist.  Finally they looked once more at one another, and again their attention was caught.  Again they were embracing and kissing, and they were beginning to allow their hands to caress and explore.

            At length Sam asked, huskily, “Shall I put out the lights, dearling?”

            Slowly but definitely, Rosie responded, “No.  I need to see them.  They’re part of you, after all, and are the proof of your courage.”

            As he removed his waistcoat and vest he said, “I wasn’t always brave--I was right scared a good bit of the time.”

            “Did it ever stop you from doin’ what needed doing?”

            “No.”

            She smiled.  “That’s real courage, you know, Samwise Gamgee--doin’ what’s needed in spite of bein’ scared witless.”  He flushed a bit, but his eyes were shining.

            She had stripped to her shift and sat on one side of the bed when at last he indicated he was ready.  She gestured for him to come stand before her and looked at him, smiling in response to the flush he again was showing.  He stood tall, however.  She reached out and touched the scars caused by falls and from crawling over the coarse yet sharp cooled lava and ash of Mount Doom, and he found himself responding with a surprising degree of pleasure.  Her eyes widened somewhat, but she felt she needed to see all first, and at last indicated he should turn around.

            She could definitely see scars from a few of the whip weals, and she again reached out to gently touch them, seeing them, accepting them, resenting the one who’d done this to her Sam, loving him for having borne them as bravely as she knew he must have in order not to have been found out and taken prisoner at the time.  She rose and examined the bite on the shoulder and again caressed it, then walked about him to look at the one closer to the neck itself, took him in her arms, leaning forward to kiss it, to imbue it with her own love that from now on he would associate it not with Gollum’s hatred but her joy in him....

            “Oh, Rosie!”  His voice was even more husky, and she could feel just how much her kiss filled him with desire.   He was loosening the lacing on her shift, was kissing her more deeply.

            She was suddenly filled with an intense sensation of triumph.  She’d married him, this beautiful, dear, sometimes foolish, loyal, brave Hobbit--he was hers now!

*******

            “You found him at the Maggot’s farm?” Esmeralda asked.

            “Yes, and it appears he’d been on the verge of collapse when they found him,” Saradoc answered her.

            She looked past him to where Frodo sat with Brendilac and Beri and Merimas near the fire in the main sitting room, a goblet of wine in his hand, a small plate with a slice of roasted beef between slices of bread by him, his eyes alight with interest as he listened to the story Merimas was telling of the landing of the great salmon he’d hooked the preceding week.  Other than the fact he’d wrapped the shawl that was draped over his chair about him and that his face looked, if possible, even thinner than it had at the wedding of Sam and Rosie a few days earlier, there was little enough to indicate he wasn’t in fairly decent health.

            Little enough, she reflected, other than the aura of transparency and increased fragility that lay on him.  She’d never seen him as he appeared now, even when as a child he’d all but collapsed on learning of his parents’ deaths.  Then she and Sara had been concerned for his health, considering the news he had a whispering in his heart often tied to fragile health and premature mortality.

            Well, he truly appeared fragile now, once one looked closely at him.  But she and Sara had learned the hard way that the quickest way to drive him into a decline was to appear to be trying to protect him.  She’d not make that mistake again, particularly as they’d found Merry had also responded by withdrawing when they’d been too protective of him.  Frodo had given Merry and Pippin the Crickhollow house to stay in, and the two of them had retreated there.  She and Sara had to admit all four of them had been badly hurt in ways they couldn’t yet appreciate.  Sara was trying to understand, but was finding it hard to do properly.

            She must face it--none of them really understood what had been done out there in the outer world by their son, their nephew, their cousin and former ward, and Samwise Gamgee.  They’d read the dispatches sent them by the King and found they beggared the imagination.  Sam was a dear lad and both wise and responsible beyond his station, they knew; how was it he and Frodo had been declared Lords of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth?  And what were Ents and Ent draughts, and how had the latter served to cause their son and nephew to grow so far beyond what was normal for Hobbits of the Shire?

            Merry and Pippin spoke so easily of Dúnedain and coronations and the Great Eagles, of Bilbo’s spiders being but a shadow compared to one which had reportedly threatened Frodo and Sam.  In Bilbo’s stories had appeared a magic ring which he said made him invisible.  So funny and advantageous a thing it had been in those stories; so funny to think of Bilbo, wearing it, leading foolish and evil spiders the size of ponies off into the darkness of the forest of Mirkwood, chasing a taunting voice whose source they couldn’t see.

            Now she was expected to believe this fabled ring of invisibility which no one had ever seen was not only real, but far more, the Ring of Power spoken of in the old story of Elendil and Isildur, the one cut from the hand of the Enemy by Isildur using the hilt of his father’s broken sword?  And she was expected to accept that that story, also, was not just a great and rousing adventure, but fact, that Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam had seen that broken sword both broken and reforged; had traveled with its bearer, the heir of Elendil and Isildur himself; had seen him evolve from a wanderer to the King Returned?  She looked again beyond her husband at her beloved cousin Frodo, and shook her head in amazement.

            Then there was a noise at the door as Merry and Pippin entered, tall and laughing, their eyes alight to see Frodo sitting near the fireplace.  “So you managed to convince Sam to let you go after all, did you?” Merry was asking.  “I didn’t think that he’d really let you go so quickly.”

            Frodo shook his head.  “I rather insisted, I fear.  After all, it was their wedding night.  The last thing they needed was to be distracted by the old Hobbit bachelor in the next room.  They deserve a bit of privacy to learn to accept one another as husband and wife.  After all, Pippin kept even Belveramir from entering Aragorn’s chambers when he and the Lady Arwen were first wed.”

            Pippin laughed.  “And most disgruntled he was at that.  I know he said he’d just leave the wine he’d brought on the table in their sitting room, but I’m certain he hoped to lay his ear to the bedchamber doors to find which one they’d retreated to.”

            And then they were explaining, and as Esme drew her husband to join the younger Hobbits they were describing the wedding of the King and Queen, who Belveramir was and his former relationship to the King when long ago Aragorn had served in the armies of Gondor under an assumed name, the finding of the small sapling of the White Tree of Gondor and its planting before the Citadel....

            But as the talk continued Frodo was allowing the descriptions increasingly to be given by Merry and Pippin, and more and more his own attention was being drawn to the flickering light in the fireplace.  He would pick up the bread and meat from time to time and take a bite, then would set it back down.  He nursed his wine for quite some time.  Finally, when at last a lull ensued in the talk he excused himself and went to the room which had been his here in the Hall since his parents’ deaths.

            When Esmeralda looked into that room an hour later, bringing with her a cup of perry, a glass of water, and a plate of crackers and fruit, he was asleep.  He’d left a lamp burning, and the book lying now on the rug by the bed indicated he’d fallen asleep while reading.  She came to blow out the lamp, but was arrested by this close view of his face, pale, thin and drawn, a line of pain between his eyebrows which wasn’t fully eased by sleep. 

            She felt a wrench in her heart as her attention focused on the right hand which lay, palm up, on the blanket near where the book had slid to the floor, seeing the gap there where his ring finger was definitely missing.  His left hand lay against his breast, appeared to be closed about that pendant he’d worn the few times she’d seen him.  She wondered what it meant, much less who’d given it to him and why.

            Finally she blew out the lamp, and reflected moonlight filled the narrow bed, reflecting from his white nightshirt and his pale skin.

            “Sleep well, dearling,” she murmured as she went out and pulled the door closed behind her.

84

            Two weeks later a general meeting was arranged in Michel Delving for the major farmers and millers in the Shire.  Embilard of the North Tooks had come from the Long Cleeves in the Northfarthing with representatives of the other major farming families such as the Banks and Sandheavers; the Goolds, Longbottoms, Bracegirdles, and Hornblowers had come from the Southfarthing; the Maggots and a few other families from the Marish had sent representatives, as had the Underhills, Bolgers, Gravellies, Boffins, and Cottons of the Westfarthing, plus the Thain and Master.  Frodo had requested this meeting to discuss how farmers might work together to deal with loss of equipment taken and destroyed by Lotho’s gatherers and sharers, and how all would deal with the shortage of mills.

            The three days of meetings had gone well, and those who’d been able to retain, repair, or reclaim their equipment had readily agreed to share with those who were in need; meanwhile the Gravelly smith who fabricated the best farming tools in the Shire had agreed to coordinate with smiths and other toolmakers to see wagons, harrows, and heavier plows made available as soon as possible, many of them paid for through Lobelia’s reparations fund.

            After the rest of the convocation left to return to their own farms and properties, Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck accepted the hospitality of Paladin and Eglantine Took, and on their first evening were joined by Will and Mina Whitfoot for a formal dinner.

            The Thain’s private dining room was well lit, mirrors and silver brightly polished.  Merry and Pippin had gone out to Bree accompanied by Merimac Brandybuck and Reginard Took to meet with some of the Rangers of Arnor regarding a buildup of landless Men noted South of the Shire, and so were not with their parents, although Isumbard was there with Pearl, Ferdibrand with Pimpernel, and Pervinca with her husband Maligar Bolger, a nephew of Freddy’s father Odovacar.  The children weren’t in attendance this night, having all been invited to a birthday party elsewhere in the Great Smial.  At first the discussion centered on the meeting which had just been completed, but eventually it shifted to focus on Frodo.

            “I don’t understand why Frodo didn’t dance at Sam’s wedding,” Pearl said with regret.  “After all, that’s one of the things that he’s always loved most to do.”

            Mina was shaking her head.  “I don’t think as he can dance any more--or at least not anything strenuous or for very long.”

            “But why not?” Pearl demanded.

            “I think,” Mina answered slowly, carefully choosing her words, “that Frodo was too badly hurt out there.”

            “Hurt?”  Pearl was disbelieving.  “Who would hurt Frodo Baggins?”

            Mina shrugged.  “From what Bucca, Aster, and I can piece together, it was those Black Riders as chased them out of the Shire.  Certainly Frodo has the scars to show for it.”

            Esmeralda straightened.  “Scars?  What kinds of scars?”

            “All kinds.  Bucca says the ones on his back are from him being beaten; and the one on his shoulder looks to be painful.”

            “Someone beat him--Frodo?” asked Pervinca, her face white with shock.  “Why?”

            “We don’t know it all, for no one will tell us all of it.  He was stabbed in the shoulder a couple weeks after he left here, and almost died of it--that they all admit to.  He was beaten and bitten, and went without proper food and water for a time.  They all say as he almost died more than once, and that both he and Sam were almost dead when they were finally found after the win over Sauron.  Sam has almost completely recovered, but Frodo does his level best to hide he’s not really well, too.

            “Frodo is dedicated to finding out what happened here so as to make certain as it won’t happen again.  He’s helped examine every contract, marriage contract, will, certificate of birth or death, partnership agreement, article of apprenticeship, deed, sales documents, and so on as was brought or sent once Will was imprisoned.  He’s been investigating just how Lotho and Timono started with their odd contracts and agreements to get control of so much property.  He’s found when Timono and then Lotho met first with the Big Men as got him involved with that Sharkey.  He’s found how Timono and Lotho managed to get others to present Timono’s contracts as their own work so as folks wouldn’t read them too closely and realize they were being cheated.  He’s seen to it the worst of them are imprisoned, and with comfort, so as they can’t hurt others.  I can’t say as how many letters he’s written to the King telling him what he’s learned and how things are being set right.”

            Will nodded.  “He’s still the most responsible Hobbit the Shire’s ever produced, I swear.  He really cares for folks, and wants to see to it all are properly restored to what they need.  I’m nominating him to stand for election as Mayor this summer--I’m ready to retire and let him take over in his own right.  He’s thoughtful and knows how to ask for the help he needs and to appoint the best ones available to doing what needs doing as he can’t see to himself.  And even those as don’t particularly care for him will still do their level best not to disappoint him.”

            Esmeralda said softly, “I don’t understand just why he’s so weak and can’t eat properly.”

            Bard sighed.  “The last month before the victory over Sauron, Aunt Esme, Frodo and Sam were separated from the others.  They were mostly living on some kind of waybread the Elves gave them, for that was the most they could find to eat.  They had a time finding water, too.  It affected Frodo’s stomach, and he’s not been truly able to eat properly since.  He can’t eat food that’s too rich, and he can’t eat a lot at a time.  He often feels nauseous and just doesn’t want to eat.  Apparently the King is a healer and advised him that he should eat just a bit at a time every hour or two.  When he does that he starts feeling better generally pretty quickly, and then after a day or two he’ll be able to eat more at a time and at longer intervals.  But about every time he gets sick or really upset he seems to have to start all over again.  It makes him terribly frustrated.”

            Mina nodded her agreement.  “I’ve seen the same with him.  I try to make certain he has a bag of food he can eat with his fingers with him when he returns to Bywater or Hobbiton, but I’m not always certain he eats it.

            “And he’s not strong enough to dance any more, but he can still draw and sing and tell his stories.  He did a picture of the King to show Dianthus what he looks like, and there’s no question Frodo thinks the world of the Man, and that the King thinks the world of Frodo as well.”

            “They all think the world of the King,” Eglantine said.  “Pippin even mentions him and he’ll straighten right up.”

            “Where is Frodo tonight?” asked Paladin.

            “He’s performing a wedding at the Council Hole for Polo Boffin and Pansy Longsmial,” Mina said.  “I suspect Pansy’s mother will be complaining tomorrow ’cause Frodo didn’t eat that much.”

            “Peridot Longsmial was born to complain,” Will sighed.

            Saradoc asked, “Have you asked Frodo if he wants to stand for Mayor, Will?”

            “He’s the best Mayor the Shire has known, and he wasn’t even elected,” Will answered.  “Of course he’s going to stand for Mayor.”

            “You haven’t asked him, though?” Sara persisted.

            “Well, no, but he’s got to stand.”

*******

            The next week Frodo rode with Isumbard, Rosie, and Sam to the Cotton’s farm for Marigold and Young Tom’s wedding.  Sam stood by Young Tom, and Rosie by Marigold, and Frodo led the ceremony.  There was a wonderful feast afterward, and by the time the guests began leaving all were replete with excellent food and joy.

            Afterward Frodo went into the room in which he’d stayed to collect the last of his things he’d left there, and finally Lily was able to corner him.  “Hello, Mr. Frodo,” she said as she closed the door behind her, and he turned from where he’d been fishing a book of Elvish poetry out from under the bed.

            “Hello, Missus Cotton,” he answered, finally managing to get the book into his hands, rising slowly to his feet, and turning to sit on the bed.  “You wanted to speak with me?”

            “Yes, I did.”  She considered what she wanted to say, and at last commented, “It was a wonderful weddin’, as was Sam’s and Rosie’s.”

            He nodded.

            “When will it be your turn?”

            He didn’t answer, but she wouldn’t look away.  Finally she said, “You are one of the most wonderful of gentlehobbits as I’ve ever known, Mr. Frodo.  You are caring, thoughtful, intelligent, giving.  Once you could of had the pick of any lass in the Shire, and you know it.  I don’t think it’s that you--you prefer lads, for I’ve never seen any sign of that.  Yes, you’ve always been close to your younger cousins and Sam--but never have I ever seen a sign as you’ve ever----”

            His face had gone totally white except for the bright red spots on his cheeks.  “No,” he said with a very definite tone, “I’m not drawn by lads, and I’ve never touched any lad in that way, and never will.”

            “After seein’ how for years you was drawn to Miss Pearl, I didn’t think it likely.”

            He just looked at her, lifting his chin a bit.

            She sighed, for he wasn’t making it easy.  Finally she decided to be as direct as she could be.  “For all you’re thin as a lath, you’re still one of the most--handsome--of gentlehobbits as ever was in my memory.  And for all you’ve shown not the slightest interest in any lass since old Mr. Bilbo left, you still draw the eyes of the lasses and the ladies both.”

            Finally he turned his head away slightly, looking at the corner by the door.  Lily saw that he wasn’t bothering to try to hide either his tiredness or the grief he felt--and that grief was deep.  No, he was still drawn by the lasses, she realized with a sense of relief.

            “You always wanted to marry when you was younger, Mr. Frodo.”

            In a very soft voice he admitted, “Yes, I did want it.  I wanted it more than anything.”

            “And the day as Mr. Bilbo left you was finally lettin’ yourself look at the other lasses without the upset over Miss Pearl.  You was startin’ to smile into Miss Narcissa’s eyes, and seein’ what’d been right afore you for years--that she loves you with all her heart.”

            Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded.

            “What happened?”

            He turned to her, and she saw not just grief, but raw, bleeding pain in his eyes, and a level of suppressed fury that would have terrified her if it hadn’t been obvious that its object was definitely not her.  When he spoke it was plain he was holding that anger in check with difficulty.  “You know that--that I left the Shire to try to protect it?” he asked.

            “Yes, Sam’s told us as you had to get a dangerous thing out of it.”

            “Yes, I did.  A Ring Bilbo left to me, one Gandalf insisted he leave behind him for he was convinced it was causing him to change, was holding off proper aging, was causing him to begin losing himself.”

            “I’ve never seen him--or you--wear a ring.”

            He gave a short, bitter laugh.  “And if either of us had been foolish enough to put it on when we were in your presence, you’d not have seen us wearing it then, either.  For if we’d put it on, we’d have gone invisible.”

            “The ring of invisibility as he found in Gollum’s cave?” she asked.  “It was real?”

            He shivered.  “Real?  Oh, yes, It was real.  Very, very real.  Thank the Valar It’s gone now.”  He gave a deep, gasping breath.  “It’s gone.”  He looked back at the corner.  “Sam didn’t tell you what we learned It was, did he?”

            “Not really; just that it was somethin’ as Sauron wanted.”

            He glanced back to meet her eyes, then gave a sigh.  “Yes,” he said softly as he turned back to look again at the corner.  “Sauron did want it; oh, yes he did.  And Sharkey wanted it, too.”  He looked down at where his right hand lay on his knee, where they both could see the gap where the ring finger was missing.  Suddenly she understood.

            “You put it on, and someone found your hand in spite of the fact you was invisible, and cut it off you?” she asked.

            Very slowly he finally nodded.  “Except,” he said, “except he didn’t cut It off me--he--he bit It off me.”

            “Sweet sunshine!” she said, startled.

            He continued looking at the gap for a moment, then slowly raised his head to look into her eyes.  His expression had a degree of blankness to it she’d never seen in him before.  “Have you ever heard the tale of the first defeat of Sauron, when Gil-galad died, and Elendil the Tall?”

            She thought, then nodded.  “I member hearing old Mr. Bilbo tellin’ that when I was a lass; and then when Sam was learnin’ to read he brought a book about it here and read it to the bairns.  Was right proud as he could read it, and that Mr. Bilbo trusted him with that book.  Read it to all of ’em, he did.  Nibs was but a babe in arms, he was.”  She smiled, and then stopped as the story went through her mind, for there’d been something about a ring in that story.  Then she remembered.  She looked again into his eyes.  “The King’s son, Sildur or what was his name--he cut a finger off Sauron’s hand, didn’t he?”

            Frodo nodded.  She thought he looked considerably older at the moment than his fifty-one years.  “Yes, he cut a finger off Sauron’s hand, the finger on which he wore the Ring of Power he’d forged to rule the other nineteen--the nine for Men, the seven for Dwarves, and the three for Elves.  He cut the Ring off Sauron’s hand, and instead of destroying It there in the Sammath Naur, Sauron’s own place of power within Mount Doom, he was taken by It and claimed It for his own.  He carried It away, and had a locket made for It, carried the Ring in that locket about his neck, realizing too late he ought never to have touched It.

            “Then, after he left Gondor to return here to the North to go back to Imladris to fetch away his youngest son and his wife, his company was attacked by a troop of orcs near the Gladden Fields.  His oldest son Elendur counseled him to put the Ring on his finger, become invisible, and escape to the Elven fastnesses.  Elendur and his next two brothers and most of his Men sacrificed themselves to give him time to escape.  But the tracking orcs followed him by his scent, all the way to the River Anduin.  There he dove into the water to swim away--except as he hit the water the Ring made Itself bigger and slipped off his finger.  The orcs saw him in the River once he became visible again, and shot him with arrows.  But the Ring couldn’t be found immediately.

            “You know our people came to Eriador and the Shire from East of the Misty Mountains?”  At her nod, he continued, “Our ancestors didn’t all come at the same time, you know.  And the Stoors were those whose descendants settled finally along the Brandywine.  But not all the Stoors came over the mountains at all.  A few families apparently lingered in the valley of the Anduin.”

            After a moment of silence he told her of Sméagol and Déagol and the fishing accident on the river, the finding of the Ring by Déagol, the murder and theft by Sméagol, the transformation by the Ring of Sméagol into Gollum.  She listened, fascinated, convinced by the greyness of his complexion, the obvious pain and grief the recounting caused him, the way he rubbed at that gap.  Finally she asked, “He had It how long, this Sméagol?”

            “Almost five hundred years.”

            “And he dropped It, Gollum did, there in his cave?  And Bilbo found It?  He found It and--and wore It, and then brought It back--back here to the Shire?”

            He nodded.  Finally he spoke.  “Bilbo told me once there was a lass he loved, but she died of an accident.  He never married her.  But afterwards, it was like when Pearl--when Pearl threw me over, and it was years before he began to look at lasses again.  But before he could do anything about it, Gandalf brought the Dwarves here and next thing he knew he was off on an adventure with them, and then he found the Ring and brought It home.  He never showed It to me, although he finally told me about It.

            “I ought never to have touched the Ring, probably.  Maybe if I’d left It in the envelope in which Bilbo left the Deed and his Will and all I would never have come under It’s power.  But I did, and I put It in my pocket--and--and after that I always kept It there.  I had a fine chain made so It couldn’t fall out of my pocket, and sewed loops inside the pockets of my vests to attach the chain to.

            “The first time I saw Narcissa Boffin after--after I had It in my pocket, It wanted me--wanted me to--wanted me to rape her.  Same with other lasses I saw--wanted me to hurt them, take them by force, threaten them, terrorize them.  I’d never had such thoughts before, but I thought it was all me.  I started avoiding them....”

            She listened, horrified, as she let him tell it all.  She saw the tears pouring down his cheeks, the shame remembered, the grief at what he’d lost.  He whispered, “I never told anyone, never until--until after I woke up again, there in Ithilien.  Gandalf understood.  After a while, when the Ring couldn’t get me to hurt a lass, It just--just sort of shut that off.  I think I made It angry.  It wasn’t fully awake, but It could still--still be angry I wasn’t doing what It wanted me to do.

            “Gandalf and Aragorn both told me that It did similarly with Gollum, and the reason the Ring was on the floor of the cavern wasn’t because he dropped It, but because, like it did with Isildur, It abandoned him.  It was running away from him, and fell in a place where It sensed goblins walked.  If a goblin were to pick It up, It could have made the goblin take It to Mordor, take It back to Its Master.  But once Gollum settled in his cave and it was obvious he couldn’t be cozened into leaving to go to Mordor, and the Ring sensed Its Master was waking, It tried to get away from him--only a goblin didn’t find It--Bilbo did.”

            “Who bit your finger off?” she finally asked.

            “Gollum did.  He had gone in search of the Ring once Bilbo took It away, but didn’t know where Bilbo had taken It.  He went East first, and at last he came back to the Misty Mountains.”

            “How do you know as he went East first?”

            “Aragorn found him--caught him--near Mordor.  Gandalf was trying to find out for certain where Gollum got this ring Bilbo found, and Aragorn went looking to try to find him.  He searched for--I think he searched for years.  He found him in the Dead Marshes.  He caught him and took him to Mirkwood, and let Gandalf know.  Gandalf went there and questioned him, and finally learned the story.  He felt sorry for Gollum--he’d not even touched the Ring and It still caught him, and made him kill his best friend to take It.

            “Gollum escaped, though, and fled to the Misty Mountains, and appears to have entered Moria through the East Gate.  He began following us while we were there, and followed Sam and me after we left the others.  He caught up with us in the Emyn Muil, a crest of black rocky ridges between the river and the Dead Marshes which lie before the Black Gate of Mordor.  Sam and I realized he was following us and we captured him, and forced him to serve us as guide.

            “He finally betrayed us, tried to have us killed.  That we survived must have been a shock to him.  We lost him for a time after we went into Mordor, but he finally found us as we were ready to enter the Sammath Naur.  Sam held him off while I went in.  I was going--was going to kill myself to destroy it, jump with it into the volcano.  But It could read my plans, and It took me.”

            “You put It on--there?”

            “Yes.  Sam had followed me when he thought Gollum had given up; but Gollum followed him, hit him with a rock.  Gollum saw me put the Ring on my hand, and knew where I was standing.  He leapt on me before I could move.  He could feel my hand, caught it, drew it up, bit the finger with the Ring on it off me--and then he fell in himself.

            “Sam carried me again--carried me out of there.  I came to enough to crawl onto a knoll, and then--then we both lost consciousness.  It was too much----”

            His head fell back, and he looked up at the ceiling.  Lily looked at him thoughtfully for some minutes before she asked him, “When you look at lasses now, do you still want--want to hurt them?”

            “No.”

            “When Miss Narcissa was leavin’ Sam’s wedding you looked after her....”

            “I did?”

            She nodded. “Why don’t you give her a chance, Mr. Frodo?  She still loves you.”

            “And what can I give her now, Lily?  What can I give her?  I was scoured right through the center of my soul!  I can barely eat, and get sick at nothing.  Every two months my neck becomes infected.  I have nightmares the horror of which I can’t begin to express.  I can go from cheerful to despondent in a trice, but have a difficult time going the other way.  I can’t dance for more than a couple minutes at a time without becoming exhausted.  I am so weak!  I doubt--doubt I could consummate a marriage at this point.”

            It was the first time he’d admitted to her he wasn’t well.  She watched as he began rubbing at his shoulder, and could see he was in real pain.  She reached out to him, and held him to her.  “Oh, my poor, poor lad,” she said, sitting beside him and rocking him gently.  “My poor, poor lad.”

            Finally he whispered, “Please--please don’t tell anyone else.  Please!”

            “I promise, Frodo.”

            She barely heard his whispered, “Thank you.”

*******

            Will had taken the pony trap from the public stable to Whitfurrow to visit with Aster and Bucca when Frodo returned to Michel Delving.  There was something in Frodo’s expression that kept Mina from discussing what she wanted to say to him the first couple days.  She saw his neck was draining again, and Sam, who was staying in the inn while he continued working on replacing trees around the grounds where the Free Fair was held, came morning and evening to tend to it.  Frodo didn’t appear to be as concerned as he’d been the last time about her knowing about it. 

            He stayed a fourth day that week, and had a formal meeting in the private meeting room in the Council Hole with Gordolac, the Thain, the Master, Merry, Pippin, Benlo Bracegirdle, Roto Sackville, Bobwhite Smallburrow, and a few others regarding what had been learned to date about the activities of Lotho, Timono, Marcos, and the others; Hillie, Tolly, and Bard helping to display the evidence and describe what they’d learned during the interviews they’d conducted.

            The meeting had been long, and the discussions complicated.  Sam came in at noon with a meal he’d obtained from the inn for those attending, and in the afternoon described what he’d learned about when the worst of the damage was done to the trees, fields, and so on.

            At last the Thain asked, “Do you have enough evidence to be certain which of the lawyers and farmers who appeared to be collaborating with Lotho and Timono were doing so of their own free will, and which were coerced?”

            Frodo answered, “Some were plainly coerced, including Algenon Grubbs and Beldo Goodloam.  But there are three we are still investigating, for although they appear to have been coerced initially, they were shortly in the thick of it with Lotho and Timono.”

            Minto Tunnely sighed.  “What about the Shiriffs who was collaborating?”

            “Bedro Bracegirdle appears to have been one of the worst along the Brandywine, but a few of those who were surrounding the Tooklands, especially Forden Sandybanks and Rory Treegarth, were far worse than he.  Bedro seems to have been more into it to be a bully, which was what he has been like in Westhall for years.  But Forden and Rory truly appear to have allowed all the times they’ve been bested by those in the Tooklands to have festered, to the point they were targeting particular Tooks.  Rory’s been furious with Ferdi since Pimpernel said yes to him, and we’ve finally established he’s the one who identified Ferdi to the Big Men as a Took and encouraged them to torture him to learn the Tooks’ ‘secret’ plans.”

            Paladin Took’s face was set, and he looked at Saradoc, who nodded back.  “We’d considered the possibility of such a thing,” the Thain said, “but couldn’t quite believe that Hobbits of the Shire would do such things.”

            Frodo shook his head.  “The potential for evil actions is always there, Uncle Pal,” he said.  “Most of us just keep it pushed down, for our society frowns on such things.  But let those in leadership appear to accept such behavior, and some you’d swear were the most moral individuals you’ve ever known will just do things you’d never dream they’d do simply because it’s now allowed.  Aragorn, Lord Halladan, Prince Imrahil, and Lord Faramir got into quite an involved discussion on just this subject one day, and the tales they told were beyond belief.”

*******

            It was late afternoon when the meeting broke up and Frodo returned at last to the Whitfoot house to get his saddlebags for the return to Hobbiton.  Sam was to meet him at the inn, where they were to have a small meal together before making the ride home. 

            Mina had been steeling herself to this all day.  She looked up from where she sat by the hearth with her mending as he came into the kitchen.  “Hello, Frodo,” she said.

            “Hello, Mina,” he responded, realizing she had something she wanted to say as she began stowing the shirt she’d been working on back into the basket.

            She stood and clasped her hands together at her waist.  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since Sam and Rosie’s wedding,” she said rather diffidently.

            Suddenly he felt both tired and wary.  “About what?”

            “About how you keep avoiding the lasses who’d have you in a trice if you’d only give them the least encouragement,” she said.

            “Like Narcissa Boffin?” he asked.

            “I saw as how you looked after her when she was leaving, before she looked back at you and you’d forced yourself to look as if you didn’t care.”  When he didn’t respond, she continued, “She’s cared for you for years, you know, and you didn’t even ask her to dance.”

            “I didn’t ask any lass to dance,” he responded, his voice stony.

            “Why not?”

            His face had gone very pale.  Finally he answered, “Because I couldn’t, Mina.  I couldn’t have danced that day if my life had depended on it.  It was all I could do to get through the ceremony.  It was my Sam’s wedding, and I couldn’t even join in the marriage feast properly, much less dance!”

            “You sang!”

            “Yes, I sang--after I hid out in Bag End for a time and drank a glass of wine and listened to the heavy beating of my heart finally slow and grow steady.”

            She continued to look at him, then her expression melted.  “Oh, Frodo--I had the feeling it was one of your bad days.”

            “Are they so obvious, Mina?”

            She looked at him sadly.  “Probably not to most folks, but I’m coming to recognize them, I think.”

            He sighed, and turned one of the chairs from the table about so as to sit down on it, rather heavily, she noted.  “I didn’t want Sam to worry--not on his wedding day.  He worries far too much about me already.  If he’d realized how--how tired I was, he’d not have allowed me to go to Buckland.  He and Rosie, though--they deserved privacy on their wedding night.”

            “And you did all right in Buckland?”

            He shrugged.  “Got sick after Pippin and Merry’s party, but I ought to have realized it was too soon to try to eat a normal amount.  Nothing serious.  So they had me ride Sam’s Berry home.  Now he has both his ponies in Hobbiton.”

            “Well, Frodo, you should still not keep up the brave front before Narcissa.  You deserve some happiness now, you know.”

            He sat looking down on his hands which he’d folded in his lap.  Finally he looked back up to meet her eyes.  “Do I, Mina?  Do I really?”  He rose, suddenly stepped forward and gave her a small kiss on her forehead.  “Sometimes, Mina, you look so much like my mum, you know.  Thank you for caring, but....”  He didn’t finish, just turned to his room, went in and got his cloak and saddlebags, went to the cool room to fetch the water skins.  A few moments later he was gone, and she was looking after him, still feeling the kiss he’d given her.

            So much for hiding how you feel, Iorhael.

            So I see.  So I see.

            Yet that kiss pleased her.

            It’s nice to know that someone cares enough to notice--as my mother would.

            Your mother is fully proud of you, and rejoices her cousin serves for a time in her place.

            Frodo felt somehow heartened by that thought as he joined Sam at the door to the inn and the two of them turned toward the dining room.

85

            “I suppose,” Will said slowly as he and Mina reentered their house after finally leaving the fairgrounds, “I ought to of listened to Saradoc.”

            “He tried to warn you,” she agreed.

            Frodo had nominated Will for another term of office as Mayor, and Will was shocked and felt terribly let down.  Almost all had been offended by Frodo’s refusal to accept proper election, and he’d not bothered to explain why he’d decided he didn’t want to continue serving as Mayor.  He didn’t appear to have discussed it with Merry, Pippin, or Sam, either, for the expressions on their faces were as saddened as those on the faces of everyone else when he announced he was giving the office back to Will Whitfoot, the best Hobbit for the job, as he’d declared.

            Almost as soon as the murmuring began once it was understood that Frodo was refusing the honor being granted to him, Frodo had disappeared.  Mina had looked for him, and finally had seen him in company with a couple of teens, a lad and a lass, two who she thought lived somewhere out by Westhall if she remembered correctly.  She’d noted them during the last Free Fair, two years past, drawn to them by the realization the lad was half blind and by the resemblance between the two of them and Frodo.  They were back this year and were obviously familiar with him.  Suddenly she had an odd thought--could the reason Frodo didn’t pay any attention to the lasses of the region near the Hill be because he’d developed an attachment elsewhere--say, in Westhall?  She decided to try some discrete inquiries, if she could find out specifically who they were and if they lived in Westhall itself or one of the smaller villages round about.

            Gander Proudfoot, village head for Westhall, was staying in Michel Delving another night, so Mina went after supper to the inn to see if she could talk to him. 

            “Frodo?” he said, once Mina began her questions.  “Well, of course I know him--we’re distant cousins, in fact.”

            “Does he visit Westhall much?” she asked.

            “I’ve not seen him anywhere but at the Free Fair for a few years,” he said carefully, “but he has visited Westhall on occasion.  He does have kin there, after all.”

            “I noted a lad who appears almost blind,” she said.

            Suddenly he looked amused.  “Oh, you mean Fosco.  Quite a bright lad he is, too, him and his sister Forsythia both, really.  Very bright indeed.  They’re Emro and Lilac Gravelly’s young ones, you know.”

            She was surprised, for she’d never seen two children who looked less like Gravellies than those two.  “What happened to his vision?” she asked.

            “Was born quite early, and there was worry they’d lose him.  I understand that when bairns come too early it’s not unusual to have damage to the lungs or the eyes or the heart.  In his case it’s his eyes.  He can see some, and can read if the writing’s clear enough.  Does a fair amount of carving, and helps about the farm well enough.  Quite a capable and determined lad, and his sister does all she can to make sure as he gets what help he needs but no more.  Emro and Lilac worship the two of them.”

            “Frodo seemed to know them.”

            “Well, yes, he does.  They’re kin to him, you see.”

            Again she was surprised.  “Since when have the Bagginses been kin to the Gravellies?” she asked.

            He shook his head and laughed.  “I’ve said as much as I can about them two,” he said.  “Emro and Lilac guard their privacy, and Frodo’s much the same with them.”

            After that Gander continued to keep his silence.

            Will was asked to come, three days after the Free Fair, to Griffo and Daisy Boffin’s place in Hobbiton to meet there with Frodo and some others.  Mina was surprised.  Daisy was Frodo’s first cousin, daughter to Dudo Baggins, who’d been Dora and Drogo Baggins’s younger brother.  After his wife Camellia’s death when Frodo was quite young, Dudo and little Daisy had moved out of the Hobbiton area, out to----

            Mina paused, thinking.  Dudo had taken his daughter and moved to Westhall, where he held part interest in a farm--a farm owned by--by a Gravelly family.

            “That sly lad!” Mina said aloud.  “That sly, sly lad!”

            Now, did he have a lass there?  If so, he’d never said.  If he had known a lass there, she must be dead by now or the Frodo she knew would be there with her--or more like would have her in Bag End with him.  The children had been young enough they’d have had to have been born after Bilbo left the Shire, so Frodo would have been of age, she thought.  But she simply couldn’t imagine Frodo Baggins with a lass he wouldn’t marry; and he’d not have cared much as to whether or not others might see her as a suitable bride.  Yet, neither could she see him married to a Gravelly--Gravellies simply weren’t a family given to intellectual pursuits or book learning.  And definitely Gander had indicated young Fosco could read.

            On the day of the meeting she waited with bated breath for Will to return, and when at last he came in through the door she immediately came forward to question him.  “How did the meeting go?” she asked.

            He shook his head.  “You won’t believe it, Mina.  I’ve never seen such a situation in my life, and as Mayor for the Shire for so long I’ve seen my share of odd situations.”  He hung his jacket on the peg in the hall and together the two of them went back to the kitchen where she had a light meal ready for him.  He ate half of what she served him before finally setting down his fork for a time.  “You know that Frodo’s uncle, Dudo Baggins, moved to the village of Westhall after his wife and their newborn son died?”  At her nod he continued.  “Four years later he remarried Emerald Boffin, daughter of Hugo Boffin and Donnamira Took as was.”

            Mina was surprised, for rarely did widows or widowers remarry in the Shire.  She vaguely remembered hearing about Emerald Boffin, but had not thought of her for years and years.  “What does this have to do with those children?”

            “I’m coming to that.  About the time old Dora Baggins died and left Daisy and her husband Griffo Boffin as her heirs, Emerald learned she was pregnant.  She had twins.”

            “Twins?” Mina asked, half unwilling to believe what he was telling her.  Twins were extraordinarily rare among Hobbits.

            “Yes, twins--a lad and a lass--Fosco and Forsythia.  A few weeks later Dudo died.  Emerald remained in their hole in Westhall, and with the aid of the Gravellies, who owned the farm they had part interest in, she raised the children until they were six.  This is where it gets complicated--for some reason as no one understands Emerald never let Daisy and Griffo know about the pregnancy or the bairns.  Frodo knew only because he had Gander Proudfoot reporting any changes in the family as they happened--as family head for the Bagginses he had the responsibility to know, after all.”

            Mina realized her romantic notions of a love for Frodo in Westhall were no more than that.  “So, he knew, but not Daisy?”

            “That’s right.  Frodo had sent gifts to the family regular, and so Emerald appears to have known as he knew about the children, but she appears to have become angry at Daisy for some reason no one understands.  When the bairns were six she became ill, and Emro and Lilac Gravelly became the foster parents for the two of them when she died.  I’ll be checking tomorrow to see if there’s a copy of any wills for Emerald and Dudo in the archives.  I don’t remember any wills being executed, but I do seem to remember them being written and signing them.”  He picked up his fork and ate some more, then set it down again and continued. 

            “Frodo kept sending gifts, but they were always sent back once Emerald died.  When the children were eight the Gravellies brought them to the Free Fair, and Frodo recognized as who they must be.  He left here and went directly to Westhall to see them.  After that he visited with them two-three times a year until he left the Shire.  He made a point of seeing them elsewhere than in the Gravelly home, and told the children to call him by his name in Elvish so as Lilac wouldn’t realize he was seeing them.  He had hoped to visit with them after the trip to Buckland, but was too ill.”

            “He told me he only got ill at Merry and Pippin’s party,” Mina protested.

            Will sighed.  “You know Frodo--hates to admit as he’s not well.  Anyway, he saw them at the Free Fair, and for the first time realized they had no idea they had a grown sister.  Today we learned Daisy and Griffo had no knowledge of their existence, either.  Daisy and Griffo are going to see them if they can in Westhall.”

            “This is about the oddest story as I’ve heard in a long time, Will.”  Mina scratched the side of her nose.  “So, today Frodo admitted he’s been too ill to go back to Westhall and see the two of them again, did he?”

            “Yes,” Will answered, his expression solemn.  “Today he didn’t even bother trying to hide the fact he was not well.  His neck is draining again, and he was exhausted.  Fell asleep sitting up on a footstool, of all things.”

            “That poor, dear lad.”  Mina sighed, then reached across the table to take her husband’s hand.

*******

            Not long before the Free Fair there had been another of the meetings for the family heads, this time in the village hall in Hobbiton, and on an evening when Frodo had just returned from Michel Delving.  Once he was home, however, Frodo had determined he wouldn’t go after all.  The last week had been focused more on reviewing the atrocities committed by the Big Men, and Frodo had been sickened by what he heard.  All he wanted that evening was to crawl into his bed and sleep and put out of his mind what Men were capable of doing.  Knowing that such minor families as his own would be staying away from this meeting in droves, neither had Sam chosen to attend.  At the ring at the bell Sam had gone to the door to find that Benlo Bracegirdle, head to the Bracegirdle family, was there with more of Lobelia’s deeds for the reparations fund, so he admitted the guest and led him back to the kitchen where Frodo was now sitting, having just awakened and come in for some tea and the light cakes Rosie had baked that day.

            Frodo showed no animosity of any kind toward Benlo, and even appeared pleased to see him.  Yet Benlo still managed to unwittingly leave Frodo upset--when he indicated that Will was nominating Frodo to stand for Mayor at the Free Fair, and that Benlo was all for it.  Sam saw Benlo out, explaining that he wasn’t certain his Master had made up his mind as to what he desired, then returned to the kitchen.

            Frodo hadn’t spoken of what he would do if Will nominated him as Mayor, and Sam, who privately thought that this was the best thing for both Frodo and the Shire, refrained as much as he could from pressing the matter.  As Frodo hadn’t spoken to Will by the day the Free Fair opened, however, Sam thought that he’d finally decided to go along with it.

            The last two days before the Free Fair Frodo was restless and obviously uncomfortable, and the morning of the fair Sam had heard an exclamation from Frodo’s room which brought him running.  He found Frodo, clad only in his drawers, looking with consternation at the nightshirt he’d just removed.

            “What is it, Master?” Sam asked.

            Frodo looked up at him, his eyes concerned.  “It’s the bite again--it apparently opened in the night.”

            Sam was surprised, for it hadn’t been anywhere near two months this time since the last time it opened.

            The pillow and the sheet, however, were plainly stained, as was Frodo’s nightshirt.  “It was sticking to my back and neck, and I never dreamed--never dreamed it was the bite opening again this early.”

            Not only had the bite opened, but in trying to remove the nightshirt Frodo had managed to pull part of the skin around the wounds away, and there was a fair amount of blood.  Sam took the nightshirt, grateful it was one of the Shire ones and not a silk one from Gondor Frodo had been wearing the preceding night, and took it to the kitchen to soak it in a pan of cold water, setting the kettle to boil over the kitchen fire.

            He went out to the herb garden where he culled a couple athelas leaves with a word of thanks to the plant, then taking a bit of aloe as well he went back inside where he set what he’d need on a tray.  He drew out the recipe he’d copied from Menegilda’s herbal, and soon had a draught brewed which would help fight the infection.  Rosie watched with interest as she worked at preparing breakfast.  “His neck again?” she asked.

            “Yes, and weeks earlier’n the last time,” he said.  “Just what he needs just afore goin’ to the Free Fair.”

            “Has he decided yet whether or not he’ll accept standin’ for election as Mayor?” she asked.

            “Not as I can tell.  I hope as he does, for he’s the best Mayor as we’ve had ever, from what I’ve heard from all.”

            She nodded her agreement.  “He certainly deserves to be elected proper,” she said, “but I’m still not certain as he really wants to serve longer.”

            Soon after that the bite was cleaned and bandaged, and Sam made certain Frodo drank the draught intended to fight infections.  He’d made up Frodo’s tea the preceding day and had it ready in the three water bottles they were taking.  After seeing to it Frodo’s hair was washed and he was properly dressed and groomed, they walked down to the stables where the grooms already had Strider, Bill, and Berry ready for the three of them.

            They rode steadily enough, and Sam saw no sign Frodo was in undue distress as they traveled.  However, Frodo was obviously deep in thought, and several times he’d reach up and gently touch the gem at his throat--not so much as he did when he was in pain, but just a light touch as if to assure himself it was still there and not--not the Ring instead--or so it seemed to Sam.

            Frodo was indeed thinking.  He’d had contradictory thoughts about the idea of standing for election as Mayor--frustration that Will would make the decision to nominate him and not ask; a desire to continue as he’d started and see it through; annoyance at the idea of being so at the beck and call of the entire Shire; concern he’d not be able to keep up for the entire term; satisfaction that Will saw him worthy of the honor and responsibility.  But after touching the bandage at the back of his neck and feeling the tenderness at the loss of the missing skin, Frodo wasn’t so certain standing for election would be a good thing.  By the time they arrived he’d made up his mind.

            Pease accepted the three ponies at the paddock and helped see them relieved of their tack, and the three of them went into the fairgrounds.

            Sam was shocked when Frodo stood up after Will and indicated he wanted to return the office of Mayor to Will, and that he wasn’t willing to stand for election after all.  Frodo had tried to speak on, to explain his health was probably not up to him fulfilling an entire term, but Odo Proudfoot had begun the heckling, upset at Frodo’s apparent lack of respect for the honor being shown him, and it was quickly obvious no one was likely to hear his explanations, so Frodo had merely bowed and slipped away as quickly as he could.

            Frodo had hidden out much of the day, and Sam hadn’t been able to find where he’d secreted himself.  He’d finally been found sitting near the ale tent as dinner time approached.  After the announcement that the vote had indeed gone to Will Whitfoot, the singing had begun.  This Frodo had discussed with Merry and Pippin and Sam over the previous weeks, and that night the four of them stood to sing some of the songs they’d learned in the outer world, reminding all that the Shire was part of that outer world now, and they’d best accept it.

            Then Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond of Rivendell, appeared and indicated they wished to sing as well, and had sung the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers in its mixture of Sindarin and Quenya with its smattering of Westron and Rohirric; and Frodo sat, his head erect, his eyes running with tears while the rest of the Travelers sat by him with the same tears in their own eyes, reliving the events of the year they’d been gone from the Shire.

            When at last the Elves had gone Frodo indicated he wished only to go home, and reluctantly Sam agreed.  With Merry and Pippin riding alongside their cousin as if they were guards of honor, the five of them rode through the night to Hobbiton.  Pippin took responsibility for the ponies, removing their tack and seeing them cooled and quickly groomed and then releasing them for the night into the paddock at the one end of the Party Field where they could graze and drink from the small creek that ran through it to the Water, then followed the others back up to Bag End.  Sam was leaning over panniers of cuttings and packets of seeds he’d found on the bench outside the smial--Elladan and Elrohir had come here, apparently, before following them to Michel Delving, bringing with them the seeds and starts Sam had requested from Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel.

            Near dawn they rose to find Frodo’s room empty, and they went up the Hill to find Frodo sitting there, leaning against the stump for the old oak tree, weeping soundlessly as he looked out over the Shire and watched the coming of the new day.  Sam sat by him and placed his arm gently about Frodo’s shoulder, mindful of the still draining spider bite, realizing that Frodo’s decision not to stand for election had been a considered--and painful--one.

86

            “He’s up on top o’ the Hill, Mr. Brendilac,” Sam explained.  “Rosie and me have visitors today, and he’s certain as he’d be in the way, so he goes up there so as to be of no bother.  Not, o’ course, as he’d be such.”  He came out on the stoop and pointed down the path through the garden.  “Follow the walk to the far side o’ the Hill, and you’ll see bluish steppin’ stones as will take you on up to the top.”

            “Thanks, Master Samwise,” Brendi said, enjoying seeing the gardener’s flush of pleasure.  So saying, the lawyer turned down the indicated path through the gardens of Bag End. 

            It was wonderful to see how much the gardens had come back since Sam and Rosie’s wedding.  The lilacs weren’t anywhere as tall as they’d been for Bilbo’s last party, but were already once again higher than Brendi’s head.  The new rose bushes were full of rich blossoms; the sunflowers lifted their heads to the sky; once again honeysuckle twined about the form which had been set outside the study window and irises bloomed in blue and gold glory, interspersed with the famous white Elven lilies that Bilbo had introduced when he returned from his adventure.

            Outside Frodo’s window grew an assortment of plants that Brendi didn’t remember, one of which Brendi would have sworn had to be a variety of kingsfoil, but one with larger clusters of white flowers and broader leaves than he’d ever seen before.  There were also more of the white Elven lilies as well as a number of other lilies he was unfamiliar with.  And then, about the edges of the bed, were small low golden blossoms like stars, and another flower with a pursed bloom in a pale white with a soft greenish tinge, both of them beautiful beyond telling.

            In the bed in which Sam had been accustomed to planting healing herbs there was one aloe plant, more of the kingsfoil, comfrey, ginger, chamomile, several varieties of mints, aniseed, sarsaparilla, and a number of others, most familiar and a few new ones which Sam must have brought back from foreign climes.  Brendi was surprised to see the kingsfoil, which most folk considered a weed; but apparently Sam now found it useful.

            Fat bumblebees blundered from blossom to blossom while the golden-brown honeybees moved more purposefully.  Swallows darted here and there, capturing their meals from the insects that flew above the compost piles between the flower garden and the vegetable patches, and a movement to his left showed that sparrows had once again settled into the birdhouse Frodo hung out on the side of the tool shed.  The ancient plum tree that had grown near the shed had been replaced with a younger tree; the three cherry trees clustered toward the back of the vegetable patch had also been replaced, and the cherries that remained on the new trees were still fat and sweet.  He happily pulled a cluster off one of the trees as he passed and ate them with pleasure.

            Finally he saw the blue stepping stones of which Sam had spoken, and turned to the right to head up the hill.  He went by a hedge of blueberries and gooseberries to the right, while on the left were currants and huckleberries, with what looked to be a cluster of sloes further on around the curve of the hill.  Still the blue stones marked the path, and now on either side the grass was filled with wild flowers.  Poppies of many varieties, colors, and sizes seemed to bloom everywhere; there were lady’s lace, troll’s britches, fairy’s paintbrush, violets, creeping sorrel, larkspur and far more, many he couldn’t name, all rising toward the top of the hill.

            Brendi could see the remains of the stump of the old oak which had been felled by Sharkey’s folk.  It stood about three and a half feet tall, reminding him how much taller the Big Men had been than the Hobbits who inhabited the Shire.  But just beyond it, apparently, he could see the back of what was undoubtedly Frodo’s head, considering how dark the curls were.  He passed through an oval which was again comprised of blooming kingsfoil, a variety of lilies, the small golden star flowers and the pale, pursed blossoms that had bloomed outside Frodo’s bedroom, and finally was able to approach the stump, then stopped, looking on the picture presented before him with surprise and a little awe.

            The stump had been carved to make a seat, and arms of sorts had been carved on each side.  There Frodo sat enthroned, the new, young oak tree Sam had planted a few months ago lifting its crown above him.  Frodo wore shades of blue today, and, Brendi thought, looked magnificent.  A lapdesk rested between the arms of the carved seat, and on it were two stacks of paper, a bottle of ink, a variety of drawing sticks, a steel pen, a penwipe, and a ball of gum.  In Frodo’s hand was a stick of graphite, but he’d paused in what he’d been doing to look across the land spread out before him, his pale face reflecting both reassurance and a sense of longing.

            Finally Brendi broke the silence.  “The monarch of the Shire sits on his throne, surveying his domain,” he said solemnly.  Frodo was startled, obviously having remained unaware of his approach, and turned abruptly to look at him, his face going paler while small spots of bright pink bloomed on his cheeks.  Brendi smiled.  “I don’t think that your Lord Aragorn Elessar could look much more definitely royal than you do right now, Frodo Baggins,” he said as he came forward and dropped to sit crosslegged at Frodo’s feet.  “Who carved the stump into a great chair?”

            “Nibs and Jolly Cotton,” Frodo answered.  “And I must say it is remarkably comfortable, although Sam has promised to cut it off close to the ground in the fall.”  He looked down at Brendi thoughtfully.  “Now that you’ve compared it to a throne, I realize just what it has reminded me of since they finished it a couple weeks ago--it does remind me of Aragorn’s throne, now that I think of it.  Although situated as it is on top of the Hill it is far higher even than that of Gondor.  Not, of course, that Aragorn is particularly happy with the dais for his throne being so high.  He’s commented privately that he’s surprised he doesn’t experience nosebleeds.”

            Brendi laughed.  “He sounds a practical sort,” he commented.  “How tall is this dais?”

            “Fifteen steps,” Frodo said, “under a canopy carved to resemble the Winged Crown of Gondor.  He sits up there looking down at those who are brought into the Hall of Kings, his sword lying across his knees or the arms of the throne, which is carved of white marble.  At the bottom of the steps, on the first one which is quite deep, to the right as you look up at him, sits the black seat of the Steward of Gondor, and he’s commissioned a second one which wasn’t yet finished when we left, of grey granite, for Lord Halladan as Steward of Arnor to sit on when he comes to attend on his cousin.  Aragorn has already ordered Halladan to make the dais in Annúminas no more than three steps high under threat of royal displeasure.  But he can’t as yet talk the worthies of Minas Tirith into allowing the dais there to be replaced with something a bit more practical.”

            Brendi laughed louder, then looked out across the lands below him.  “This is beautiful,” he said.  “I can see why you love it up here.”

            Frodo nodded.  “In the daytime you can see for miles--leagues, even; and there’s no better spot in the Shire for watching the moon and stars at night.”

            “Why do you want the stump cut off?”

            Frodo shrugged.  “Eventually the new oak will be the tree which will define the Hill,” he said, “and this seat, although nice, is a bit pretentious and may crowd the newer oak as it grows.”

            Brendi, looking down at the young trees along the edge of the Water which were already taller than even Pippin and Merry, found himself shaking his head in wonder.  “It’s so hard to believe all these trees are growing so swiftly,” he commented.  “I’ve never seen any such thing in my life.”

            Frodo smiled.  “You should have seen the growth of the new White Tree in Minas Tirith.  The remains of the old one had stood there, bare and lifeless, for a thousand years since Eärnur disappeared into the entrance to the Morgul Vale,” unconsciously Frodo shivered, “yet it was still lovely even in death.  Then Gandalf led Aragorn up Mount Mindolluin to the King’s Hallow where he found the new Tree growing, less than three feet high.  He carefully uprooted it and carried it down the mountain, and had the old Tree carefully pulled down and the new one planted before most in the Citadel realized what was happening.  It was still some weeks before the arrival of the Lady Arwen; yet by the time she arrived it was already taller than he, and he’s well over six feet in height.”  He sighed.  “It seems to be due to Elvish influence,” he continued.  “Here the new trees have been blessed by grains of dust from the Lady Galadriel’s own garden; there I’m certain the Tree responded to the Elven blood and Elven-trained awareness Aragorn bears.”

            “What are you working on?” Brendi asked after several minutes of comfortable contemplation of the view.

            “I was working on the story I promised Bilbo of our journey,” Frodo answered.  “I was writing a bit out of order today, describing Aragorn’s arrival at the gates of Minas Tirith and his coronation.  I’d actually finished with the description of the Hall of Kings and the throne, in fact, which added to my startlement when you spoke as you did.”

            “You’re writing with the graphite?” his cousin asked.

            Again the spots of color could be seen in Frodo’s cheeks.  “No, I’d stopped writing for a time and was doing some drawings.”

            “May I see?” Brendi asked.  Frodo again shrugged, and rifled through the stack of paper on the right and finally handed down a couple sheets.  One drawing was of a tall figure, a Man with a short beard, clad in armor with a white mantle over all, a shining brooch fastening it about his broad shoulders, a remarkable crown atop his head, his head held high, fairly exuding royalty.  Brendi examined the picture with a feeling of respect growing in him.  He looked up at Frodo.  “This is our King Aragorn, then?”

            Frodo nodded, a gentle smile on his face.  “Yes, as he appeared just after he was crowned, when he stood before those who’d witnessed his coronation.”

            The second was of the same Man, a woman with the pointed ears of an Elf by him, her hair dark, a coronet of shining metal encircling her brow.  Aragorn’s head was bare this time; but there could be no question this was the King, his face proud and shining with power and joy as he looked on the woman who must be the Lady Arwen.  Never had Brendi seen one of such beauty.  Truly she was the proper mate for the Man who stood by her, he thought.

            As the afternoon approached its end a breeze was rising and riffling their hair and the pictures Brendi held as well as the papers lying on Frodo’s lapdesk.  Suddenly a stronger gust caught at the two stacks of paper, lifting a few sheets and one which lay between the stacks and blowing them away.  Frodo gave an inarticulate cry of dismay, reaching out vainly to try to catch them.  Brendi stood swiftly, and after handing the pictures he held to Frodo he moved to capture the scattering sheets before the wind could carry them beyond the hedge of berry bushes and shrubs.

            There were seven sheets, four covered with Frodo’s elegant writing, and three of them pictures.  Brendi managed to capture all of them and carefully straightened them in his hand before he moved back up the Hill to return them to Frodo, examining them as he walked toward the circle of flowers.  He read a sentence on the top sheet:  Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him.

            Brendi looked at the topmost of the pictures--one of Sam, but dressed in mail, his head held high, a circlet crowning his curling hair and brow, a surcoat over his mail embroidered with a flowering tree, a sword at his left hip.  This Samwise Gamgee certainly was more than a simple gardener, Brendi thought--he looked like a prince!  Brendi placed the picture on the bottom of the stack as he smiled his appreciation at his cousin, then noted how extraordinarily pale Frodo’s face had gone, the spots of color which tended to mark his discomfort a distinct red.  He paused, shifted the next two pages of writing to the bottom and found himself looking at the next picture--and realized the cause of Frodo’s discomfort.  It had a series of studies of a single subject--Narcissa Boffin. 

            The largest of these was toward the top of the page, and was of Narcissa as she’d appeared at Sam and Rosie’s wedding, the gown she’d worn faithfully rendered, showing the breeze blowing it against her figure, her hair caught behind her, a couple of her curls blowing across her brow and her hand raised to brush them back from her eyes.  A second showed her sitting across a table, a simple meal and a mug of ale before her, her eyes raised toward the one viewing her as if awaiting the answer to a question.

            The third, the one at the lower right, was the cause of Frodo’s discomfiture, though, for it was one done from imagination of Narcissa as she must look as she prepared for her bath.  Brendi looked at it with startlement.  It was not done for purposes of titillation, he realized; it was simply one of loveliness caught in a moment of innocence.  Brendi raised his eyes from the picture to his cousin’s face, saw the embarrassment which he didn’t even bother to try to hide, the feeling of shame at having been caught out with such an image in his mind.

            He carefully held that sheet in his right hand and looked at the next picture, one of Rosie Cotton nursing an infant, her expression gently tender, Sam looking over her left shoulder down at the child, the look of love and wondering pride in his eyes palpable, the fingers of his right hand lying on her right shoulder, his left hand on her left elbow.  Brendi felt the awe for his cousin’s talent fill him.  Again he looked at Frodo, shaking his head.  Frodo’s cheeks were flaming. 

            “Frodo Baggins, you have to be the most talented artist the Shire has ever produced,” Brendi said softly.  “But how do you know Rosie and Sam will look like that when they have a child?”

            Frodo looked away.  “I’ve--I’ve dreamed it, Brendi.  Several times I’ve dreamed it lately.  I think--I’m certain Rosie has conceived already.  The child will be born in the early spring.”

            The Brandybuck considered.  There had been several times when Frodo was young he’d spoken of knowing things would happen before they did.  Certainly there had been a couple times that he’d been eerily accurate about happenings so unlikely as to defy belief they would occur.  So, it was still happening, was it?  “Will it be a lad or a lass?” he asked.

            Frodo shrugged.  “Not mine to tell--not yet.” 

            He looked at the page Brendi held in his right hand, and his cheeks went pink again as once again he looked away, embarrassment again filling him.  Brendi handed the rest of the papers back to Frodo, who weighted them down with the sealed ink bottle, but he kept the one of Narcissa and examined it again before he finally turned it to Frodo.  “You do care for her, don’t you, Frodo?”

            “I don’t know, Brendi.  I know now that--that I could care for her.”

            “Why don’t you try courting her then?”

            “What can I offer her, or any other lass?”

            Brendilac sighed.  “You, my beloved cousin, are the best the Shire has ever produced.  You are quite the most intelligent and caring individual I’ve ever met; you are the most artistic, and the most graceful Hobbit now living.  And you deserve to know happiness.”

            “I keep being told I deserve happiness,” Frodo suddenly snapped, startling his cousin.  “I don’t deserve anything at all!  I failed, Brendi!  The world almost ended because I couldn’t best It at the end.  And I cursed another with death--and he died!  He died, and I lived.  But I’m the one who ought to have died, not anyone else.”

            Brendi was shocked not so much by Frodo’s assertions as his vehemence.  He could hear the self-loathing in Frodo’s voice, and knew it wasn’t deserved.  Finally he said, “That’s not true, Frodo Baggins, and you know it.  If you were as bad as you say, Samwise Gamgee wouldn’t be as devoted to you as he is.  There’s not an ounce of guile in the Hobbit--he’s always loved and respected you, and that’s only grown in the time you were gone.  So you aren’t perfect?  You find anyone who is, Hobbit, Man, Elf, Dwarf, or any other race you know of, and I’ll show you a prodigy incapable of compassion because he can’t appreciate what life is about and how we rise to overcome our mistakes.  I bet even your friend the King has made mistakes and has regretted them a time or two.”  Frodo’s eyes again shifted away.  “Isn’t that true, Frodo?”

            Finally, reluctantly, Frodo nodded.  His voice was very soft when he answered, “Yes, he has.”

            “Have you discussed--discussed what you think you did wrong with anyone else?

            “Yes.”

            “Do they blame you?”

            “No.”

            “What do they say?”

            For a time Frodo didn’t answer.  Finally he said, “That those who’ve been in the same situation didn’t get off any easier than I did, and that no one could have done so.  And that--and that it was better he died than me, for if it was him it would be only one who’d die, but if it had been me, all three would have died.”

            “All what three?”

            Again there was a long pause before the response.  “Gollum, Sam, and me.”

            “So you cursed Gollum with death?”

            Frodo eventually nodded.

            “Did you want him to die?”

            “Does it matter?”

            “Yes, of course it matters.  Did you want him to die?”

            “No!  I wanted him to live and--and come back.  I thought--thought that if Gollum could come back then--then maybe I could, too.”

            “So, you wanted him to recover--however you thought he might recover, the same as you did for Sharkey?”

            Frodo nodded.  “Yes.”

            “And you didn’t want him to die, even though you cursed him with death?”

            “Yes.”

            “How did you curse him?”

            Again the pause.  “I said if he touched me again he’d fall into the fire himself.”

            Again Brendi considered.  “So,” he said slowly, “so, he touched you again?”

            “Yes.”

            “And he fell into the fire?”

            A nod.

            “One of the--the two of you--one of the two of you had to die so the world would be saved?”

            Frodo started to shake his head, paused, then finally finished the gesture.  “We didn’t have to die--only It had to be destroyed, and neither--neither of us could--could have let It go willingly.”

            “It?  You mean Sauron’s Ring?”

            Frodo nodded and closed his eyes.

            The conversation was becoming too bizarre, Brendi thought.  He decided to change tacks.  “Frodo, you said you discussed this with others, and they agreed you weren’t to blame and that no one else could have done any better.”

            A nod.

            “And the others who tried this didn’t do any better?”

            “Right.”

            “It’s been tried before?”

            “Yes.”

            “And they failed, too?”

            Another nod.  Frodo was at least looking at him again.

            “Who told you this?”

            “Everybody--Gandalf, Legolas, Aragorn, Lord Elrond....”

            “Why, if those who tried this before failed and they admit anyone who tried it again would fail, too, did they want to try it again anyway?”

            “It was--it was the only hope we had for the destruction of Sauron’s power.”

            “Who tried it before?”

            “Isildur and Elrond.”

            Brendi felt staggered.  “Isildur?  But he died--how long ago?”

            “Three thousand years--more or less.”

            Brendi tried to think this through.  “Did you----  What did you promise to do, precisely?”

            “To carry It to Mordor to Its destruction.  To carry It to Mount Doom and the Sammath Naur.”

            “Did you promise to destroy It yourself?”

            Frodo just looked at him.

            The lawyer took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.  Again he tried changing tacks.  He thought long about the ones Frodo had named.  “Let me understand.  Elrond is the same Lord Elrond you and Bilbo have told me is one of the wisest Elves ever to have lived in Middle Earth?”

            “Yes.”

            “Was he one of those who sang for us at the Free Fair?”

            “No--they were Lord Elrond’s sons.”

            “And Isildur was considered a wise Man, a wise king, and a powerful, decisive individual?”

            “Yes, so Elrond and Glorfindel have both told me.”

            “Both of them were individuals who could be decidedly single-minded when necessary?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then what in Middle Earth convinced you that you could do better than the two of them?”

            “I--I wasn’t a lord to begin with, and Hobbits aren’t known for being ambitious or for wanting power over others----”

            “Except for Lotho Sackville-Baggins and Timono Bracegirdle and every bully we’ve bred over the years the Shire has existed,” the Brandybuck muttered.  “What does this have to do with succeeding at this task everyone says was impossible?”

            Frodo sighed.  “The more powerful the individual and the more strength he felt he needed to see his hopes succeed, the more quickly and easily It could take and corrupt him.  In this case it was easier to hold out against It if one was relatively weak and lacking in ambition.”

            “So, you, as one who didn’t care about becoming anything in particular, had a better chance at succeeding than someone who was powerful?”  Brendi was beginning to think he was at last starting to understand the logic.  At Frodo’s nod he continued.   “So your Aragorn Elessar----”

            “He wouldn’t touch It.  Lord Elrond would barely look at It.  Gandalf ordered me not to tempt him with It.  The Lady Galadriel--I offered It to her, just to be done with It--and she found herself oh, so tempted to take It--and she refused It, knowing what It would do to her in the end.  Saruman--Sharkey--he didn’t even see It; but just the thought of It possibly being present here had him sending his Big Men here to pretend to be at Lotho’s orders so they could convince him into let them doing their ‘gathering and sharing.’  There is one type of item we have been totally incapable of finding and returning to their owners--not a single ring they took has been recovered as yet.”

            “He was looking specifically for the Ring?”

            Frodo nodded.

            “If he’d found It--what would he have done with It?”

            Frodo shrugged.  “We aren’t certain.  At first he probably had himself convinced he would give It to Sauron and so win his favor.  But by the time he sent his army against Rohan we’re reasonably certain he was intending instead to claim It himself, in which case he would have challenged Sauron himself, and set himself to become Sauron’s replacement.  You saw what he did here--he’d have done no differently had he claimed It, save he’d have devastated all of Middle Earth, not just the Shire.”

            Again Brendi considered.  Finally he asked, “What--just what specifically happened there in the Mountain?”

            “The Ring took me at last, and I claimed It.”

            “How?”

            Frodo shook his head, his face rather grey, definitely sad.  “I can’t fully remember, for I--I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly at that point.  It had been filling my head with images--images of everything Sauron was doing to hurt others, images of what Saruman was doing to hurt others.  It showed me balls of stuff flying over walls and bursting into flames and rolling into houses and the houses catching fire; or of the balls touching people and them being terribly burnt and most of them dying in agony.  Of fallen soldiers looking up in terror as they were approached by Sauron’s army, of them being shown the swords and spears with which they would be killed--as slowly and painfully as possible.  Of hunters and farmers being found by them and being threatened and tortured to death.  Of animals being found and--and beginning to being eaten while they were still alive.  I could stop it!  All I had to do was claim It, and I could stop the deaths.  I could stop the torture.  I could stop those who’d invaded the Shire from destroying the land.  I could force all to recognize Aragorn as King, a king who would bow to me as his beneficent friend.  I could widen our lands and make them flourish.  I could force folks to look at Sam and make them see him as he is--one of the best of all peoples born anywhere of any race, the equal in his way of Aragorn himself in wisdom and desire to see all become the best they could be.”  He stopped.

            After a pause, Frodo again spoke.  “But at the end It just took me, forced me to claim It, made me lift up my hand and put It on my finger.  And then....”  He shook his head.  “I can’t begin to explain what It did to me then, Brendi, how I looked at where Sam stood watching me in shock and disbelief, unable to move to stop me any more than Elrond could have moved to stop Isildur, and saw no longer my Sam, my friend who’d sacrificed all he might ever have been or done to see me there, and seeing him as an enemy--my enemy whom I hated and intended to destroy, had I had the time to move toward him.  Fortunately--fortunately we weren’t alone then, though, and--and Gollum stopped me.  He knew where I’d been, had seen me put It on, and he jumped on me and--and took It from me by force.”

            Brendi looked at Frodo, finally appreciating the pain Frodo felt, reliving that moment.  “So--so he’s the one who took your finger--however it was done.”

            Very slowly Frodo nodded.  “He took It and my finger and fell in with It.  We were right there on the edge by the fire.  It was an accident--just an accident--he fell with It.”

            Brendi sighed.  He reached out to gently take Frodo’s right hand.  Frodo again tried to pull it away, then just gave up the struggle.  The lawyer handed the sheet with the studies of Narcissa Boffin to Frodo, who took it and held it convulsively against his breast with his left hand.  As he’d done when he first saw the damage done, Brendi held Frodo’s hand between his own, and found he was crying, weeping over it.  “Oh, Frodo, I wish I could have been there with you, helped stop It from taking you.”

            “If Sam and Gollum couldn’t stop that, you wouldn’t have been able to do it either, Brendi.”  Frodo’s voice was quiet.  “They told me--told me the three of us were necessary to do it, to get rid of It.  They told me only I could have carried It there, only Sam could have seen us all the way there with It, and only--only Gollum could have taken It into the fire.”

            Suddenly Brendi found himself laughing through his tears, even as he continued holding his cousin’s maimed hand to him, cherishing it.  Frodo looked at him.  “What are you laughing at, Brendilac Brandybuck?” he demanded.

            “At you, Frodo Baggins, at you and your absurd vanity.  Oh, my beloved cousin--you are the best--and the most conceited--Hobbit the Creator ever saw born into the Shire.  You don’t want to have had to have shared the glory of destroying Sauron’s Ring--you want to have done it all yourself, even though you know, and probably knew from the moment you offered to carry It further than Rivendell--you couldn’t do it alone.  Oh, Frodo, I love you past bearing--you know that, don’t you?”

            And very slowly the stricken look on Frodo’s face began to fall away, and gently he began to join in the laughter, laughing, laughing more loudly, more fully, until he was rocking with it.  The page he held fell into his lap as he sat back, and he laid his head back and closed his eyes, still laughing softly.  “You are right, Brendi.  I’m about as absurd a Hobbit as was ever born.”

            Finally Brendi let Frodo’s hand go and reached down and retrieved the studies of Narcissa.  “Have you been dreaming of Narcissa preparing to get into her bath?” he asked.

            He saw the signs of Frodo flushing again.  “No, I haven’t.  I was just--just imagining what--what she must look like.”

            “Court her, Frodo.”

            The humor slowly drained away, and Frodo lowered his eyes and straightened.  “I couldn’t do that to her or any other lass, Brendi.  There’s not enough of me left to offer a lover or wife.”

            “Even as hurt as you’ve been, there’s still more of you to offer someone who loves you than there is in the average Hobbit.”  As he watched Frodo solemnly shake his head Brendi again sighed.  “Oh, Frodo--don’t you remember when it was Merilinde and me?  They’d told us that she had no time left, that she’d be dead in three months.  She lived three times that, able to do so because at last she was happy, and when she died she died easily.  Just knowing--knowing I loved her enough to marry her anyway helped her hang on long enough to know fulfillment before she went on.  I don’t regret a single moment of it all, you know--not even the grief of losing her.

            “The only reason I had the courage to do so was because of you, Frodo Baggins.  You helped all of us--me, her, her parents, cousin Sara--helped us see that she deserved that happiness before she left, and I deserved to share it with her--that I wanted to share it with her.

            “Well, you deserve the same.  You deserve to know simple love between a lad and a lass.  You know Narcissa has loved you since you were--how old?  Twenty?  You know you could love her in return, and were beginning to realize it before you got that awful Ring.  You did your best to protect her from what It would have made you do to her, but now It’s not here any more to cause that.  Let yourself know that, Frodo--let yourself know that love.”

            But even as he urged his cousin to follow his heart, Brendi knew Frodo wouldn’t--that his Baggins pride and stubbornness would continue to lead him to seek to protect Narcissa to the point both would be denied the love they might have shared.

            You could know that love, Frodo Baggins.

            I don’t want to have her suffer my loss.  I won’t remain that long no matter what I do.

            She’s already suffered that loss repeatedly in the over thirty years she’s loved you.  At least if you let her love you as she desires and as you are coming to desire also you both would be able to rejoice and give thanks for having known that fulfillment.

            Frodo refused to answer the thought.  He noted, however, that this time the voice hadn’t called him Iorhael.

87

            “Will you be inviting Narcissa to your birthday party?” Pippin asked Frodo.

            Frodo gave a prolonged sigh.  “No, Pippin--I’ll not start raising hope in her heart for what I cannot give her.”

            Pippin gave a snort.  “And what could you not give her?  You have a wonderful hole, an excellent reputation....”

            Now it was Frodo’s turn to snort.  “An excellent reputation as one who refused to stand for election as Mayor?  Who’s managed to insult three-fourths of the Shire?  Who knows more Adunaic then he does social graces any more?  Who avoids his own older cousins because he can’t answer questions?”

            “How about the ability to make the person you’re with feel as if he--or she--is the most important person in the universe?  How about the ability to bring out the best in everyone you’re around?  How about the fact that she makes certain she is there every time you go to Hobbiton or Bywater so she can just watch you and listen to you tell your stories to the children?  And how about the fact that you’ve been wanting nothing but a wife and children of your own since you yourself were a bairn?”

            Frodo rounded on his younger cousin in exasperation.  “And what about the fact I might not be able to linger to see a child I might father born, much less grow up?  And then there’s the question as to whether or not I could even father a child.”

            Pippin had gone quite still.  “You’re not ill again, are you, Frodo?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching Frodo’s.

            Frodo shrugged, looking down.  “No, I seem to be mostly all right for the moment, other than the neck draining every couple months or so.  I’ve put weight back on again, and I’ve been able to walk all the way to Overhill and back a few times.  My shoulder aches from time to time, but it’s not been bad since midsummer.  I’ve been into Michel Delving four times over the summer to consult with those who’ve continued the investigations about Timono and his folk and to see to the continuing claims for reparations, and haven’t had bad problems with my stomach since the Free Fair.”

            “Then what gives you the idea you might not live to see a child born to you grow up?”

            Frodo looked up into Pippin’s eyes, knowing he couldn’t tell his cousin why he felt he didn’t have all that long.  Finally he shrugged.  “Forget I said that,” he suggested.

            “And how,” demanded the young Took, “am I supposed to forget a question like that, Frodo Baggins?”

            But Frodo just set his jaw stubbornly and went out of the hole.  Pippin followed after him.  “Frodo, stop!”  But when he got outside the door and looked about for his cousin, he couldn’t find him.

            He saw her when he went into Hobbiton to do the marketing the next day, saw her keeping a surreptitious watch on him.  He knew she still loved him, and knew she was one he could love in return.  He thought on Brendi’s words the afternoon the two of them had spent on top of the Hill, and knew Brendi was right.  After all, he himself had counseled Brendi to make the most of Merilinde’s last few months of life that they not regret what hadn’t happened.

            But he still felt this was different.  He’d not admitted to Pippin that he had nights on end when he couldn’t sleep for the knowledge that when he closed his eyes the nightmares would start.  He’d not admitted that there was a pain in his chest that came and went, although admittedly he’d not felt it in a bit better than a month.  He’d not admitted that his dreams when he didn’t have nightmares were increasingly of waves and white shores, and that in one recurring one he was running, running to get to a jetty to find he was too late, and that the grey ship was well out into the harbor as he arrived, its lights twinkling in the twilight, and he was left behind, alone on the quay, his heart pounding as he watched Bilbo’s ship disappear into the West without him.

            But I don’t want to leave my identity as a Hobbit.

            You are more than just a Hobbit, Iorhael.  You are a Lord of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. 

            But I belong to the Shire!

            Why do you not accept a marriage with one of Hobbit-kind who loves you in return, then?

            But I won’t live that long.

            None is guaranteed the next day, or the next after that, not even those of Elf-kind.  A successful marriage is not dependent on the length of time it lasts, but on the joy shared while it lasts.

            I don’t wish to leave her bereft when I must leave her.

            Usually one or the other must go first.  The Lady Arwen will know grief when her chosen Lord goes before her, yet it has not stopped her from accepting the joy of the present.

            But she will be able to know a hundred years with him ere that time comes.

            If he is not slain facing the enemy, or by an assassin.  Such have been common enough endings for his kind.

            When the Birthday came, he spent it quietly.  Paladin and Eglantine came from the Great Smial with Ferdi and Pimpernel; Freddy came with his personal physician and friend Budgie Smallfoot and Budgie’s wife Viola, the two of whom had married in June with Frodo officiating; Estella Bolger came with her friend Melilot Brandybuck; Merry and Pippin arrived from Crickhollow with Merry’s parents and Merimac and Berilac; the Cottons came also.  Frodo had sent gifts to Aragorn and Arwen, Mistress Loren and Lasgon, and to Master Iorhael as well as to Rivendell.  The Maggots had received a book of Bilbo’s poetry he’d recently copied out and bound; one of the two cases of peaches sent him from Gondor he sent to the Whitfoots in Michel Delving to share with Aster, Bucca, and the children; to Brendi, who had a commitment to meet with clients in the Southfarthing, he’d sent a book on the history of Gondor he’d ordered through Master Iorhael; to Narcissa he sent a book of poetry he’d received from Aragorn; to Daisy and Griffo he sent a basket of apples from the replanted orchard; to his young cousins Fosco and Forsythia he sent family trees for the Boffins, the Bagginses, the Bolgers, and the Tooks; to the folk on the Row he sent baskets of breads made from recipes from Gondor, with the picture he’d done of Aragorn newly crowned to young Pando, who’d become fascinated with the tales Frodo told of Gondor and its new King and Queen.

            He wore the blue suit he’d had made in Minas Tirith and which he’d worn there to a couple of feasts.  He’d left it in Gondor, not having room in his saddlebags for all the Shire outfits he’d had made; Mistress Loren had taken all of his clothing and sent it, putting those items which were clearly Gondorian in nature in the kist he’d used in the guest house, carefully packing the rest in a heavy canvas bag.

            Even though blue wasn’t commonly worn by menfolk in the Shire, Rosie loved this suit and told him repeatedly it flattered him, and saw to it he wore it frequently, including on his birthday.  Merry and Pippin smiled to see it on him, and told the tale of the feast in the Citadel to which he’d first worn it.  Paladin and Eglantine kept their questions under control and were quite gracious, and Frodo found himself glad he’d agreed to invite them.

            The Tooks and Bolgers didn’t remain the night, leaving a couple hours after sunset for the ride to Michel Delving where they were to meet with other major family heads the next day; Frodo soon after wished his remaining guests a good night and retreated to his bedroom, followed immediately by Rosie, who’d announced that day she’d learned she and Sam were expecting their first child in the early spring.  The rest of his guests continued to talk in the parlor for a time before they, too, retired.

            Saradoc had gone to the privy and was returning to the room in which he and Esmeralda were sleeping when he paused, listening, trying to locate the source of the sounds he now heard.  He realized it was the master bedroom, and that there were muffled cries.  Suddenly Frodo’s door opened, and Frodo emerged, knotting the belt of his dressing gown as he hurried to Sam and Rosie’s door.

            “Frodo?  What’s wrong?”

            Frodo turned to look at his older cousin, and Saradoc could see that his face was concerned.  “I think Sam’s having one of his nightmares,” Frodo said.  He knocked at the door.  “Rosie, it’s Frodo.  Can I help soothe him?”

            Rosie, her hair tousled and her own eyes worried, opened the door.  “Do, Master Frodo.  It seems to be the one where you two was havin’ to march with them orcs this time.  At least it’s not the one as where he’s climbin’--that one always leaves his legs achin’ the next day.”

            After Frodo disappeared inside, Sara went back to the kitchen.  He knew Merry often had bad dreams, and Paladin had spoken of the ones Pippin had apparently had.  That even Sam, who was one of the most well-grounded and stolid of individuals the Master had ever known, also had them concerned him somehow.  Frodo was looking decidedly better than he’d been when he’d visited Buckland in April, although he’d not been back since.  He’d spoken of possibly visiting in the winter.

            Frodo had always valued his privacy, and had equally valued his ability to simply slip his pack on his back and head off across the Shire pretty much whenever he pleased.  The first year he’d spent at Bag End had mostly been spent in the Hobbiton area; after that there were generally at least two trips to Brandy Hall a year, a visit at Paladin Took’s farm in the spring and one to the Great Smial usually not long after Paladin’s family would remove there for the winter or for Pippin’s birthday just before Yule, with other jaunts Bilbo and Frodo would take at odd moments throughout the year.  Now Frodo seemed to be becoming almost reclusive, particularly since the debacle of the Free Fair.  Sara missed the visits, and found the apparent need to come to the center of the Shire in order to see Frodo disturbing.

            He went to the kitchen, and after a short time he was joined by Sam’s wife.  She paused as she saw him there, a mug of tea he’d brewed himself before him.  “Mister Saradoc, sir,” she said with a bob of her head.  “Is there aught I can get for you?”

            He smiled and shrugged.  “No--just wasn’t sleeping well, and was startled to learn Sam has nightmares.”

            “They all do, from what I can tell,” Rosie said.  “Sam’s isn’t as frequent as Master Frodo’s, but they do come from time to time.”

            “What was this about marching with goblins?”

            “It was while they was in Mordor--was tryin’ to take the easy paths, and got caught by a troop of orcs bein’ sent to the Black Gate ’cause the Army of the West was headin’ there.  The leaders thought Sam and the Master was ones as was tryin’ to run away, and got them into the line and forced them to march.  Sam still gets right heated when he members how they beat Master Frodo to make him march faster.”

            Saradoc Brandybuck was taken equally aback by both the story and the matter-of-fact way in which in which Rosie stated it, as if it were precisely the way in which she expected the situation to have run.  “How did they escape?”

            “Well,” she answered, “as they come to a waymeet another troop of orcs and the one they was in got there the same time, and in the confusion Sam drew Master Frodo down to the ground, and they crawled away while the fightin’ was still goin’ on.  Sam says as that that’s the way with orcs--if’n they don’t have proper enemies to fight with, they’ll fight amongst themselves.”

            “You say this happened in Mordor?” Saradoc asked.

            “Yes.  That was where my Sam and Master Frodo went after they left the others.  Mr. Boromir wanted them all to go to Minas Tirith, and Master Frodo knew as that wasn’t no good for him, for that was where Sauron was goin’ to send his army anyways.  No good tryin’ to get to the Mountain from there if’n they had to hide from all the forces of Mordor along the way.  And he knew as he had to get away from the rest so as It didn’t break ’em all.”

            “Where were Merry and Pippin?”

            “They went another way.  After Master Frodo broke away and Sam followed him, the rest was attacked, and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin was carried away toward Isengard, which is the other way from Mordor, and Mr. Boromir was killed tryin’ to protect them.  Lord Strider, Mr. Legolas, and Mr. Gimli followed after them, not bein’ certain as to if’n they was alive or not.  Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin was took to Fangorn Forest, where they managed to escape when the ones as took ’em was attacked by the Riders o’ Rohan, and went to hide in the forest, and that’s where they met the Ents as give ’em the drinks as made them grow so.”

            “Where was Gandalf?”

            “Well, from what my Sam says, he was dead.”

            Saradoc was startled.  “Dead?  A wizard can die?”

            “Well,” she said slowly, “apparently their bodies can die as well as any other’s; but the Powers and the Creator wanted him back here, so they sent him back, and this time they made certain as it was obvious as he was the chief of the Wizards.  That Saruman, as they called Sharkey when he come here, he used to be the chief, or the White as they called it.  But he fell and needed to be bested.  The Ents knew as how to best him, they did--marched on Isengard where he’d holed up, waited till his army marched away to attack Rohan, and then they tore the place up and trapped him inside his own tower until the war was over and Sauron gone, and then they let him go.  Had no idea as he’d do what he did here.  Merry and Pippin got to watch it all, they did.  And they think as part of why once he got here he had his folk cuttin’ down so many trees was perhaps ’cause he was still angry at the Ents, them bein’ tree folk and all.”

            “The Powers and the Creator sent Gandalf back?”

            “Yes, they sent him back--redid his body or some such--no one’s certain as how they did it, only he told the rest that he was dead for a time, and then he was sent back and woke in his body again on the mountainside where he’d died.”

            “Did the others know he’d died?”

            She nodded.  “They saw him fall with some kind o’ demon, down a ravine.”

            Somehow that didn’t make sense.  “He fell down a ravine, but he woke on a mountainside?”

            “The ravine was in Moria, the haunted Dwarf kingdom under Redhorn Mountain.  There’s a lake at the bottom, Mr. Gandalf told ’em, and him and the demon fell in that; and the two of them was fightin’ the whole time they fell.  They got out of the lake and the demon run from him till he come to a stair, and Mr. Gandalf followed him, all the way up the stair to the lookout tower as is on top o’ the mountain, and then they started fightin’ again.  Finally Mr. Gandalf was able to kill the demon, but it had took all he had in him, so he finally died.  Then he was sent back to his body, and the Great Eagles was sent to carry him to Lothlorien, and then from there once he was certain as he was alive again to Fangorn.  He was there when Lord Strider arrived there with Mr. Legolas and Mr. Gimli after they’d tracked Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin there.”

            “It was a shock to all of us, when each of us saw him the first time,” Frodo said from the passageway to the bedrooms.

            Sara looked at him, a bit startled, for he’d not heard the approach.  “When did you see him first?”

            “After our rescue, when Sam and I finally awoke in Ithilien.  He was standing over me as I woke.  I thought it was proof I was dead.  To learn we were both living was--was a bit of a shock.”

            “I can imagine.”

            Frodo looked at Rosie.  “He’s sleeping again, and I don’t think he’ll dream of it again--not now.  Now I’m going back to bed as well.  Good night to both of you.”  So saying, Frodo turned and disappeared back down the passageway as quietly as he’d come, and Sara watched after, frustrated, for he’d have loved to have learned more, had Frodo only lingered.

            He finished his tea, and at last made his own way down the passage, then heard talking in Frodo’s room.  He looked in to see Pippin there, standing over Frodo, who sat on the edge of the bed.  “You can’t fool me, Frodo Baggins,” he was saying.

            “So I was having one of my own.  It appears one of the nights for them.”  Frodo looked at the window where the curtains swayed in the gusts of wind that managed to make it around the frame.  “So, which one were you having?”

            “Seeing Merry’s face with the blood on it, just before they poured the orc draught down him.  Which one for you?”

            Frodo shrugged.  “Having It on and having the five--the five of them coming at me.”

            “Weathertop, then.”

            After a moment Frodo nodded.  Pippin reached down to set his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.  “What a way to celebrate the end of your birthday--a windstorm setting us all off.”  He straightened.  “I’ll give a look in at Merry, make certain he isn’t having one, too.”

            Saradoc stepped back, then turned toward the room that was Merry’s here in Bag End, gently opened the door and went in.  Merry lay on his back on the oversized bed Paladin had sent for this room.  He was apparently awake, staring at the ceiling, his face pale in the light filtering in from the rushlight in the passage.  He turned his face to look at the one coming in.  “Pippin?” he began, then paused.  “Hi, Dad.”

            “Hello, son.  Just overheard Pippin saying he would look in on you in a moment, but thought I’d beat him to it.” The Master of Brandy Hall and Buckland made his way to the bed and sat on the edge of it.  “So,” he continued, “windstorms can set the nightmares off, can they?”

            Merry nodded.  “But lightning storms are worse for them.  And they affect Frodo the most of us all.”

            “I see.  What’s an orc draught?”

            Merry shuddered.  “Nasty stuff, and I hate to think what might be in it.  Burns as it goes down--but it revives you, believe me.  Must be some alcohol in it.”

            “Where’d you taste that?”

            Merry looked away toward the window and visibly shuddered again.  At last he murmured, “In Rohan, I think, although it might have been still in Anorien.  I’m not certain precisely what route we took.”  He turned back to look again at his father.  “Did one of us wake you up?”

            “No--I wasn’t sleeping all that well myself, and had gone to the privy and was on my way back when I heard Sam crying out, and then----”

            “And Frodo was hurrying to check on him--probably waking from one of his own.”

            “Apparently you all had them tonight.  Can I get you some tea or something, Son?”

            Merry finally sat himself up.  “No,” he said thoughtfully.  “I have some water here, and I think that’s all I need.”

            “What kind of nightmare did you have?”

            Merry shook his head.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”  He looked back at his father.  “Pippin dreamt of the orc draught, I suppose?”

            “He said he dreamt of your face with the blood on it, just before you were given it.”

            Again Merry shuddered.  “Awful stuff,” he murmured.  His hands were shaking slightly as he reached for the carafe of water, and Saradoc took it and poured the small tumbler full himself.  “Thanks,” Merry murmured as he accepted it and drank.  He set the glass down on the bedside table.  He grimaced.  “Even in memory orc draughts are nasty.  Thanks for checking on me, Dad.”

            “What else are fathers for?” Sara asked.  “Sweet dreams, Merry.”  He’d have liked to ask more, but still didn’t feel comfortable, knowing how Merry hated feeling probed.  He rose and leaned over his son, gently kissing his brow.  “Love you, Son,” he said softly, and he saw Merry smile before he turned to leave the room.

            Pippin stood waiting in the passage.  “He have one, too?” he asked.

            Sara nodded.  “Wouldn’t tell me what it was about, though.”

            Pippin gave a small nod.  “No, he and Frodo are alike that way.  I was surprised Frodo told me tonight.  I thought you might have heard us.”  He gave a stretch.  “Well, I’ll be back off to my own bed, then.  Night, Uncle Sara.

            “Good night, Pippin.”

            A week later Freddy was back, having spent a few days in Overhill with Folco.  Wisteria Boffin, Folco’s mother, had died three weeks previously, and Folco was beginning to sort out her clothing and such and seeing it properly disposed of.  Freddy, knowing how upset Folco was likely to be, had decided to be there to help as needed, and provide a shoulder to cry on should his cousin need one.  It was the first time he’d been anywhere on his own in months, and he was feeling rather proud of himself.

            “Folco was sorry to miss the party, you know, but----”

            “I understand,” Frodo said, his expression sad.  “Ponto is still hanging on, but it’s difficult for him, being bedridden most of the time.  But he’s much better since their furniture and most of their possessions were restored.  Milo, however, is actively beginning to fade.  Peony’s death shook him terribly, coming so fast on the realization she was the one who let Lotho know I was selling Bag End and thus giving him the means to take possession of the deed to Ponto and Iris’s place.”  He sighed, glancing toward the window.  “So many of the older ones are finally getting ready to leave us,” he said softly.

            “What do you hear from Bilbo?”

            Frodo remained quiet for a time.  Finally he said softly, “They were going to try to bring him home this fall, but have changed their minds.”

            “Why?”

            Frodo shrugged, avoiding Freddy’s eyes.  “He’s a hundred thirty, after all.  He seems determined to survive another year so as to pass up the Old Took.”

            “Were they--were they going to bring him back so----”

            “So he could die a Hobbit of the Shire?” Frodo finished bluntly, looking at his cousin at last.  “I suspect that was it.”

            “But he decided not to come back after all?”

            “There’s something else.”  But what that something else was Frodo wouldn’t say, and the set of his jaw indicated he wouldn’t tell no matter what.

            “Well, I insist you come to our place next week, Frodo.”

            “Why?”

            Freddy gave a sigh of frustration.  “Look at you, Frodo Baggins--you’ve never spent so much time home alone in your life, and you know it.  You need to get out and do some visiting and get back into life again.  You rode to Michel Delving not long ago, so I know you can make it to Budgeford.  I insist you come for our birthdays, Budgie’s and mine.  Mine is the fifth and his is the seventh, and we’re having a party on the sixth of October for both of us, combining them.”  The coaxing went on for the rest of the evening, and finally Frodo agreed.

            The morning of the sixth he woke, feeling restless and uncertain, remembering what had occurred two years ago the coming evening.  But, he thought, that had nothing to do with now.  He was past that now; he was recovering.  But when Sam looked into the study where Frodo was gathering together the next chapter he’d written of the story of their adventures to take to Freddy, who was reading and offering criticism as it went on, Frodo was looking off through the window with a distracted expression on his face, holding onto his shoulder, which was aching in spite of the beauty of the clear fall day.  “It’s nothing, Sam.  It’s only--only that I’ve been wounded by knife, sting, and tooth, and it will never really heal, you know,” he commented as he rubbed his shoulder and looked up apologetically at Sam; then he purposefully straightened and finished his straightening of the room before returning with the manuscript to his bedroom where his saddlebags lay waiting.

            Sam had been to the stable at the Ivy Bush and had brought Strider up to the door of Bag End.  Once Frodo was mounted, the gardener looked up at him.  “I’m thinkin, Master,” he said, “of puttin’ up a proper stable of our own for Strider, Bill, and Berry, down there near the paddock at the corner of the Party Field.  Then we wouldn’t have to board them no more.”

            Frodo smiled.  “And then you’d be able to visit Bill daily and groom him yourself?” he suggested.

            Sam shrugged, flushing gently.  “Well, there’s that, too.  I find I do like the idea as to havin’ ponies of my own.”

            Frodo laughed, and Sam’s concerns about Frodo going to Budgeford on today of all days gave way.

            Frodo had enjoyed himself thoroughly during the party for Freddy and Budgie, and all had appeared fine until Frodo went to bed, at which time all had become terribly frightening.  Last year as he’d ridden through the Ford of Bruinen, Frodo had been overwhelmed with combined images of the Nazgul stooping over him in the dell beneath Weathertop and the Nine all gathered on the other side of the Ford when their combined will had been enough to force him to stop Asfaloth and turn and face them across the water.  Yet last year he’d been able to keep on going, and after a day or two had apparently recovered.  This time there was no ford to bring the images back into his mind, and he’d not thought of Black Riders or Morgul wounds since he left Bag End that morning--only to be completely felled there in Freddy’s spare bedroom.  What sparked the images he had no idea; only one moment he was removing his trousers, leaning one hand on the back of a chair; the next he was on the floor in a tangle, lost in the memories, feeling he was back there, back in that dell, having the Morgul knife thrust into his shoulder once more.

            “What was that?” Budgie asked his employer and friend, hearing the crash.

            Viola looked into the parlor from the kitchen.  “I think as Mr. Frodo must have fallen or something in his room,” she said.

            Freddy and Budgie were already rising and hurrying to the room given to the use of Freddy’s cousin.

            Frodo lay in a heap with the chair on which he’d been leaning, one leg almost but not quite free of his trousers leg.  His face was completely devoid of color and he was digging at the neck of his shirt for something.  Between the two of them Budgie and Freddy got him onto the bed, and finally Frodo clutched at that gem he wore on the chain about his neck.  His heart was pounding, racing; he was fairly gasping for breath.  Budgie was shocked and appalled at what he heard in their guest’s chest; Freddy was terrified at what they saw once they got Frodo’s shirt off him, for there was a pair of black, weeping, open wounds on the back of Frodo’s neck, and scars the like of which he’d never seen on Frodo’s back and shoulder.

            When at last Budgie had a draught intended to ease the strain on Frodo’s heart down him, the wounds on the back of his neck cleansed and bandaged, a clean nightshirt on him, and Frodo finally asleep in a freshly made bed, he, Viola, and Freddy retreated to the kitchen.  Freddy had been so shaken he’d needed his own draught to ease his heart, which all knew had been compromised by his time in the Lockholes.

            “I’ve never seen anything like that,” Freddy was repeating still once again.  He looked at Budgie.  “You say that the ones on his back have to have been from him being beaten?”

            Reluctantly Budgie nodded.  “One of Sharkey’s Big Men liked using a whip, and beat several young Hobbits around my village until their backs were flayed open.  Who did that to your cousin Frodo?”

            “It had to be during their travels,” Freddy said.  “All four say that Frodo and Sam were separated from the rest for a time.”

            “Does Sam have such wounds?”

            “I don’t think so,” Freddy said.  “He took his shirt off one time when I was there over the summer and he was replacing paving stones about the well, and there were a few scars that looked as if they might have been due to burns, but nothing like that.”

            “Burns?  What makes you think they were due to burns?”

            Freddy loosened the cuff of his shirt, exposing an old scar on his wrist.  “I did that when I was about nine, not using a glove when I went to take a tray of cakes out of the oven.  I know what burns look like, Budgie.”

            “Well, there are some scars on your cousin Frodo as looks as if they, too, might be due to burns.  Those there on his back, though--those are due to being lashed.  But how would someone like Samwise Gamgee get burned on his back?”  Budgie shook his head and reached into his trousers pocket to bring out the envelope Frodo had given him on his arrival.  He slit it open with his thumbnail and pulled out a letter and a parchment packet.  He looked in the packet first.  “Kingsfoil?” he asked.

            Viola looked at him with curiosity.  “What about kingsfoil?”

            “Sam sent leaves of kingsfoil--admittedly large ones, but still kingsfoil.”  Budgie unfolded the letter, and his expression darkened somewhat.  “It appears that Frodo’s Sam has become convinced that kingsfoil is a sovereign remedy as far as his master is concerned, and has sent him a couple waterskins of it made into a tea, and some leaves to put into his bath if he appears to be weak, especially tired, sad, or has a headache.”

            Viola gave a sniff.  “Our village healer suggested the same--the kingsfoil leaves in a bath for the same reasons, and it made into a tea with willowbark for headache or women’s troubles,” she commented.

            Freddy considered.  “He did specifically ask for Sam’s tea as if he is accustomed to it helping him.”

            Budgie, however, was shaking his head.  “Kingsfoil is but a superstition,” he insisted.  “My master when I was doing my apprenticeship said it had never helped his patients.  But just believing something might work can help a person feel better at times.”

            “But you advised me that not all herbs work the same for everyone,” Freddy pointed out.  “Perhaps Frodo is just one of those for whom kingsfoil is particularly good?”

            Budgie shrugged.  “I’d like to know how the wound was done to the back of his neck.”

            “He told you--he was bitten by a great spider.”

            The healer again was shaking his head, an indulgent look on his face.  “You don’t believe in giant spiders, do you?”

            “Budgie, Frodo isn’t given to lying.”

            “But he also admitted he doesn’t fully remember what happened to him,” Budgie pointed out.

            “I doubt he’d forget a thing like that,” Freddy responded.

            “And how did he lose his finger?” Viola wanted to know.

            “He won’t say,” Freddy said.  “It doesn’t seem to hurt him, or keep him from writing or drawing.”

            “What I know,” Budgie said slowly, “is that your cousin has been very badly hurt and appears to know a great deal of pain from whatever happened to him.   Do you have any idea what caused the scar on his shoulder?”

            “He was stabbed there by the Black Riders.  One had a--a cursed knife or sword or something.  He’s told me he was advised it won’t ever properly heal.”

            “A cursed knife?”  Budgie’s voice was completely skeptical.  “And why should I believe in these Black Riders?”

            Freddy was beginning to feel angry.  “Perhaps because I’ve seen them, as well as Merry, Pippin, Sam, and Frodo--not to mention Farmer Maggot and Gaffer Gamgee!”

            Budgie paused at that, realizing that perhaps he ought not to be so skeptical.  But believing in all he’d heard of the experiences the Travelers had done did stretch his belief beyond the breaking point.  Giant spiders and magical draughts that made Hobbits grow more than any of their kind ought to?

            Viola persisted, “And why do you insist kingsfoil wouldn’t really help?  It certainly helped my Gamma, who was given to headaches as would about tear her apart at times.”

            Budgie was wary, for this was one subject on which the two of them had quarreled at times.  Just seeing his expression, however, was enough to let her know how his thought was running.  Her own jaw clenched.  “Just ’cause gentlehobbits don’t have such headaches as much as lasses and ladies do doesn’t mean they’re naught but in our imaginations, you know.  Menfolk don’t have a corner on ‘real’ illnesses, after all.”

            “I didn’t mean that it’s not real....”

            But she cut him off.  “Really, Budgie Smallfoot, you can’t limit what you’ll believe is true only to what you’ve seen and known yourself, you know.  There could well be a great deal out there in the world which you haven’t had the chance to experience.  Just how many have you known besides Mr. Frodo and them as have been even to Bree, much less beyond it?”

            In the end Budgie had to admit she had a point, but he still had his doubts.  As with every healer worth his salt, Budgie knew that belief something would help symptoms was sometimes enough in itself to aid the individual to feel better.  Imagination and belief and attitude all were as important to healing as rest, proper exercise and food, water, and appropriate herbs.  Certainly if Sam and Frodo were both convinced kingsfoil helped Frodo, not letting Frodo have his kingsfoil tea could possibly cause the symptoms to get worse.

            What Budgie had noted and been reluctant to speak openly was that Frodo’s heart appeared heavily burdened, and that its beat indicated he’d probably had a seizure of his heart, but leaving different damage than that experienced by Fredegar Bolger.  Looking at the still rather extreme thinness of Frodo Baggins and other signs, Budgie believed that the Hobbit’s heart was near to failing due to prolonged stress.  Whatever Frodo had experienced, Budgie felt it was a miracle the Hobbit was alive at all.  There was hidden scarring there that had left Frodo’s health very precarious--of this he was certain.  And so he began concocting a draught he hoped would help the Hobbit, although he feared that the damage had gone on too long at this point to be fully remedied.  Too long and too deep, he thought, not realizing that in Minas Tirith and in Rivendell that night other healers more familiar with Frodo’s condition were also worried about too long and too deep.

88

      Frodo hadn’t been able to eat much at a time for the remainder of his stay in Budgeford, and the evening he spent in Budge Hall with his Uncle Odovacar and Aunt Rosamunda, Freddy and Estella, was most uncomfortable.  He was anxious and distracted, and he ate next to nothing.  Odovacar had tried to draw him out, but Frodo would just shrug and make noncommittal answers, and finally explained that he was suffering from a terrible headache and wished to return to Freddy’s place and go back to bed.  Certainly he was remarkably pale even for himself, and the look on his face when at last he was back in Freddy’s guest room showed so much relief that Freddy and Budgie both felt he’d not been dissembling about the headache.

      Early the next morning he indicated he was returning to Hobbiton, and seeing the stubborn set to his jaw Budgie went to the stable to see Strider saddled and bridled and prepared for the journey.  Frodo had to use the mounting block, but once settled, he’d quietly offered his thanks for their hospitality and turned decidedly toward home.

      Sam heard the approach up the lane to the steps to Bag End, and hurried out to take Strider’s bridle as Frodo, rather heavily, dismounted.  One look was enough to show Frodo had been ill but had no intention of admitting the fact.

      “Did you have a good visit, Master?” Sam asked for form’s sake.

      “The birthday party was wonderful,” Frodo answered, which Sam figured was likely to be true; but that he didn’t go on to say the same of the rest of the stay Sam found enlightening.  “I’ve decided,” Frodo continued, “to work more steadily on my book.  Bilbo--Bilbo won’t be around that much longer to be able to read it, of course.  And I did promise.”

      He did go into the study to write regularly every day, but Sam was still concerned.  Budgie had sent a bottle of his own draught of which Frodo indicated he was to take a spoonful mixed in water twice a day, and he was to drink as much water as possible.  Frodo followed these directions faithfully enough, but that was, from what Sam could tell, all he was doing.  Having been convinced by Budgie that Sam’s tea wasn’t particularly efficacious, Frodo had stopped drinking it.  He tried eating, but even small amounts he found he couldn’t keep down, and by the fourteenth of October he wasn’t even trying to eat.  He was suffering from chronic headaches, and his shoulder ached abominably.  His dreams were beyond disturbing--they’d become full of images of death and despair and destruction, and once again as had happened while he’d borne the shard of the Morgul blade his vision seemed blurred as if a grey mist stood between himself and the rest of the world.  Frodo became obsessed with the idea of hiding his condition, and even had himself convinced he was doing so successfully.

      For Sam and Rosie, however, it was obvious things weren’t well with the Master.  Rosie would bring Frodo small plates on an hourly basis, and he’d smile distantly and accept them, and return the plates empty--and Sam discovered the contents had been hidden in the vase on his desk, thrown out the window into the garden, or otherwise disposed of.  On the fifteenth he found an entire bread roll filled with roast beef had been secreted in the pocket of Frodo’s jacket, while he had carrot strips stuffed in beside his pocket watch and apple slices hidden between the bottles of ink on his desk.

      Sam and Rosie changed tactics, and began presenting small mugs of broth instead of solid food.  From the sixteenth to the twentieth he’d drink them, and then he stopped accepting even that.

      “What’s bothering him so?” Rosie demanded.

      Sam shook his head, peering down the passage from the kitchen toward the study as if he could see not only through the closed door but into the hidden portions of his beloved Master’s brain.  “It’s the anniversary, I think,” he murmured.  He looked briefly at the confusion in Rosie’s eyes and tried to explain.  “It was on the sixth of October, two weeks after we left, as he was stabbed by the Black Riders at Weathertop.  The shard of the Morgul knife was in him seventeen days.  Afore he left to go to Mr. Freddy’s, he was rubbin’ at his shoulder as if it was aching, and I’m certain as he thought as that was as much as it was goin’ to hurt him that day.  I know as I thought as that would be it, as he was so cheerful when he left, you know.  But apparently we was both wrong.

      “I suspect as he’ll just keep gettin’ worse till the twenty-third, which was the anniversary of when Lord Elrond was able to get the thing out o’ him.”

      “He can’t go on as he is, though, Sam--not eatin’ and all.”

      Sam looked off toward the study again, and shook his head.  “You’d be surprised, love, to know as what he can bear with.  He’s a stubborn Baggins, after all, and he’s already done far more than he’s doing now.”  But the concern in his eyes didn’t lighten.

      On the evening of the twenty-second the crisis came as Frodo collapsed in his study, falling against the door and making it supremely difficult for Sam to get to him to extricate him and get him to his bed.  Finally that night he agreed to accept some broth and a mug of Sam’s tea in exchange for Sam taking him up to the top of the Hill.  The night was clear and cold, the stars particularly bright.  The anxiety Frodo had been under for the past sixteen days finally broke, believing that he’d reached, in one way or another, a day of reckoning.  Sam had brought a heavy rug to lie on to protect Frodo from the coldness of the earth, and three blankets, and he lay down beside his Master to see him through the night; but it was well worth it, he felt, to feel the tension finally ease, to feel the relaxation as Frodo finally let go of the fear.

*******

      On October sixth Elrond looked up into Elladan’s face.  “Why do you wish to ride out tonight of all nights, ion nín?” he asked.

      “I know the report Mithrandir gave of the Ringbearer’s reaction a year ago, Adar.  I would go to his side.  He is in distress.”

      “Elladan, it must be his decision.”

      “I know--but I would not see him let himself die before he has the chance to appreciate what the choice means to him.”

      “You cannot deny him the right to accept the Gift when he wishes.”

      “And if he believes he wishes to accept it for the wrong reason?”

      Elrond sighed, seeing the determination in his son’s eyes.  “And for whose sake do you do this?”

      “As much for Estel as for Iorhael himself--I admit that freely.”

      The Lord of Imladris gave a small nod.  “Go then, and may the Valar light your road.”

      Elrohir waited in the hall.  “He has granted his permission?”

      “I’d have gone had he not done so.”

      “I know that, muindor nín.  Shall I ride with you?”

      Elladan looked back over his shoulder.  “No, Elrohir--bide by him.  I would not have him feel we leave him ere he is ready to go from us.”

      His brother nodded.  “Go then, and may the stars shine upon you.  Bear my blessings to him as well.”

      As Elladan led his horse out into the court Glorfindel emerged from the Last Homely House.  “You go to the Ringbearer?” the golden-haired Elf asked.

      “Yes.”

      “I will let your sister know, then, that she may reassure Estel.  Iluvatar guide you and Frodo.”  He reached out and clasped the younger Elf’s arm.  “Ride well, youngling.”

*******

      Aragorn had been quiet much of the sixth of October, and when the business of the day was over wrapped his grey cloak about him and, after kissing his wife tenderly, slipped out of the Citadel, down to the Sixth Circle, and having gained access to the Rath Dinen went through it to the secret gate and up to the King’s Hallow.  There he remained through the evening and the night, coming down only after the Sun rose over the walls of the Ephel Duath.

      Arwen awaited him before the White Tree, which stood a good fourteen feet high now.

      “My beloved,” he said, moving into her arms.

      “Elladan has ridden to be by him.”

      “He has?  I am relieved.”

      “He may not choose to linger, Estel.”

      Aragorn sighed.  “It must be his decision,” he said quietly.  “That these days reawaken the worst of his memories and hide the best of them is not fair.  Not--” he added, “--that life tends to be fair.”  He held her close to him, taking comfort in her presence.

*******

      Frodo woke, blinking, trying to identify where he was.  He was lying by Sam, and had Sam’s arm about him.  He was lying under the stars.  He could smell Sam’s scent, and healthy soil quieting for the winter.  The breeze on his face was cold, but the rug beneath and the blankets about the two of them were warm and smelled clean, fresh.  It was the odor of the Shire at the end of fall.  He was safe--not in Mordor--not lost along the road.  His heart was laboring, and he knew it.  Was--was it time to let go?

      May the stars shine upon you, Ringbearer.

      The thought was not the one he’d become accustomed to hearing, and yet was familiar.  He turned his head slightly, not enough to waken Sam, looked up through the haze.  A shining form knelt near him, was smiling at him.  He was able to focus.

      “My Lord Elladan,” he whispered, knowing somehow which brother it was.

      Sam has done his best to surround you with protection, with the intent of healing and strengthening, with the delight of beauty.

      Frodo carefully focused his own thoughts:  And with love.

      The Elf kneeling beside him smiled.  Yes, he has indeed done his best to surround you with love.  Elladan gently brushed Frodo’s forehead, laid his hand upon Frodo’s shoulder near where his neck joined it, felt the pulse, let his fingers feel deep....

      Frodo closed his eyes again and felt warmth spread out from the Elf’s fingertips, and from where he lay against Sam.  He knew that somehow Sam’s being had been waiting for this to release that warmth through him, to reflect it through his body, to enlighten his spirit.  He took a deeper breath, a freer one than he’d known in days.  I needed to be beneath the stars.  If I must go, I want to do it beneath the stars.

      And you have determined it is time for you to let go?  Frodo considered that question.  Finally Elladan’s thought continued, Do you wish to go now?  To accept the Gift at this time?

      It seemed difficult to finish the consideration he was giving the questions set him.  Finally he responded, I’d like to see at least Sam and Rosie’s firstborn.

      Elladan straightened, and Frodo sensed relief in him.  It must be your choice, Cormacolindor.

      Did Aragorn send you?

      He is undoubtedly relieved I did come, but he didn’t send me or think to ask.

      Elladan reached into the bag that lay by him, brought out a wafer of lembas.  He quietly broke off a corner of the wafer and placed it in Frodo’s mouth.  As Frodo finally swallowed it Elrond’s son smiled again.  The Elf shifted his attention to Sam’s face, and his smile changed, grew warm.  He is of great heart, Frodo.

      I wish I were more like unto him.

      Amused grey eyes met Frodo’s blue ones.  You would have Middle Earth know two of him at the same time?  Is it ready for such a concentration of will?  Frodo felt himself again under consideration.  Nay, an unfair question.  Your own will is as great as his or greater, and has ever been so, although it is expressed differently.  You have ever needed such as he to balance you, to keep you grounded.  You two and Estel make quite the trio.  With such as the three of you born among mortals, Middle Earth will ever be able to weather what evils it must face, even after we have left it to your descendants.