Well-Earned Comfort

By: Elemmírë

Summary: Frodo’s poor feet that traveled so very far from his home in the Shire, receive some tending by Aragorn. This is mostly book-verse, but there are teensy reference(s) of movie-verse.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings does not belong to me, nor am I making any profit off either its story or characters.

Author’s Note: Although I had started writing this particular story with Shirebound in mind when I read her “wish list” on LJ, it is to Antane that I must send a special thank you to, for her hopeful encouragement as I wrote it.

Field of Cormallen, Ithilien

Two days after the One Ring went into the fires of Mt. Doom

It was just after luncheon when Aragorn gathered the necessary supplies and made his way to the tent that housed the recovered Ring-bearers. It was currently Gandalf who sat watch inside the enclosure, having seated himself between the two makeshift beds that each contained a hobbit lying deep in the healing sleep enforced upon him.

Aragorn first checked on Sam and treated him, before moving to where Frodo lay. The Ring-bearer remained deathly pale; his skin shone with a waxen hue, his struggled breathing less labored yet still shallow since the company had moved to the fresh air and fair skies of Ithilien. Aragorn laid a gentle hand to Frodo's forehead, frowning when he felt the continued burning of fever brought on by infection plaguing a few of the hobbit’s many grievous wounds. He gave a mighty sigh as he tenderly brushed a stray curl from Frodo's closed eyes with a finger. If only you were not to suffer so my friend, he thought.

Both Frodo and Sam had been at the very brink of death when they had been carried by the Eagles to them only two days ago, yet it seemed so much longer. They were only slightly improved from that assessment. Both were covered in a multitude of cuts, bruises and burns and Frodo in particular, bore the marks of having been beaten with an orcs’s heavy whip at some point after the Fellowship had been separated. Both hobbits were so severely dehydrated that Aragorn still feared permanent kidney damage, especially in Frodo who had also lost a great amount of blood from his missing finger. Both were also extremely malnourished for a hobbit; poor Sam was no longer very stout at all and both Man and Wizard could very easily count all of Frodo’s ribs with their eyes alone--poor Frodo who’d had so little to spare to begin with, already being of slender build. There was also the strange circular mark at the back of Frodo’s neck, as if something very large and dreadful had pierced him there. When laying his hand upon it, Gandalf had only stated that great Evil still remained in the deep wound, which was now one of several festering with infection.

Being careful of the whip welts that wound their way across the little one's back and side, Aragorn easily scooped Frodo up into his arms, settling the limp form that now weighed no more than a toddler child of Men into his lap. The Ranger heard Gandalf sigh also, along with the rustling of the wizard’s once gleaming white robes that were now stained with the blood and grime of too many battles fought.

"Please allow me to help you, Aragorn, as it was I that initially bid him on this dark path,” Gandalf beseeched, holding his hands out.

Understanding that the great wizard felt as powerless as the rest of the Fellowship in regards to the horrific conditions of Frodo and Sam, Aragorn indulged Gandalf’s need to do something--anything--that might be of help. He nodded silently and with a tenderness that belied his large, battle-worn hands that so often handled a great sword, he eased the small Ring-bearer into Gandalf’s open and waiting arms.

Gandalf settled himself down, sitting cross-legged onto the grass floor of the tent; in front of him rested a shallow wooden washtub that was filled three-quarters of the way with sparkling clean water from the nearby river. Just as carefully as Aragorn had handled the wounded Ring-bearer, Gandalf positioned Frodo so that the hobbit was cradled in his arms like a babe, his head of dark matted curls nestled in the crook of an elbow whilst his bare tattered feet dangled lifelessly over the opposite knee. A brief memory of once holding Frodo thus when he’d been a child came to the wizard’s mind. As quickly as it had surfaced, the happy memory disappeared, for Gandalf was greatly saddened as he peered down into his friend’s lax features that had always been so animated with the fullness of Life when awake and peace when asleep.

Aragorn dragged the washtub a bit closer, a small amount of the clean water sloshing over the rim. Then one at a time, he eased Frodo’s poor feet that had carried him so very far across the leagues spanning Middle-eath from his home in the peacefulness of the Shire, into the lukewarm water of the tub.

“It is just Gandalf and I, Frodo. We’re going to get you cleaned up a bit more. You and Sam are safe.” He did not know whether or not the little one could hear him, but he explained anyway as he lay a hand on the side Frodo’s head, near one of the delicately pointed ears. The hobbit did not stir.

Wizard and Man frowned deeply as the crystal clear water contained in the shallow, wooden washtub in which Frodo's battered feet were soaking rapidly turned black. Aragorn shook his head at all the filth, grime, and blood that had been so deeply ingrained into the hobbit's normally fair skin. This was not the first time the Ring-bearer's feet had been cleansed, but cursorily wiping them off with a wet cloth had not done a satisfactory job for they were covered with so many hurts that to simply scrub them clean would have caused the little one pain and great discomfort. A sufficient soak was needed first in order to loose the black filth of Mordor from the feet that had traveled so very, very far from the soft, green grass of the Shire.

There had, of course, been other more pressing concerns at the time like stopping the bleeding from Frodo's now maimed hand and whether he was even going to live long enough to do naught else to care for his grievous hurts that were almost too numerous to count.

So now with the thousands who had followed Aragorn into the last battle at the Black Gate set up into a camp, the rest of the injured settled, the prisoners made comfortable until their fate was decided, Pippin found and treated, and supplies sent for from the White City (along with Merry), Aragorn could now turn his full concentration upon that which mattered the most to him right now … the healing and comfort of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, heroes both to all of Middle-earth.

With the greatest of gentleness belied by his large hands, Aragorn lifted the hobbit's soaking feet from the tainted water, withdrew the small tub for emptying, and replaced it with another containing fresh, clear water from the nearby river. Gandalf’s once white robes now acquired the stains of dirt and blood from Frodo’s feet as the filthy water dripped from them to intermingle with the stains already marring the wizard’s garb. Gandalf did not care; of all the spots tarnishing his new robes, these were the most honorable for him to bear. Hobbits were truly amazing creatures and the four here now in Ithilien and Gondor perhaps the most of all.

Aragorn gently eased Frodo’s tattered, bare feet back into the tepid water, watching the pale little face with hopeful expectation for any reaction. There was none.

The soon-to-be King sighed heavily. Maybe he was expecting too much from Frodo too soon. He did not wish to deny the Ring-bearer his hard-earned rest, for Eru knew the little one deserved it for all the ravages his body and mind had endured the past 6½ months on a quest taken up willingly when no other--not even himself--would dare attempt. However despite the healing sleep enforced upon him, it was Sam who (though still asleep) had moved for the first time on his own early that very morning. Aragorn only wished for Frodo to show some sign of life other than the too shallow breathing of his bruised, emaciated chest.

Adding soap shavings and peppermint oil to the fresh water, Aragorn mentally chastised himself. He had not lost hope in Frodo before and he was not going to start now. I will have him see the peace he helped restore and have him see his beloved Shire once more, the man thought with an even more determined resolve. 'While there’s life, there’s hope', as old Bilbo was fond of saying.

Aragorn stirred the water, creating a bubbly lather and with the utmost care he worked the suds into the hobbit's gnarled and matted foothair, trying to comb some of the tangles out with his fingers without pulling on it. As the dirt and dried blood was forced to let go its grip, the strands of the matted and tangled curls of Frodo’s trademark hobbit foothair began to gently wave and drift about in the water that was swirled about by the man’s hand. He was very careful of the many lacerations and burns covering the poor feet that had walked in the darkest of places in all of Middle-earth. It was truly unbelievable that one so small had walked so far and done the impossible. But then Aragorn had known that if any could succeed at the appointed task of bearing the One Ring, it was Frodo. ‘I will take the Ring … though I do not know the way.’

Gandalf observed the soon-to-be King’s ministrations silently, all the while supporting his dear friend and holding his fevered body close in the hopes that Frodo might recognize his touch and be comforted. It is rather remarkable, he thought to himself, that of all the Evil capable of being entrenched in some Men’s hearts, there was also equally as much or perhaps even more Good. It was this good left in Men that Aragorn himself had recognized and spurned others to feel and hope and fight for. Yet for all the Ranger’s ancestry and markings as a natural leader, it was the scene of humility now displayed before him which evoked tears in the old wizard’s pale blue eyes--the humbleness of he who was to be crowned King as he offered himself up to care for a tiny hobbit, who was so easily lost in the greater giants and powers of Middle-earth. Aragorn showered the Ring-bearer with all the respect he himself would soon be given when as the Heir of Isildur, he would take his rightful place on the throne of Gondor for the long-awaited return of the King.

When Frodo's feet once again sufficiently shown their natural and fair (albeit pale and nearly colorless) hue and the pure water blackened, Aragorn once again eased them from the basin. He readily accepted the makeshift towel (a recently washed saddle blanket, courtesy of Éomer) from Gandalf and using one of the most readily absorbent and softest materials to be found in the entire encampment, gently began to pat dry each foot, making sure the space in between each calloused toes did not remain wet. The dark hair adorning each foot curled into soft ringlets as it dried; much of the customary curls were singed and patches of the dark hair were burned off in places, leaving raw red sores underneath. Overall, Frodo--a normally fastidious hobbit when it came to his personal grooming--would be quite appalled to see the state his feet were now in.

“It’s just as well you are deep in the healing sleep, mellon nin, for any hobbit would ashamed to see his feet in such a state.” Aragorn gave a wry little smile at his unconscious charge and playfully (and gently) tweaked the uninjured little toe of the foot he held in his hand.

The hobbit still did not respond.

The bottoms of Frodo's now clean feet were painful just to look at. Sam’s had been no different, although several of the gashes marring the gardener’s feet were inexplicably deeper than those on Frodo’s; poor Sam had required suturing for many of them. Frodo’s feet were laden with varying shades of bruises and all manner of lacerations, several of the later being quite deep in places also. The tough, leathery soles were riddled with more bruising, cuts, abrasions, and burns that ranged from mild to bordering on severe. It was almost as if Frodo had been dangling over the searing fires and explosive lava of Mt. Doom itself. The heels were cracked and bleeding in some spots after the footbath and the delicate, yet strong ankles were obviously swollen from so much rugged travel and abuse.

“The rocks of Mordor are very sharp indeed to have so easily pierced the tough leathery soles of hobbit feet,” Gandalf remarked in a grave tone. His pale blue eyes that many an occasion sparkled in mirth or belied exasperation when concerning hobbits, now shone only with a profound sadness at the condition of one of his most dearest of friends in all of Middle-earth. Gandalf too, dealt with his own feelings of guilt. It was both useless and pointless to dwell on the might-have-beens during the Fellowship’s quest for as one of the Istari, Gandalf understood only too well that certain things were meant to happen. He himself was meant to battle the Balrog; of all his ancestral line, Aragorn was the one meant to king, a fact the Ranger was only now more comfortably accepting of; Merry and Pippin were meant to join the Fellowship; Sam was the one meant to go with Frodo to the very cracks of Mt. Doom; the creature Gollum was meant to play his part in the destruction of the One Ring, as Bilbo had been the one meant to find it all those years ago. And Frodo … Frodo was sadly the one meant to carry bear its heavy, tortuous burden.

Eru has His reasons and you are not one to question Him as to the whys and whatfores, the wizard silently reminded himself. And as Aragorn did, he too prayed there would once again be peace in Frodo’s future along with the chance for the hobbit who’d sacrificed so much to know full healing.

As the wizard continued to cradle Frodo so, he watched Aragorn carefully check first the left foot, then the right to see that no filth of Mordor remained ground into the deep tears and weeping burns marring them. If any did, it was irrigated out by use of a small ladle dipped in fresh water and then poured continuously over the wound. Aragorn also checked to make sure that none of the deeper lacerations would require suturing, as Sam had--only two did and after using a numbing cream, they were neatly taken care of. Frodo had fared better in that regard than had Sam; quite a number of the more deeper gashes suffered to the once stout gardener’s feet had had bits of the razor sharp volcanic rock embedded into them, which Aragorn had painstakingly picked out, piece by piece.

When he was sufficiently satisfied over the cleanliness of the Ring-bearer’s feet, the man took up the soft and absorbent saddle blanket once more. For now, it was the only material at hand suitable for such a task until the further supplies sent for from Minas Tirith would arrive in a few more days’ time. Just as tenderly as the future King of Gondor and of all Men had washed the little hobbit’s feet, he more thoroughly patted them dry as well.

Aragorn next reached for a small crockery jar that he had somehow managed to keep safe on his person since the Fellowship had left Rivendell (it now seemed like a lifetime ago). It contained a healing salve made from the athelas plant by Lord Elrond himself. Opening the jar, he frowned upon realizing just how little of the healing cream was left as it had already been used to treat all that remained of Frodo’s right ring finger; the grievous wound around his neck from where the chain bearing the One Ring had abraded the fair skin and entrenched itself deeply as the weight of the Ring grew; the whip wheals that snaked down and around Frodo’s back and side (of which also bore infection); Sam’s feet and a deep cut upon his forehead; and many of Pippin’s injuries suffered at the body of the enormous troll that he had been found under by Gimli after the Last Battle at the Black Gate.

Aragorn sighed yet again. There are so many hurts suffered. Will any of them be the hobbits they once were?

He would have to bid Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir to go out amongst the flora and fauna of Ithilien to search for the athelas plant so that more of the healing salve could be made. Frodo and Sam above all needed the healing and ease only the leaves of the plant could provide as no other medicine could.

Knowing he must make due, Aragorn scooped the last of the healing cream onto his index finger. “I’m going to rub some athelas salve onto your feet, Frodo,” he explained. “Given the nature of your hurts, it may sting a bit at first, mellon nin, but it will quickly fade and your feet will feel all the better afterwards.”

As the thick paste was applied to the worst of the burns damaging the leathery soles of the hobbit’s feet, Frodo gave them the first eagerly awaited response they had been hoping and praying for since he and Sam were recovered by the Eagles on the burning molten slopes of Mt. Doom--Frodo flinched and then as more of the cold balm was applied … he whimpered faintly. It was the most pitiful sound either Man or Wizard had ever heard before.

Upon hearing and seeing the little one’s reaction, Aragorn immediately stopped, profound sorrow in his grey eyes at causing one who had already suffered so very much even more hurt. He winced in sympathy when the furrow’s of the little one’s brow deepened as further pain was afflicted. He gazed intently at Frodo’s colorless face, one part of him willing the large blue eyes to open in recognition, the other part hoping that the hobbit would remain fixed in the healing sleep laid upon him while he continued the rest of his ministrations to the ravages that had been wrought to one so small, but so very brave and enduring.

“It is only Aragorn, Frodo,” Gandalf reassured, while stroking Frodo’s dark curls with one gnarled hand. “He will soon be crowned King you know … and the hands of the King are the hands of a healer.”

Whether it was recognition at the old wizard’s familiar deep voice or that the initial stinging sensation of the athelas salve was fading into a blessed numbness as pain was relieved, they would never know, but Frodo appeared to settle.

Aragorn scraped every last bit of the thick healing paste out of the small crockery jar, making sure that the worst of the lacerations, burns, and bruises on the hobbit’s feet were soothed with it. He then wrapped several strips of clean linen about each foot, tight enough so that the athelas salve would remain moist and not dry out with air contact, but also loose enough so that Frodo would be able to wiggle his toes when he regained the sufficient strength to do so. The bandages would be changed daily for the next several days until those burns that were blistered and weeping crusted over and the lacerations began to heal. Then, the wrappings would be removed from both hobbits’ feet and he would be able to trim away the burnt and singed foot hair, thus allowing for new growth of the thick curls. Merry would be here by then to assist him. No doubt he would have much to say and offer in the proper way of trimming hobbit foothair.

Man and Wizard then used the remainder of the fresh water to give their small charge a bed bath before clothing him in a fresh nightshirt. It--a simple long-sleeved shirt meant to be worn under a tabard--was given to the hobbit by one of the soldiers of Minas Tirith and it was much too big for Frodo’s slight frame and stature, but it was all they had for him to wear at the moment. The hem of the shirt nearly reached Frodo’s ankles and the sleeves had to be rolled up so that his tiny (in comparison) fingertips could poke out. The shirt was also too broad for one so small and no matter how tight the leather lacing at the neckline was pulled together, at least one of the hobbit’s pale and battered shoulders insisted on revealing itself.

Aragorn rose from the ground and moved to wash his hands in the shallow basin set in between the hobbits’ makeshift beds, while Gandalf eased Frodo into an upright position in order to administer the medicinal elixirs that were due along with feeding him some of the salty broth that had been recently brought into the private enclosure by one of the soldiers. The bowls of hot broth had been steaming and were allowed to cool somewhat before being fed to both hobbits. It was made with a hearty stock that would strengthen them, without it being too rich for their malnourished stomachs. As it was, neither hobbit was yet up to the task of eating solid food, nor enough that could be considered healthy for a hobbit’s voracious appetite. Frodo especially they must be careful with, giving him only small sips of the liquid at short intervals lest his body reject all that had been given him. Aragorn also worried greatly that too much of the liquid at once would overload sensitive kidneys and cause further damage, for Frodo had yet to pass water in the time since he’d been rescued. No, it was better to take it slow and steady for the time being.

Sensing Frodo had taken all the sustenance he could handle for now, Gandalf eased the little one back into his bed, making sure he was laying atop the absorbent padding placed there in case of incontinence, yet was also positioned as comfortable as possible given all the injuries that seemed to cover nearly ever inch of him.

Aragorn was doing likewise with Sam and when he was finished he came over to help Gandalf tuck Frodo in. He lifted the Ring-bearer’s newly-bandaged feet onto a large pillow of silk that had been hastily fashioned by a tailor of Rohan, who had been called to arms and away from his home by King Théoden to fight in the battle against the orcs of Mordor. The silk had been taken by many as a war-prize from the face and head wraps of the fallen Harradrim soldiers on the Fields of the Pellenor. This tailor-turned-warrior had gathered the silk up from many willing soldiers after having caught glimpse of the two most unlikeliest of heroes in the ravaged hobbits rescued from the burning slopes of Orodruin.

Using the needle and thread that he carried with him at all times (yes, even into a battle from which he was not expected to return), the tailor from Rohan sewed together the sections of the silk to form a pillowslip, which he then stuffed with the down feathers gifted to him by the Great Eagles themselves upon his humble request for such a purpose to serve and comfort the Ring-bearers.

As Gandalf arranged another smaller silk pillow atop a folded blanket underneath Frodo’s mutilated right hand, thus elevating the wound to reduce its swelling, Aragorn observed that Frodo’s toes, sticking out of their linen wrappings, were laden with small scratches and that the nails were quite ragged and uneven. The soon-to-be King added the task of requesting a file used for the trimming and shaping of the horses’ hooves from one of the Rohirrim to his growing mental list of items needed. Only when both Frodo and Sam’s wounded feet were well on their way to healing would he file the ragged nails until they were once more smooth and even as any hobbit’s foot ought to be; yet another task Merry might wish to offer his assistance with, as well as taking comfort he was able to be helpful to the loved ones he'd been sorely parted from for so long now.

Aragorn helped Gandalf to cover Frodo with a clean sheet and tuck a soft, warm blanket about him before laying a folded cloth soaked in lavender and peppermint water then wrung, across the small fevered forehead. Upon inhaling the scent of the peppermint oil, Frodo’s shallow breathing deepened as the irritated airways of his lungs dilated and relaxed.

The man looked down upon his hobbit friend and gave a soft, wistful smile. He felt the figurative weight of the crown he would soon wear bearing heavily upon him. It was because of the selfless sacrifice and determined actions of this one small being that he would be allowed to bear the crown of all Men at all. And it was here in the tent in Ithilien whilst tending a hobbit’s sorely wounded feet that the King of Men came to understand that he must always now fully embrace his own humility in the wake of one humble and self-sacrificing hobbit. It was the only way if he was to carry out his new responsibilities with fair justice toward the people he would serve as leader for the rest of his life.

The former Ranger of the North took in a deep breath, savoring the fresh sweet air about him and squared his broad shoulders. He would accept the burden he had always been fated to bear with grace. He would be the Heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself, and he would bear the crown that was destined to be his to wear--as Frodo had born the One Ring that was his burden to bear--with both grace and great sacrifice. And it would be Frodo, whom he decided that would bear that responsibility to him before all of Minas Tirith; and it was Gandalf's due that he rest that crown upon his head and perform the first coronation to occur in 969 years. The throne would not be his otherwise without their efforts and it was his humble honor that it should be they themselves should receive this privilege they no less deserved after such hard labor and sacrifice.

Aragorn, son of Arathorn, rested a hand on the dark, nearly ebony curls of this most dearest of hobbits and friends. Hair that had once shone with luster and had been silky to the touch was now dull and limp. “May you rest easy, Frodo Baggins, and your burdens be eased. May any dreams you may have be pleasant and your spirit be at peace, for your task has been completed and only healing and the comfort of your friends await you when you are ready to awaken once more.”

The End