Disclaimer: All characters and places depicted are the sole property of the JRR Tolkien Estate; my only claim to fame is this small piece of fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.

Medical Disclaimer: While extensive research has been done, none of the cures or procedures depicted in this story should be used without first consulting a medical professional. Also there may be graphic medical details and wee hobbit behinds in this chapter, so if that makes you squeamish, you'd better pass.

Sorry, this is a really LONG chapter. But on the up side about half is acknowledgements to the reviewers…so there’s hope, right?

Chapter 14

The Battle

The men had made it part of their daily routine to attempt to plow through the overwhelming amounts of snow that would be dumped overnight, on the narrow ledge called the Redhorn Pass. They had hoped that, if Frodo improved, they would be able to make their way back down the mountain and so, each morning, they forced their way through the nearly impenetrable snow banks, retracing their steps until the snow was packed down. Initially, they had tried to go towards the Pass itself, but invariably the blizzard would increase in ferocity until the gale force winds and the inability to see a hand when held before their eyes, would force them to admit defeat and head back down the trail.

Frodo was bent nearly double as he headed into the wind, aiming for the lowlands of Hollin where the climb had begun. He had found a hobbit sized walking stick on the trail and used it to augment his precarious balance and ease the throbbing pain in his hip. He had fallen a couple of times, lying in the snow and wondering if he would ever be able to bear placing weight on the injured joint again. Always he had somehow, managed to right himself but his body now trembled violently from exhaustion and the constant agony.

One more step, he kept telling himself, just one more step, Frodo. Soon you will be out of the snow and on drier land, but it had been hours since he had left the cave and still he was caught in the thick of it. He felt as if he had traveled many leagues from his friends, but knew that this was only wishful thinking, that the storm and the poor traveling conditions had made the going very slow and that he was, at most, no more than a league, probably much less, from his companions. He slipped and fell hard on his injured hip, screaming like an injured animal, which, in actuality, was what he was. He could not move save to roll onto his back and pray that he would lose consciousness. He began to sob bitterly, knowing that if he did not put some distance between himself and the Fellowship, they would come after him, and he could not allow that to happen because he knew then that they would be at his and the Ring’s mercy. His eyes slowly closed and even though he knew the dangers of hypothermia, he had no strength remaining in which to fight the somnolence that overtook him. ‘Better I die this way than be the cause of my friends’ deaths,’ was his last coherent thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aragorn was caught in the throes of a vivid dream. He dreamt he was asleep and, all around him, chaos reigned. People were screaming and running all about his prone figure. Orcs and black riders easily picking them off, spearing them on jagged pikes or tossing them like rag dolls from the high buildings. He struggled to make his arms and legs obey his commands but he could not force his body to wake so that he might help them. He knew that if he were unable to rouse himself soon, all would perished and that, deep down, they were his responsibility.

The worst part was that he *knew* he was dreaming and that if he could just wake up, the dream would end. But his brain seemed incapable of sending the message to his muscles leaving him helplessly locked inside its shell. He was covered in sweat as he swung his head from side to side. Finally, he was able to get his eyes to open and, looking about him at the other members of the Fellowship and seeing no sign of Frodo, knew that, the hobbit had perpetrated the perfect escape.

Groggy and deciding that the cold might be the only way to bring himself to full consciousness, he leaned over, grasped his sword, and using it as a cane, rose. He staggered slowly towards the cave entrance and slipped outside into the freezing storm. The snow covered him in a matter of minutes, clinging to his face, arms and hair. At last he began to feel true consciousness returning to him. His thoughts were still badly muddled, but at least his body was his own again and he planned to put it through its paces as soon as he had awakened the others. He went back into the cave, re-stoked the fire and retrieved three of Sam’s cook pots. He filled these with snow and sat them on the coals. Once the snow was melted, he exited the cave and poured the ice water over his head. The frigid water caused him to gasp out loud and his head to pound painfully. He reloaded the pots with more snow and, again, set them by the fire.

He was fully awake now, and crossed to Sam, Merry and Pippin. He felt at each of their throats for a pulse, all were slow but steady. He pulled Pippin to his feet and tried to get the limp hobbit to wake. Pippin was completely un-reactive so he carried him outside and rubbed snow on the back of his neck and down his shirt. A groan. He laid the hobbit in the snow and retrieved the ice water and, after scooping the small figure into his arms, began to pour the water over Pippin’s hair.

“Oi, what doyathinyerdoin?” the green eyed hobbit cried plaintively.

“Saving your life, Master Took,” Aragorn grumbled. Once Pippin was able to stare owlishly up at him, he took him back inside and told him to walk around the fire. He retrieved Sam and another pan of ice water on his way back to the mouth of the cave. An angry howl caused Pippin to look in Sam’s direction just as Aragorn brought the frozen gardener back inside. Aragorn repeated this with Merry until all three hobbits were staggering like drunkards about the cave.

“Where’s Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked groggily, looking about and not seeing his Master. This proved to be a much better stimulant than the ice water and immediately his eyes filled with panic.

“He’s gone, Sam,” Aragorn said distractedly, trying to encourage a heavy lidded Boromir to walk.

Sam was past him in a flash and heading into the storm. Aragorn attempted, unsuccessfully, to reach out and stop the hobbit, losing his precarious hold on the Gondorian and causing the man to fall in a heap at the doorway. “Sam!” he yelled into the blizzard.

“I gotta find him. He won’t last two minutes in this,” cried the anguished hobbit.

“And neither will you, Master Gamgee. I will find Frodo, but I have to make sure everyone is awake first and without the lingering effects of the drug,” Aragorn said hurriedly, gesturing back towards the cave. He grasped Sam’s arm and began to steer him towards the others. “Sam, I do not have time to argue with you. I *will* retrieve Frodo, but the more you struggle and fight me, the longer it will take to do so.

Sam let out a heartbreaking sob as he allowed Aragorn to carry him back into the cave. “I promise Sam, we will find him and bring him back. You have my word, my friend,” Aragorn whispered to his distraught friend.

“You promise?” Sam asked meekly.

Aragorn smiled. “On my honor,” he patted the gardener on the shoulder as he set him down and Sam walked over to Merry and Pippin, who were both visibly swaying on their feet, watching the two. Aragorn dragged Boromir outside and doused him with the melted snow. The man came back inside, a confused frown on his face. Together they took each of the remaining members out and repeated the whole procedure. Soon, all of the Fellowship, minus Frodo, was walking slowly about the cave.

Aragorn stood in their midst and one by one they stopped to stare at him. Each person had a different look on his face - fear, astonishment, confusion and concern over Frodo. “Frodo has left. I am leaving in a moment to bring him back. I know that each of you wishes to come with me but I am only going to take Legolas.” Boromir gave the elf a disgusted look.

“We all have strengths, Aragorn, could not one of the rest of us go instead?” The Gondorian grumbled.

“It has nothing to do with personal favoritism, Boromir. Legolas has keen eyesight, and I will need it if we are to find Frodo quickly and bring him back. I would, however, ask if I might borrow your furred cloak?”

Boromir smiled, appeased, “Of course.”

Gandalf stepped forward. “Aragorn, how did this happen?” he asked.

Aragorn frowned. “I do not know for certain, only that when I retrieved my healers pouch I found this,” he held out the open pouch of Valerian. “I would never have left it thus, an open invitation to a certain young Took. I believe Frodo spiked our water and then, once we were asleep, made his escape.”

“Saruman must have told him that he was endangering his friends and kin, it is the only explanation for Frodo’s behavior. I do not believe he would be parted from them unless he feared for their very lives,” Gandalf said.

“No doubt. But now it is he that is in grave danger. We must be away, soon, or I fear for his life.”

“Be wary, Aragorn. Saruman will do all that he can to secure the Ring for himself. He will not hesitate to harm you or Frodo to achieve his means,” Gandalf urgently whispered.

Aragorn reached into the healer’s pouch, withdrawing a small bag. “Make a tea for everyone, using this herb. It will help to counteract the sedating affects of the Valerian Root.” He looked over at the hobbits. “Make sure that the hobbits have at least two cups. Frodo did not know how much of the Valerian to use to bring about unconsciousness, and unwittingly placed the other hobbits in danger.” At the look of alarm in Gandalf’s eyes, he smiled. “No, they will be fine if they drink some of this tea. Do not give them too much, Gandalf, because it will make them shaky and agitated.”

Gandalf rolled his eyes. “That is all that we need now… a jittery Took,” he sighed. Aragorn could not help but chuckle.

He stowed the healers pouch in his pack and, after he and Legolas had donned their cloaks and weapons, swung it over his shoulder and made for the mouth of the cave. Sam ran after them, holding a blanket and water container in his hands. He handed these to Legolas with a smile.

Legolas grinned, a look of shocked surprise covering his face. “Sam, this water bag is warm.”

“Aye, I poured the new tea into the pouch. If’n you keep it under your cloak, Mr. Legolas, it should stay hot for some time. You make sure Mr. Frodo drinks all of it, won’t you?” He asked worriedly.

Legolas nodded, “I will Sam, and don’t worry, we will return shortly.” With that, they ducked outside and were immediately swallowed up by the raging blizzard.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Frodo awoke to find he was lying on the intricately tiled floor of Lorelei’s chambers. ‘How did I come to be in such an undignified position?’ he thought to himself, as he slowly tried to rise. A stabbing pain knifed its way from his hip down his leg and he let out a blood-curdling scream.

Lorelei appeared above him, glaring down at him as if he were a common roach. “Get up! GET UP!!” She yelled at him.

“I am sorry, my lady, but I cannot. I have re-injured my hip and I have not the strength to carry on. I am sorry, Lorelei, that I have disappointed you,” he gasped.

“Get up, you stupid, worthless hobbit! The Ring *must* be taken to Saruman immediately,” she screamed. Frodo pulled instinctively back from her. This was not the Lorelei that he had grown to worship and admire in his dreams. This creature was a crazed imitation, a frightening caricature of that gentle and demure spirit. Frodo had not been this afraid of anything since the Black Riders had chased them onto the ferry.

Tears filled his eyes. “But…but…I thought you liked me, wanted to help me,” he heard himself whine.

Lorelei attempted visibly, to achieve some vestige of control, but succeeded only in sounding sarcastic and disdainful. “Of course, Frodo, where *are* my manners? Of course I am concerned for only your well-being. If you do not get up you will freeze to death and then Middle Earth would be easy prey for Sauron. That is why I am being a bit rough with you. I have to make certain that you awake and move onward to Orthanc, to meet with Saruman so that he might … ummm…. *guide* you on what needs to be done to rid the world of the Ring.” She smiled, but the smile did not touch her eyes and Frodo could tell that the lady was fighting to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

“I cannot go on, Lady. I am not strong enough for this task. Perhaps, once I am recovered…”

“NO. You will get up NOW, Ringbearer, or pay the consequences!” She shouted, her façade cracking as she lost control. Her eyes became darkest black and the small bead about her neck pulsed with first orange, then a bright red fire. Again Frodo tried to move away from her, his heart hammering within his chest, as he witnessed the transformation of the once beautiful maiden into a malicious, lustful creature. Lorelei brought her staff up and pointed it at his prone body. “I will teach you to disobey Lorelei,” she sneered, a look of pure malevolence filling her eyes.

Frodo’s body arched up off of the floor as fresh spasms of pain pulsed through every nerve. His arm, his leg, his chest… all felt as if they would explode with the sheer intensity of the torture. Frodo pitched his body to and fro, writhing in agony and screaming until he thought his voice would give out or he would, hopefully, loose consciousness.

“Oh no, Frodo, I will not let you escape so easily,” she said her voice venomous.

“Lorelei, please…. please, I beg of you, release me or let me die, but do not continue this, please,” he screamed. A wicked cackle was the only response he received.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As soon as they exited the warmth of the cave, they pulled their hoods up so that their faces were all but covered against the wind. They hurriedly plowed their way through the new drifts, heading down the pass. Periodically they would stop to see if anything could be seen of the Ringbearer, but the snow was coming down so thick and so fast that trying to see more than a few feet in front of them was impossible. A blood-curdling scream rent the air and both elf and man could feel the hair rise on the back of their necks.

“That was a cry of pain, Legolas. Quickly, we must find him before it is too late!” They began to run, unmindful to their own safety, only thinking of finding their friend and giving him aid. Finally, Legolas stopped, causing the Ranger to bump into the elve’s back. He pointed and shouted to be heard over the wind, “I see something ahead on the path. I cannot say what it is, but it appears to be a piece of cloth.” Aragorn nodded and they increased their pace to intercept the object.

It was a piece of cloth. And underneath it lay the frozen body of their comrade. Aragorn quickly shed his own cloak and removed Boromir’s protected one. He gently rolled Frodo to his back, causing the hobbit to cry out in pain. ‘A good sign, at least he still lives,’ thought Aragorn. He checked for a pulse and sighed as he felt the steady thrum of Frodo’s life beat. He hurriedly lifted the hobbit and wrapped him within the folds of the furred cloak, then handed him to Legolas.

“Are you not coming with me, Aragorn?” Asked the puzzled elf.

“I will follow as quickly as is possible. You are lighter of foot and can get Frodo to safety faster than I. Fly; fly as fast as you can, Legolas. Take him to Gandalf as fast as you may, and place him by the fire.”

Before Legolas departed, the water pouch was extracted and a trickle of the hot tea was dispensed between Frodo’s blue lips. The hobbit swallowed slowly. They continued to feed him the tea until most of the liquid was imbibed. Legolas carefully covered the hobbit and began to run smoothly back up the mountain and towards shelter.

As Legolas approached the cave, he was greeted with the sound of raucous singing. He saw that Merry and Pippin were sitting in a far off corner belting out a bawdy limerick about two maids in the company of two dwarves as Gimli grimaced in disgust. Wild giggling followed. Boromir commenced an animated discussion on the advantages of the sword over the axe to the already irritated dwarf. Legolas could not repress a smile knowing that if something were not done quickly the two would come to blows, but made his focus Frodo instead of the impending fisticuffs. The atmosphere of the Fellowship stilled as he entered the shelter with his heavily wrapped burden. He moved smoothly to the fire, laying the frozen Ringbearer beside it and looked anxiously towards the cave entrance for Aragorn.

Gandalf appeared at the elf’s side, placing a gnarled hand on Frodo’s forehead as he sat back on his haunches. Aragorn entered the cave breathing heavily from his race up the mountain, and quickly knelt beside the hobbit. He carefully unwrapped his friend and began to examine him. “He is in remarkably good shape considering the freezing temperatures and his weakened condition,” he said rising. He studied the trembling and still unconscious Ringbearer. Frodo wept quietly, twisting back and forth, trying to escape Aragorn’s hands as they carefully moved over his body, checking for any further injury.

“He’ll be alright then, Strider?” a highly agitated Sam asked as he shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. He held a dripping ladle in his right hand.

“I believe so, Sam. How he was able to get as far as he did is still a mystery to me.”

Pippin snorted then hurriedly covered his mouth. When all eyes lit on him questioningly, he went on to explain. “You obviously haven’t heard of the famed Baggins stubbornness,” he chortled. He became silent once again as he looked down at the deathly pale countenance of his cousin.

“No, but I have experienced it. I am glad to see it is useful other than to fight me at every turn, when I try to dispense one of my foul tasting teas,” Aragorn said smiling.

Gandalf looked up at the healer. “Is he strong enough, Aragorn?” he asked softly. All present looked between the two in confusion.

Aragorn frowned. “I do not know, my friend. He seems to be holding his own. His fever is all but gone, the one saving grace of his journey in the cold. His lungs sound clear, his hip is all but healed, which I am at a loss to explain. The swelling in his arm is also much reduced. He is suffering from exposure to the cold, but I believe a fire and a hearty meal is all that is needed to remedy that.” He looked at the wizard, concerned. “What are the risks, Gandalf?”

“Here now, risks of what? What ‘er you talkin’ about? What are you plannin’ to do to my Master?” A protective Sam interjected. “I don’t rightly like the sound of what you and Mr. Gandalf are talkin’ about, whatever it is,” he said emphatically.

“We’re trying to decide, my dear gardener, whether Frodo can withstand my presence in his mind.”

“You can do that? Go into his head and all? Why ‘aven’t you done it before?” Sam’s eyes grew wide.

“We deemed Frodo was not strong enough or willing enough to accept my interference. Plus I have never done this with a hobbit, Sam. There could be some danger to Frodo, if I am not careful. I hope to help Frodo to overcome the influence that Saruman is apparently holding over him.” The wizard tried to explain.

Sam swallowed nervously. “You won’t hurt him none, will you sir? He’s been through so much already,” he said his voice wavering.

Gandalf smiled, he hoped reassuringly. “I do not know, Sam. All I can say is that I care for him dearly, not unlike you or his cousins, and will try to be as gentle as possible.”

Aragorn had pulled Frodo into his lap and bundled him into more blankets. He was slowly spooning warmed tea between the blue lips. Frodo swallowed reflexively and gradually his trembling began to subside.

Gandalf gazed at the too pale face of Bilbo’s nephew. “It is time to free him from whatever holds him so tenaciously within its grasp. When he wakes, call for me. I will be in meditation until that time.” He rose slowly after smoothing the hair back from Frodo’s forehead. He stopped at the fire beside Frodo’s cousins, drawing them to him. Aragorn watched, as the Istari wrapped them within his robes and murmured comfortingly. Merry and Pippin slumped against the wizard and Aragorn could hear their suppressed sobs intermingled with quiet questions. After speaking softly to them for a time, he rose and crossed to a far corner of the room, sat down facing the wall and drew out his pipe. He began to smoke, lost in quiet contemplation.

Frodo’s eyes crept open and he licked at his cracked lips. “Where…?” he said in a barely audible whisper.

Aragorn smiled down at his friend. “Safe with your friends, Frodo. You are indeed, a remarkable hobbit, making such an escape. I *do* think we should have a candid conversation, however, concerning the sanctity of the healers pouch when you are feeling better.” His tone was light, but Frodo could tell that he was in for a rather heated discourse on the topic once he was stronger.

“I… had to. I am sorry. Is everyone alright?” his question was so quiet that had Aragorn not been hovering over him, he would not have heard it.

“They are well enough. Sam is beyond frantic, Merry and Pippin are pacing back and forth like caged animals. Otherwise, everything is as usual, Frodo. We are all very concerned for you, my friend,” he said with a small smile. The healer looked nervously over at the meditating wizard. “Gandalf is going to help you, Frodo. I encourage you to do whatever he asks. This has gone on long enough and will now end, one way or the other,” he said sternly. The blue eyes that gazed up at him looked apprehensive at this bit of information. “I will let him tell you of his plans.”

Frodo began to ask what he meant but Aragorn silenced him with a look. “You should rest while you can, Frodo. You will need all of your strength for what is ahead.” He slowly lowered the confused hobbit onto the pallet and although Frodo fought against slumber, fatigue and exhaustion won out and his limbs became dead weight. His brow furrowed one last time then his eyes closed and he slipped into the surreal world of the dreamer.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sometime later, Gandalf rose and crossed to the sleeping hobbit. He knelt down and with a touch of his hand to Frodo’s forehead the blue eyes opened.

“What…what are you going to do, Gandalf?” Frodo asked anxiously.

“Fear not, my friend. I am going to help you,” Gandalf said quietly. “I only wish to join you as you dream and see what devilry is at work.”

“But…there is no devilry, Gandalf, I assure you,” Frodo said nervously.

“Ah, my dearest of hobbits, I do not agree. I believe you are being deceived by Saruman to do his bidding. I do not know what form he has presented to you, undoubtedly one that appears harmless and beguiling, but it *is* Saruman or, at the very worst, Sauron that greets you as you slumber.”

“No. It is only Lorelei, no other. She is gentle and beautiful and only means to help me on my quest,” Frodo said, as his body began to twist in pain.

“Lorelei, an apt name, Frodo. Do you know what Lorelei means, my friend?” Gandalf said seriously.

“It is but a name, nothing more,” Frodo said, gasping as a particularly sharp pain stabbed at his arm.

“No, Frodo, it is a siren. A lure to entice you to do her bidding,” Gandalf said solemnly. “I am your friend, and I shall always be so. Your Lorelei is but a seductress, a phantasm, no more. Even now she seeks to remind you of your obeisance. Do you not find it odd that each time you try to bind yourself to your friends or seek to do what is good … even as you speak of her to me now, that your body is afflicted? She seeks to remind you to do her bidding. She cares not for you and your welfare.”

Frodo remembered the brief glimpses of the aged and gnarled hands, the taste of the seed cakes and the tea. He remembered the spasms of pain that wracked his body whenever he chose to eat that which he was offered by the Fellowship, the agony dealt as a blow whenever he disagreed with her advise, the brush - the brush with the strangely hypnotic jewels. Lastly, he remembered the image of Lorelei’s twisted, malevolent face, the blackened eyes, the orb about her neck and the subsequent torture delivered maliciously and gleefully as he lay on the mountain, unable to go further. He shuddered at the thought and looked uncertainly up at the wizard who he had called friend since he was a lad. The look of love and concern in Gandalf’s eyes warmed him as no look from Lorelei ever had and, in a heartbeat he had made his decision, feeling a sudden wave of relief wash over him. He nodded and smiled wanly up at Gandalf, who returned his smile with one of his own. “You have chosen well, as I knew you would, Frodo,” he said warmly.

“Close your eyes, Frodo.”

Frodo closed his eyes and a warm, tingling sensation envelope his body. His mind was seized with the image of an enraged Lorelei, her face contorted and twisted, no longer the vision of loveliness he had grown accustomed to. But there was more, something he had not seen before. Fear. He saw fear in her eyes. She screamed at him within his mind, “NOOO! You gave your word, Ringbearer!” She screamed at him, a look of panic suffusing her face, leveling her staff on his prone form. Frodo screamed and arched his body up off of the bedding, excruciating pain coursing through him.

Sam crossed to his master in a heartbeat. “Mr. Frodo! You’re hurtin’ him! Let ‘em go!” he shouted, moving to intercede. Gandalf’s eyes were closed and he was beyond hearing the gardener’s anguished cries.

“No, Sam, let it be,” Aragorn said as the gardener lunged forward. All stood about the two, looks of horror on their faces. None interceded knowing that a fierce battle was now underway and that they were helpless to assist their friends.

Lorelei swore and continued to direct all her energies at the agonized hobbit. Frodo’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in a silent scream, as his body experienced pain beyond anything he had ever endured before.

Gandalf eased himself into the hobbit’s vision, seeing the form of the siren before him, her staff aimed at the prone figure of the writhing hobbit. “ENOUGH!” He commanded, pointing his staff at the figure.

Frodo’s agonized movements slowed, the pain leaving his body as fast as it had come. He gazed up at the imposing figure that stood in front of him. Gandalf, if indeed it was Gandalf, wreathed in a halo of intense blue light. Gone were the ragged gray robes, replaced with those of brightest white. They covered a person completely changed in feature and form. This person, who now came to his defense, had dark flowing hair and his face was devoid of the wrinkles and the careworn appearance that Frodo had grown to know so well. If it had not been for the light gray eyes and the rough, booming voice, he would not have recognized his wizard friend.

“Show your true form!” Gandalf demanded.

“You have no power over me, Gandalf the Grey. I take *this* one for my own, and you can do naught to stop me,” sneered Lorelei.

“You are wrong, Lorelei, or should I say, Saruman?”

Lorelei’s eyes widened then filled with malicious intent. “I *am* Saruman the white. You are my inferior in every way, Olorin, you with your limited powers!” She laughed evilly and before Frodo’s astonished eyes, changed into the imposing form of Saruman.

“No longer white, I think,” Gandalf said tersely. “I am a stronger and more deadly foe than you have been brought to believe.”

With that said, Gandalf pointed his staff at the other wizard and sent him reeling backwards into a flying heap. Saruman rose quickly and delivered a powerful surge from his own staff, but Gandalf stood firm merely groaning and swaying on his feet. Frodo scuttled away from the battling Istari, at last secreting himself under the vanity that had previously served Lorelei’s purposes. He watched, wide eyed, as the two wizards grappled fiercely with one another. Back and forth the blows rang, each player in the duel eliciting surprised cries and groans as they were struck. A particularly powerful thrust was directed at Gandalf, throwing him from his feet and onto his back. His staff flew from his hands and he was left defenseless, his lips pulled back into a rictus of pain.

Saruman was instantly over him, glaring down at the fallen wizard. “Now we will see who is the more powerful, old friend,” he said, smiling evilly.

Without thought for himself, only for his comrade, Frodo looked quickly about his temporary sanctuary for anything that could be used as a weapon in defense of his friend. His eyes lit upon the dazzling brush that Lorelei had so languidly brushed her hair with, entrancing the Ringbearer into doing what she bid. The irony of using the brush against Saruman was not lost on the hobbit.

Those who are acquainted with hobbits know that they are keen of eye and should be avoided should a rock be placed in their hands. Almost any projectile will do, and either used alone or with slingshots, can be thrown with deadly accuracy by almost any Shire dweller, even down to the smallest of tots. Frodo was no different. He grasped the brush and, setting his jaw, took aim. He let loose the brush in a mighty arc. It sailed across the room with a whoosh, striking Saruman squarely in the forehead.

The wizard’s face contorted into one of pain and surprise as he sank, first to his knees then over onto his side in a heap, unconscious.

Frodo closed his eyes in relief and released his breath. Then he rose and ran to Gandalf’s side. The wizard lay on his side, his eyes open, and a satisfied smile on his lips. “You have done well, Frodo. It was always you who had the ability to defeat Saruman and his evil, and you have done well.”

Frodo smiled widely. “Are you injured? Can you rise?” He asked worriedly.

“I am well. In fact, I feel better than I have in days,” the wizard said with a chuckle. He rose slowly and looked down at Frodo. “And you, Frodo, are you well, my friend?”

Frodo smiled. “I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I cannot explain it, but I almost feel as if I could dance the springle-ding or do a reel at one of Bilbo’s parties.” He looked back up at his friend in astonishment. “How could I not have recognized him? How could I have been so blind?” His facial expression turned to one of shame and remorse.

“Saruman’s voice is sweet and seductive. Only the very strongest of beings, myself included, would be able to resist him. Do not berate yourself for falling under his spell, dear friend.” The wizard looked concernedly down at the hobbit and they began to slowly make their way out of the room. Frodo looked back at the fallen wizard nervously.

“But what of Saruman, Gandalf? Will he come after us… or me?” he whispered anxiously.

“No Frodo, although I doubt we have seen the last of him or his ilk, he will have no more power over you in your dreams now that you are aware of his presence and his abilities.” He noticed that Frodo was limping and that the hobbit’s face seemed drawn and pale. “Frodo, would you allow me to carry you?” He asked gently.

Frodo nodded weakly as the wizard scooped him up into his robes. “I feel so odd,” Frodo murmured.

“Now that the battle is over and Lorelei unveiled, your injuries are manifesting themselves once again,” Gandalf explained softly.

“You… you don’t look like Gandalf,” Frodo said dreamily. “Your hair and face…all is changed. And he called you Olorin….” The hobbit continued.

Gandalf chuckled, causing Frodo to smile at the sound and feel of the rumble of the wizard’s chest against his cheek. “You are one of the very few who have ever seen me in my true form. I am sorry Frodo, but I will have to take this small memory with me when we awaken.”

Frodo looked up into the gray eyes questioningly. “But why, Gandalf? I rather like seeing you in this form. It’s you, but it’s not you…. the eyes and voice are the same but the hair and beard…” his small hand gently touched the wizard’s cheek.

Gandalf looked wistfully down at the brave hobbit. “Someday, perhaps, you will see me in this form again but, for now, I must remain the gray pilgrim that you have come to know. It was the will of the Valar to make us old and gray so that the young would listen to our voices. That is how I shall remain, as your old friend Gandalf…just an old man in a large pointy hat, for the remainder of my days in Middle Earth.”

This made Frodo sad, for some reason, and he leaned against the Istari a little closer. They entered the corridor where the vines had clawed and whispered maliciously at him, and he tensed. “Fear not, Frodo, they have gone as well. Nothing will harm you further, not while I am with you,” Gandalf crooned. At last, they came to the bottom of the steps in Bilbo’s cellar and Frodo looked confusedly around him.

“But why … why is this still here?” he asked.

Gandalf chuckled. “Not all of what you see is of Saruman’s making. Some of this,” he gestured with his hand, “is from *your* memories, Frodo.”

As they reached the top of the stairs and opened the door into Bilbo’s kitchen Frodo said sleepily “I do not believe I will ever be able to go down into Bilbo’s cellar again.” He looked up into the ageless gray eyes. “Thank you, Gandalf … Olorin … for releasing me,” he said softly.

Gandalf smiled lovingly down at Frodo. “You are most welcome, my friend, although it was not I, but you, that saved the day.” With that he lightly touched Frodo’s forehead and the hobbit’s eyes slipped closed, his head falling limply back. “Sleep well, my friend.” Gandalf murmured and then he stepped through the doorway.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The friends that stood vigil around the two felt suddenly lighter of heart. They watched as the sleeping form of the great wizard gathered the smaller form of the hobbit within his voluminous robes, pulling Frodo protectively to him. There was a look of total serenity upon their faces and the Fellowship smiled in satisfaction and relief, knowing that the battle was over and that their friend had been returned to them once again.

Epilogue To Follow….Soon, I promise….No, Really….stop laughing….stop it!