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And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 34: The Hands of the King

   Aragorn stood beneath his banner, silent and stern, as one lost in thought of things long past or far away; but his eyes gleamed like stars that shine the brighter as the night deepens.

The Field of Cormallen                                                                    The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

 Aragorn looked upon the endless faces of the Enemy swarming through the Black Gate and hope finally died in his heart.The battle became even more intense as reinforcements swelled the Dark Lord’s forces and the host of the West fought on valiantly. But Aragorn now knew they could not win this war. Sauron would yet have the victory. Minas Tirith may have been saved but his efforts had earned Gondor a respite, nothing more. It could not be long now before each and every one of them would fall to the overwhelming might of Mordor.

   He had expected no less.  He and the other Captains had led the courageous remnant of the hosts of Gondor and Rohan to the very stronghold of their foes to challenge Sauron to this one final battle. They were all well aware they would be outnumbered many times over. Victory with arms had never been their hope. Their role was one of decoy, blinding Sauron to his real peril. It had been a bitter last gamble; their only real hope had lain with Frodo.

     Yet as Aragorn gazed upon the battle, he stood with the grim determination that only comes from one facing certain death but who will yet remain defiant to the end. He took some comfort in knowing he had played his part to the full; as they all had, but in the end it had not been enough. And as he saw the hopes and dreams of a lifetime turn to dust before his eyes, for one last time, he allowed his thoughts to drift far away to the North and to Arwen, his fear for what would become of her almost unbearable.

   But then suddenly it seemed to him that the seething hordes of the Enemy hesitated. They were advancing no longer but looking around them wildly in dismay. And to Aragorn’s amazement, the hovering menace of the Nazgûl turned and fled into the darkness. Why they had gone, he could not guess. Some distant call from their Master had summoned them, perhaps. Then, without warning, the skies belonged to the Eagles of the North. A huge gathering of the great birds majestically swept over the battle and, at the sight of them, the first kernel of hope returned to Aragorn’s heart.

    Incredible though it seemed, the hosts of Mordor were faltering.

    At this floundering of their foe, the Host of Gondor drove against the enemy with renewed vigour. And as they did so, it was as if a great thunder blasted through the skies above them and the very ground beneath their feet rumbled in answer. But, then, to the absolute wonder of all, the Towers of the Black Gate began to crumble at their very foundations. The ramparts that had appeared so impregnable, crashed to the ground as timbers split and boulders burst asunder. And out of the darkness of Mordor, there rose a great shadow filling the sky, crowned with fire and terrible to behold. And from it, came the hand of Sauron, disembodied, yet reaching over them all as if the Dark Lord had only to stoop and pluck any one of them up into the airs above and toy with them as a cat with a mouse. For a moment, terror gripped Aragorn’s heart as he watched in horror, scarcely able to believe his eyes. He felt his flesh shudder as if Sauron’s evil fingers were pointing menacingly towards him and him alone. What foul witchcraft was this, he wondered. Could Sauron still claim them now, just when it seemed that all might not be lost after all?

   But suddenly both the hand and the shadow were gone, as if they were nothing more than a cloud of dust, blown away by a sudden gust of wind. Beyond all hope, Sauron was vanquished and his forces were in disarray.

   And then it was as if time had stood still. Every man, orc and beast waited in stunned silence, the shock of this incredible turn of events felt as keenly by the Host of the West as the Forces of Mordor. To the Enemy, there came the cold grip of fear and despair, tearing the heart from them, but to the Men of the West, there slowly came joy, where only moments before all had seemed lost.

      Far in the distance, a great fire could be seen spewing out of Mount Doom and Aragorn gradually realised that somewhere up in that distant peak, there were two little hobbits who had achieved a feat beyond that of any of the Great among them.

   Frodo must have destroyed the Ring and so ended the rule of Sauron.

   Aragorn stood and stared in utter, stunned astonishment. He had fought and laboured nearly all his life to achieve this end. He had endured great hardship and suffered personal deprivation in the faint hope that one day this incredible event would come to pass. That it finally had was almost too much to for his mind to absorb. The tumult of joy and shock and relief surging through him was completely overwhelming.

   He had lived through the last month, hour by hour, minute by minute; progressing from one seeming insurmountable challenge to another, until they had all come at last to this dread and lifeless place where he had fully expected the final end to come. Victory had seemed so remote, so unlikely; he had hardly dared to hope that any of them would live to see another dawn. But somehow, against all reason, Frodo and Sam had completed their unenviable quest. The full impact of the consequences of this had yet to fully permeate his mind, when he suddenly realised, with mounting horror, that the hobbits themselves would now be in terrible peril from the savagery of Mount Doom. 

   Frodo and Sam might not survive to see anything of the world they had just saved.

   Then, it was as if time started again as abruptly as it had stopped. The fighting was continuing; the orcs and creatures of Mordor might be rudderless without their lord, but the men from the South and East, driven by their deep hatred of the West, fought on regardless.

   Gandalf stood beside Aragorn, watching the unfolding of these extraordinary events. His thoughts had clearly run in a similar same vein for he turned to him, and said: “If Gwaihir will consent to bear me, I will depart with all haste to search for Frodo and Sam. The command of the battle, I leave now to you.”

   Aragorn nodded. “Bring them to me as swiftly as you are able, Gandalf, I greatly fear the ills they will have received.”

   Gandalf did not answer, but his face was grim. He then called in a great voice and Gwaihir descended from far above to land beside him. Aragorn watched as Gandalf climbed on to the Eagle’s back and at once they soared into the sky, racing south with more speed than the wind itself. He wished he could have gone with him though he knew he was no longer free to depart at will. Yet, his heart went out to Frodo and Sam; he could only imagine what tortuous trials they had endured to achieve what they had. He sent a silent prayer to the Valar that Gandalf should find them in time.

   He stood on the heap of slag for a moment longer, staring at the scene of devastation before him.  He was still in a daze, yet he knew he must bring his mind back to the conflict before him. There was a battle to be fought and won before thoughts could truly turn to victory.

   To Mordor, Aragorn sent the larger part of the troops to pursue the remnant of Sauron’s forces deep into that land, even to the ruin of Barad-dur itself if needs be. To others, he gave the task of guarding the many Easterlings and Southrons who had surrendered, while a small division he instructed to retreat to the edge of the slag heaps where they made a camp to care for the many who were injured.

   The fighting continued to rage on for the rest of that day, but once all military matters were in hand, Aragorn turned his attention to saving lives. While order was brought to the camp, he set about tending wounds. The number of casualties was appalling. Many more were suffering from the Black Breath.  But he had not been working long when a messenger came running to find him.

   “Pardon me, my lord,” said the soldier, “but you are needed outside urgently. Mithrandir is most insistent that it is you and you alone who can be of any help.”

   Aragorn handed the care of his patient to another and raced from the tent. He found three Eagles had arrived in their midst. Gandalf had returned and was gently relieving the great birds of their burdens. Aragorn could see at once it was two hobbits that they carried.

   “Gandalf, do they yet live?” he cried as he ran towards them.

   “Barely, they are at the brink of death. We reached them none too soon.”

   Aragorn knelt beside one small person lying on the ground. It was Frodo, but not as he remembered him. He was barely recognizable as the hobbit he had last seen at Parth Galen only a month ago. He had wasted to little more than half the weight he had been then. He appeared to be in desperate need of water and there were burns to his face and hands. He was filthy with the grime of weeks of toil as well as the more recent ash and dust from the exploding mountain. What cuts and bruises lay concealed under all that dirt, Aragorn could only guess. The most obvious wound was a missing finger which was still bleeding profusely.

   Without pausing to examine him further, Aragorn bundled Frodo into his arms. Gandalf stooped to pick up Sam and together they brought the two hobbits into a tent and laid them on the make-shift beds.

   “Gandalf, how fairs Samwise?” asked Aragorn, glancing up at the hobbit being placed on the bed next to Frodo.

   “Better than Frodo, I think,” replied Gandalf, “but that is not to say much.”

   The healers quickly gathering around, eager to assist with caring for the hobbits and begin the long task of cleaning and tending their wounds, but Aragorn suddenly stayed their efforts. He sensed the fragility of the hobbits’ hold on life itself and knew he had to put forth all his skills with the greatest of haste.

   He asked for hot water to be brought to him immediately. He then opened a small leather pouch which he kept strapped to his belt at all times and removed two leaves of athelas. He had gathered all he could of this plant in Minas Tirith before he left the city. Never again, he had vowed, would he be found without this herb which was by far the most potent in his armoury as a healer. He breathed on the two leaves and dropped them into the water. The air instantly freshened and Aragorn himself felt calmed and eased as he prepared to do what he must.

      ‘I pray I have the strength to do his,’ he thought. He had managed to recall Faramir, Eowyn, Merry and countless others that night after the battle on the Pelennor, but none had endured what Frodo had. Oh, how he wished that Elrond with his greater skill could be there with him. The task before him now was beyond anything he had ever attempted before. He breathed deeply again of the athelas. He must do this. He would not lose his dear friends, not while he had any hope at all they could be saved.

   He went first to Frodo, whose condition he deemed to be the most critical. Not only had he suffered the most physically, but Aragorn could not know what darkness still lay within him from his possession of the Ring.  He knelt by the side of the bed and took Frodo’s hand in his and gently laid his other hand upon his forehead. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to empty of everything save the memory of Frodo’s face. He called Frodo’s name over and over, each time more loudly to his own hearing and slowly he felt himself sliding into that other place where Frodo had gone and he must now follow.

   It was very dark and, as he groped his way forward, he could see nothing at all. He continued to call Frodo’s name as he stumbled on, searching desperately through the dense blackness. He sensed Frodo’s presence but, frustratingly, he could not find him.   Still he called, but there was no reply and, as time passed, he became increasingly fearful. He knew that the further he himself went into this place, the harder it would be for him to find his own way back. Very quickly he was becoming weary; he felt as if he had walked for league after endless league through this unyielding darkness. Every movement of his feet now required a monumental effort. It was as if he was not welcome where he was going and some unseen presence was hindering him, encouraging him to retreat.

   But he would not turn back, not yet. Still he kept steadily searching the empty space about him. He held out his hands in front of him as he went in the hope of finding anything solid and real in this void. But there was nothing; no wind, no air even, no ground beneath his feet, nothing. He felt neither hot nor cold; there was only this silent, empty, nothingness.  

      Then, just as he began to fear he would be too late and Frodo would already be beyond recall, he suddenly saw a light. It was only quite dim, yet in this dread place it was warm and welcoming and it beckoned to him. But he did not trust it. He averted his eyes as it grew brighter, yet he knew he must approach it if he was to have any hope of finding Frodo. Slowly, he staggered towards it; his strength fading fast. But then, when he knew he could go no further, far ahead of him, and to his great joy, he saw his friend. Frodo was walking very slowly along a stony path towards a plain wooden gate. It was a simple, rustic gate of the sort found in every farmyard in the Shire. It was exactly what Aragorn would have expected to find awaiting a hobbit, but he knew, with absolute certainty, that once Frodo passed through it, he would be lost to him forever.

   He had to stop him before he reached it.

   He called as loudly as he could, his voice as frantic as he felt, and this time Frodo paused and turned to look at him.

   ‘Frodo, wait!’ Aragorn cried again. “Come back! I’ve come to find you and I can lead you from this place if you will but let me.” He held out his hand and looked straight into the hobbit’s eyes, willing him to do as he bid.

   Frodo hesitated. For a moment it seemed he was turning away as if to carry on walking, but then he looked back and said: ‘Aragorn, is that you? I didn’t know you were here too.’

   ‘Yes, Frodo, it is I, and I have come to take you home.’ Aragorn was still holding out his hand, silently pleading with Frodo to heed him.

    But Frodo remained where he was and did not come. He looked exhausted and ready to drop from weariness.

   ‘I do not want to go back, Aragorn,” he said. “I am tired; I will rest here awhile, in peace.’

   Then he turned and carried on walking.  

   ‘Frodo! Frodo!” Aragorn was desperate. “There is nothing to fear. You can rest here also. I will care for you now. Come to me, Frodo, please, I beg you.” His heart was in his mouth as Frodo approached the gate; he knew not what else to say to persuade him to turn back. Finally, in one last attempt, he cried: “Sam is here too, Frodo. You would not want to leave Sam, would you?’

   Frodo seemed to consider this for a long moment. He was very unsteady on his feet and swayed alarmingly. Aragorn knew time was fast running out, but he could do nothing more. Agonizing moments passed. Still Aragorn waited. Then at last Frodo started to walk towards him. He smiled and took Aragorn’s outstretched hand.

 ‘No, I would not want to leave Sam. I will come back with you now.’

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf had stood very still, watching, as Aragorn seemed to slip away from him. So removed had he become that the wizard began to fear for his friend. It was several minutes before Aragorn opened his eyes again. He suddenly looked grey and worn, but he smiled at Frodo, who Gandalf noticed was breathing more deeply.

   At length Aragorn stood, swaying slightly as he did so and Gandalf saw the enormous relief on his face.

   “He will sleep peacefully now,” Aragorn said softly. He then gestured to the healers who stood quietly watching. “You may begin to tend him, but I will treat his wounds myself shortly.”

   Aragorn then turned his attention to Sam. Again he broke two athelas leaves and laid his hands upon the stricken hobbit. He took a deep breath and prayed his strength would see him through a second journey into the void. As he closed his eyes and felt the darkness surround him, his weariness descended upon him more quickly that it had before. Immediately his feet felt laden as he struggled to make his way through the emptiness but this time the blackness was not as deep. He did not think he would have the strength to travel as deeply into this place as he had to find Frodo. He could only hope Sam would be easier to reach. And to his relief, he had not gone far when he came upon Sam sitting on the same path that Frodo had walked upon, but the light was only a dim flicker like a candle away in the distance. Sam had his head was in his hands and Aragorn could tell he had been crying.

   He went and sat beside him.

   “Hello, Sam,” he said. “I was hoping to find you here.”

   Sam’s head shot out of his hands.

   “Strider! Well who would have thought it!” The hobbit smiled, but then his face looked troubled and full of sorrow. “I’ve lost him and I can’t find him anywhere,” he said as tears welled in his eyes. “One minute we were there together and I was holding his hand... oh, his poor hand, you should see what that Gollum did, Strider... but then he was gone and I’ve searched and searched and I’ve lost him.” Then Sam began to weep. Aragorn put his arm around him and tried to comfort him.

   “Perhaps I can help you find Frodo, if you will but come with me,” he said as he stood and began walking back the way he had come. Somehow he had a feeling that calling Sam back was not going to be as straight forward as he had first hoped. And the doubtful look on Sam’s face rather confirmed his fears.

   “Begging your pardon, but I don’t think you’ll be able to find him going that way. He’s up ahead of me; I know that, for sure, though I don’t know why I do, I just do. But I’m so tired, I can’t go any further just at this minute.” Sam put his head back into his hands.

   “You don’t have to go on, Sam. Please, come with me; I’ve come here to help you both.” Aragorn held out his hand to Sam, but Sam stubbornly insisted he must follow his master.

   ‘I know you mean well, Strider, but I can’t leave Mr Frodo. I promised Gildor and a promise is a promise and I can’t break it.’

   ‘I know that well, Sam,’ said Aragorn, ‘and I would not ask you to do so, but Frodo is no longer where you are heading. He is here with me and waiting for you. Trust me, Sam; I will take you to him.’

   Sam sat pondering Strider’s words, frowning deeply. It was not that he doubted the man, he had proved himself often enough, but Sam had spent so long relying totally on his own instincts to keep himself and Frodo alive, he could not yet easily place the care of him into the hands of another. But as he looked at Strider, he saw the love and compassion in his eyes and he knew he spoke truthfully. Yes, of course he could trust Strider to lead him to Frodo. Sam slowly got to his feet and walked towards him. He took his hand and allowed himself to be led far away from the entrance to the Halls of Mandos.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn opened his eyes to find Sam sleeping peacefully. He smiled at him and gently brushed a lock of filthy hair from his eyes. Now that the hobbits had come this far, he was hopeful that they would yet recover completely. But there was still much to be done.

   “I will tend their wounds now,” he said to Gandalf, but as he tried to stand, his legs gave way and he fell to his knees. The Wizard was immediately beside him, his arms about him.

   “My dear boy, you’re quite spent,” he said, his voice full of concern. “You should rest a while yourself.”

   “Nay, Gandalf, I am well enough,” Aragorn protested as he struggled to his feet, “a few minutes to regain my strength is all I need. I must tend to Frodo and Sam as soon as I am able.”

   Gandalf looked at him very doubtfully, but said no more. He pulled out the flask of Miruvor Elrohir had given him before the battle and handed it to Aragorn.

   “At least have a few sips of this, first,” he said. “Frodo and Sam are through the worst, now.”

   Aragorn did as he was told and, when his weariness had eased, he then worked tirelessly with the other healers. As the hobbits slept, he painstakingly treated every sore and burn on their two little bodies. Frodo’s finger he stitched and the evil sting of Shelob’s he thoroughly cleansed with the water from the athelas leaves. Finally, satisfied he had done all he could, Aragorn gently guided their minds towards the welcoming arms of long, healing sleep.

   That night, after he had laboured long, tending the many injured from the battle, he and Gandalf stood together for a while, gazing with wonder at the sleeping hobbits.

   “I still marvel that they found the strength to see the task through to the bitter end,” said Aragorn. “They have certainly repaid your faith in them many times over.”

   “I confess they surpassed even my expectations,” said Gandalf. “But then that is hobbits for you, Aragorn. As I have often told you, they really are the most amazing creatures.”

~oo0oo~

   “The hands of the King are the hands of healing, dear friends,” Gandalf said. “But you went to the very brink of death ere he recalled you, putting forth all his power, and sent you into the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.”

The Field of Cormallen                                                                     The Return of the King