Work Text:
Minas Tirith was in celebration when Merry left. With the king’s messenger bringing the news of victory, laughter and joy had come back into the city and all hearts had been relieved of fear and doubt. All save Merry’s who had been summoned by Aragorn with a short message delivered by a battle-worn rider that gave him no further news and no idea of what and who he would be met by in the king’s camp. So it was half in joyful anticipation of seeing the beloved faces of at least some of the fellowship, half in fear of what else he may or may not find, that he joined the supply wagons and knights answering the king’s summon to join the victorious armies in the east.
When they came to the glades and forests of Ithilien Merry was amazed at the loveliness of the countryside around him even as they got closer to the land of the enemy. Almost it reminded him of the Shire and he quickly directed his thoughts elsewhere as the thought of home struck him with longing and new fear for his friends of whom he had yet no news.
As the train of carts and riders rolled into the royal encampment, spread out among green trees and lush meadows near the river, the soldiers’ armour glinting in the sun, weariness mixed with joy on their faces and in their voices welcoming the new arrivals, Merry was greeted by Gandalf. The wizard seemed pleased to see the hobbit but there was worry and tiredness on his face that sent a cold spike of fear through Merry.
Gandalf briskly lead him to a tent set a little apart and there they found Aragorn. Weary he looked and his clothes were still travel- and battle-worn. There was a hush inside this tent after the bustle of the camp, and the refreshing scent of athelas wafted through the air. Aragorn was bent over one of three small beds, pushed together, and in them lay three small hobbits. There Merry stood, quivering, as Aragorn sang soft words he couldn’t make out and gently wiped Pippin’s face with warm, fragrant water. Pippin was pale and his eyes were closed.
Merry began to weep. The terror and exhaustion of many months forced their way up his throat in desperate gasps. He couldn’t see Pippin’s face anymore and couldn’t hear Gandalf speaking gently to him. He thought he might choke, and he thought he wouldn’t mind that so much if Pippin would not wake up. Distantly he felt warm hands cradle his face. He was made to sit, a cup was pressed into his shaking hands and he was guided to drink. He barely tasted warmth and brightness but calmness spread gradually through him until he was able again to take deep breaths and blink the tears from his eyes to see Aragorn kneeling before him on the ground beside his friends’ sickbeds. A cup of clear liquid with the scent of athelas rose was in his hands and Aragorn’s fingers were still wrapped around them so he wouldn’t spill. Merry sniffed and took another sip. Aragorn smiled.
“I am truly glad to see you, Merry.” he said.
More tears wet Merry’s face. “And I you, Aragorn! Truthfully, I was afraid I would never see any of you ever again.”
Aragorn wiped Merry’s cheeks with his own hands, before carefully taking the cup from him and helping him to his feet. He looked down at his friends. Pippin was closest, Sam lay on the far side, and Frodo was between them. All three of them were pale and bruised. Frodo and Sam both had what looked like small burns and scrapes on their faces and hands and what Merry could see of their arms, and they were thin. Painfully gaunt they looked and it hurt him to see them like this. Despite the appearance of peace and restful slumber in their faces he was suddenly afraid that they were dead and he had only been summoned to say his goodbyes. But Aragorn spoke, “They were on the brink of death when they were found, but your folk is ever hardy and they persisted. Now they sleep, for sleep is the best healer. When they will wake up is up to them, but I believe that they will, and soon.”
Merry nodded, too choked up and worn out to speak. He stretched trembling fingers to touch Pippin’s hand, lying limp on the covers. It was warm and that gave him some hope.
“What happened?” he asked, not taking his eyes from his friends.
“We won’t know the full story until they wake up.” Gandalf said. “As much as they can tell us.”
He was about to say more but a shout of delight from behind cut him off.
“Merry!”
Merry scarcely had the chance to turn around before he was scooped up by Legolas and swung around in a circle. The elf’s laughter rang through the air like tinkling bells. He hugged Merry close and kissed his cheek before setting him back on his feet. Gimli was beside him with a huge smile hid behind his beard and eyes twinkling with joy that was too big for words. He gripped the hobbits shoulders tightly as Legolas leaned down to dry his newly wet cheeks.
“Don’t cry, my sweet little hobbit! The fellowship is reunited! Now is the time for joy and celebration!”
“But not in the healer’s tent where the as yet wounded are resting!”, grumbled Gandalf.
Merry looked up at him in alarm. “Please don’t send me away!” he cried. “Let me stay with them! I can’t bear to leave them again!”
Gandalf softened. “Of course not. You may stay and help with their care. The merriment must stay outside, though!” He glared at Legolas. “These three need rest and you, my dear elf, are a nuisance that neither them nor I can deal with right now! Gimli, control your elf! Take him outside!”
Legolas began to indignantly defend himself but Gimli took his hand and pulled on it sharply to make him shut up. He smiled back at Merry as they turned to leave.
“It’s good to see you, lad. Don’t worry too much. They are in Aragorn’s care and he will do more wonders for them.”
In the days following Merry hardly left his friend’s sickbeds. After Aragorn had instructed him to take over most of the general care of keeping the sleeping hobbits clean and comfortable, he devoted more time to the managing of the armies. He came back to their tent in the evenings, to prepare more balms for healing wounds and check on the wounded and the waiting. The companions would eat together and talk, catching each other up on everything they had seen and done since leaving Rivendell together. And as Legolas, ever accompanied by Gimli, went to watch the night sink into the forest, Aragorn sat with Merry in the lowly-lit tent singing quietly or telling stories for as long as it took for Merry’s eyelids to droop. Merry was grateful for his company, especially knowing just how busily he was kept by his duties in directing the armies’ in the efforts to clear the lands of the last of the enemy’s lost and roaming servants and secure the borders of the kingdom for the coming times of peace.
All this, Gandalf told him about as often as he could coax him into the fresh air, just outside the tent, sharing pipe weed that Merry didn’t know how he had come by. A wizard has his ways it must be supposed. He was the one who let him in on the goings on of the kingdom and described the last efforts of the war to him, which he had largely missed, having been laid down in the houses of healing at the time. Legolas and Gimli did not talk much about the last battle.
“Not yet.” they said. “It seems still too near and I don’t want to think of it. Not now.” Gimli took his elf’s hand as he tilted his beautiful head back and blinked up into the green canopy above them. His gloominess never lasted long and soon he was singing another song and dancing away into the trees, his voice carrying far, mixing with birdsong and the wind in the treetops, lightening all hearts. He would skip back to them only to sing some verse of gentle mockery or sugary-sweet praise in his dwarf’s face, tug some flower or leaf he had found into his thick beard or bow over his hand in the picture of gentility, then skip away again. Gimli would pluck whatever little finding of the forest the elf had bestowed on him from his hair and grumble, but there would the faintest blush on his cheeks and Merry looked away smirking.
Gimli told him of the end of the war only how he had found Pippin after the battle in the midst of carnage, when he had already almost given in to despair and deemed the hobbit lost to the chaos around them. But his unshod and wooly hobbit foot had stuck out from beneath the carcass of a huge troll. The dwarf’s best guess, as unlikely as it seemed, was that the young hobbit’s own little sword had finally felled the beast that then had nearly crushed him. Though being hidden under its body may have also saved him from some other quicker death by the creatures finally fleeing the battlefield. Evening had fallen and they sat by the light of a candle, both pale and looking down at the same brave little hero.
And then after many long days that seemed even longer to Merry in his constant fear that he would never hear their voices again, Pippin woke.
Merry was on the other side of the bed, inspecting the tiny scars scattered across Sam’s face that must be from hot ash and falling debris from what Gandalf had told him of where his friends had been found. Movement from Pippin made him look up. Pippin’s brow was creased where his face had been slack and smooth in sleep for two weeks and he turned his head on the pillow. Merry nearly fell in his haste to be by his side.
“Pip? Can you hear me?” he breathed, taking up his hand with shaking fingers.
Pippin’s fingers tightened around his and he gave a groan, a tiny noise of discontent.
Merry’s heart was in his throat. “Pippin! My dear, can you hear me? Wake up, please!” Turning toward the outside, he called for Aragorn.
“Mmhh…” Pippin turned on his side, pulling Merry’s hand with him to hug against his chest. Merry knelt on the ground to be at eye level with him.
“Pippin. My dear, sweet, Peregrin, wake up and please answer me, will you? Just look at me?” And the other hobbit’s eyes fluttered open and took a second to focus on him. He smiled.
“Merry! You’re here. I think I dreamed.”
Merry was blinded by his tears, half crying, half laughing. Behind him he could hear somebody rushing into the tent, drawing Pippin’s now confused and worried gaze away from Merry.
“Aragorn!” he said, still clutching Merry’s hand.
Aragorn bent over Pippin, feeling his forehead and his hands, looking into his eyes and asked him how he felt.
“Fine.” said Pippin, looking back at Merry who was still so apparently shaken. “I think I’m fine. What’s wrong, Merry? Don’t cry. What happened?”
Merry couldn’t answer him, but went to embrace him, half draped across him and his relieved tears wetting his shirt. Pippin stroked his hair and back.
“It’s alright, Merry. I’m here, I’m alright. You don’t need to worry. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“All of us were worried for you.”, said Aragorn. “And we are glad to have you back.”
“Was I gone?” The question, small and afraid, ghosted over the tip of Merry’s ear. He hugged the younger hobbit tighter and kissed his cheek.
“Only asleep.”, Aragorn said. He laid a warm hand on Merry’s back. “Let me have a look at him.”
Merry straightened up, wiping his eyes and made to step back but Pippin caught his hand.
“You won’t leave?”
Merry squeezed his hand, smiled, and sat at the edge of the bed.
“Of course not.”
Only when Aragorn helped him sit up did Pippin notice his sleeping friends beside him. He gasped and grabbed Frodo’s hand, limp and unresponsive as he pulled it close.
“Frodo! Sam!” he reached across Frodo’s body to hold Sam’s hand as well. “What- why-“
“They’re alright.” Merry said quickly. “They are sleeping. As you were. I’m sure they’ll wake up soon themselves.” He looked up at Aragorn who didn’t smile and didn’t nod.
“That is the hope.” he said instead. “I’ve done what I can for them and I have faith that they will return to us. But let me see to you for now, Pippin.”
Pippin stared, forlorn, at the pale, unresponsive faces of his friends while the king stood by and waited patiently. Eventually, Merry reached over to cover Pippin’s hand that was still clutching Fodo’s limp fingers.
“I promise that they’ll be all right, Pip. Okay?”
Still, Pippin could not bring himself to look away from the beloved faces until Aragorn’s gentle hands guided him to turn his head and meet his searching gaze. He felt the hobbit’s forehead and hands, examined his neck and chest.
“Did you dream?” he asked. Pippin took a moment to respond, staring into Aragorn’s face who returned his gaze critically.
“I don’t know.” he said, eventually, and frowned. “It feels like I must have but I don’t really remember anything.”
Aragorn studied him a while longer, then he finally smiled. He combed his fingers through the hobbit’s locks, cradled his now slightly sunken cheeks in both hands and kissed his brow.
“I think you will recover fully. You should eat now and rest. There is room here or Merry can take you to a tent for yourselves. Also Legolas and Gimli will want to see you.” Both Pippin and Merry were still reluctant to leave Frodo and Sam even for a moment. Pippin now felt almost as hungry as he remembered being after their harrowing track across the plains of Rohan, but he clung still to Frodo’s hand.
“I will watch over them.”, came Gandalf’s voice. “And when they wake you will be the first to know.”
Pippin blinked wide, round eyes at the wizard stepping into the tent and looking down at him kindly. “Gandalf!” he exclaimed. “I suppose that’s alright then. Of course. I should like some food, I think. What time is it? Aren’t you hungry, Merry?” Merry helped him stand, wrapping his arm around Pippin’s.
“I am. And you need badly need to have a proper meal. No solid food all that time while you were recovering. We shall have to work hard to turn you back into a hobbit.” Pippin smiled vaguely, now visibly tiring, and let himself be led outside on Merry’s arm. His step was unsure but not unsteady and he straightened a little as the sun hit his face. He pulled Merry closer.
“We’ll be all right, won’t we, Merry?”
“Of course we will, Pip.” Merry replied, blinking into the sun with him, warmth spreading back into his heart from where Pippin was warm and alive at his side.
Frodo slipped from dreaming to waking like wandering into another room back home at Bag End. With no clear goal and with whatever had prompted him to move already fading from his mind. He heard the soothing murmur of waves on the shore like friendly voices in his ears and the distant calls of sea birds, and then he was lying in a soft bed, surrounded by fragrant, fresh smells, and listening to the movement of tarps in a gentle breeze and many voices not too far off. He didn’t know where he was, which didn’t make too much sense to him right now, but it also didn’t seem to matter very much. So he rolled onto his side, his limbs pleasantly soft and loose, and opened his eyes. Sam was lying next to him. His eyes were closed and he looked a little pale, his cheeks less plump than Frodo remembered them being ever since he had known him. But he heard him breathing softly and saw the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Images of their journey rose to the forefront of his mind, right down to the smell of hot, flowing rock and the taste of ash in his mouth, the very earth ruined and crumbling around them. But he let the memories slip away again immediately. It all had the dull edge of a faded dream and he would much rather be looking at Sam.
He raised an arm, wanting to touch his fingers to the dear face. His right hand was bandaged and the ring finger was missing. Not a dream then.
He laid his arm back down on the bed and sighed a little. For a moment he lay very still, only looking at Sam. He was just about to call out to him when somebody spoke up just behind him.
“Frodo?”
Frodo lifted his head to see a tall figure, robed in grey, sitting by their bedside. Bright eyes twinkled out at him from an old and familiar face. He scrambled to sit up and Gandalf was there to help him and hold his hand in an instant.
“Gandalf!” Frodo gasped and clasped his hand tightly. “Gandalf!” Gandalf smiled warmly down at him.
“Yes, I am here. And you are safe and all will be well now.” Frodo could only stare at him in response. His gaze flickered to Sam, still motionless and plainly asleep beside him.
“I dont… I don’t understand… Am I dead? Have we…?”
“No! My dear hobbit, no, I daresay you are not!” Gandalf brushed a hand over Frodo’s unruly dark curls. “And neither am I, as you can see. Nor is your Sam. And he will wake up soon as well. You are alive and well and safe in the king’s camp in Ithilien.”
“The king?” He felt a little woozy.
“Yes. He has returned to take his rightful place as the ruler of Gondor. But lie back down, my dear hobbit. Aragorn will be cross with me if I let you agitate yourself.” Frodo let himself be guided back into the pillows.
“I thought I had died.” He said in a quiet, faraway voice. “I remember what happened but it feels like a dream now. A long, awful dream.”
“You live, Frodo Baggins.” Gandalf said. “You were saved from the land of the enemy and the enemy is no more. The task was fulfilled. You completed the quest and I could not be prouder, nor more glad to see you awake and on your way back to health.”
Frodo’s face twisted in a grimace of grief and pain. Part of him wished he had been left were he had fallen and never had to wake up here. A smaller part could not even be grateful that Sam had been saved with him.
“I didn’t complete the quest.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t do it. I failed.” Gandalf was silent. Frodo could feel him watching him, a kind and affectionate gaze that he could hardly bare. “I took the ring for my own. I failed you. I failed everyone. It was Gollum, he took it from me and he fell with it. I couldn’t have done it. And I wouldn’t even have gotten that far. I would have faltered long before that if it wasn’t for Sam. The task was too much for me.”
“The ring was destroyed.” Gandalf said gently, kindly. This more than anything made Frodo want to cry. “And the enemy was defeated. You had your part in it, and that is more than anyone could have hoped to accomplish. I would not have sent you out alone.”
Frodo shook his head. Hepressed his fists into his eyes until he saw sparks and felt dizzy. Then, suddenly, the heavy silence was cut through by the tent flap being lifted and footsteps on the soft ground. An achingly familiar voice asked:
“Frodo?”
He lifted his hands from his face and next to Gandalf stood Aragorn, looking down at him. His eyes lit up as he saw Frodo awake and he bent down, taking the hobbit’s face in both hands and kissing his forehead. He smelled of leather and sweat and woodsmoke and soap. Overwhelmed by the relief and joy in the gesture, Frodo closed his eyes and shuddered. Aragorn straightened back up, keeping a hand in Frodo’s hair, brushing it gently away from his forehead.
Turning to Gandalf he asked: “Is Sam-?”
“Not yet.” replied Gandalf and Frodo began to cry.
They did not ask him more as he wept. Aragorn continued to stroke his hair and Gandalf sat in silence, holding the hobbit’s hand.
When he eventually began to calm he was feeling drawn and hollow. His body and soul ached, oversensitive to every little movement, every thought and feeling. And yet, the world around him, the words of his friends, all seemed very far away. Aragorn helped him sit up and as he examined him —first studying his eyes and face, then unwrapping the bindings on his hand and gently turning it over one way and another— Frodo’s gaze came to rest on Sam, still and peaceful beside him. Having given his left hand the same treatment as the other, Aragorn placed it back on the covers and Frodo gingerly curled his fingers around Sam’s. They were warm but unmoving and fresh tears welled in Frodo’s eyes. Sam wouldn’t be here, recovering from injury towards an uncertain awakening so very far away from home, if it wasn’t for him. If it wasn’t for Sam’s love for him, that he had never felt less deserving of.
“Don’t worry, Frodo.” Aragorn spoke softly. “He will wake soon.” He opened Frodo’s shirt to have a look at the now old wound on his chest. His fingers traced the scar lightly for a moment, then he sighed, buttoning the shirt up and sitting back on the stool he had drawn near the bed. “How do you feel?” he asked, very kindly. Gandalf had lit a pipe and the familiar smell of the weed was comforting. He watched Frodo keenly.
“Tired, I suppose.” he said uncertainly. His thumb was softly stroking Sam’s limp fingers. “I am glad to see you.” His eyes were slightly reddened from crying, but he smiled wanly. “Though, I don’t think I feel it properly. It’s…” He lifted a hand to his chest. Aragorn had not put the bandage back on his finger, the wound already sufficiently healed, but he was still sharply and insistently aware of it, the absence, a reminder of how he had lost it. “…I don’t know. I am very tired, I suppose.” Aragorn nodded. He put a hand briefly on Frodo’s shoulder, then rose and walked over to a table with various small packets stacked on it and at one end a small, lidded pot, wrapped in cloth, the contents of which steamed as he opened it.
“You will remain here and rest and recover as long as you need.” He said while he unwrapped one thing or the other, poured what seemed to be hot water, ground and stirred. “As will Sam. All care and honour shall be bestowed on you and all of your company.”
Finally Gandalf spoke up, his words muffled around the pipe in his mouth. “Your cousins are here as well, as are Legolas and Gimli. All of them well and safe.”
While Frodo slowly drank a cup of an infusion that contained in no small part athelas they told him briefly about the battle for Minas Tirith and the battle at Morannon and the great deeds that Merry and Pippin had done and how they would be overjoyed to see him awake. Frodo listened in silence as Gandalf told him how the eagles had found him and Sam where they had fallen on the slopes of Orodruin as the world broke apart around them, and had carried them away from the fire and the ruin. The words washed over him. The athelas had lifted some of the shadow from his heart and he felt less raw, more like he could fall asleep again and dream pleasantly. Aragorn reassured him again that they were safe in the royal camp in the glades of Ithilien while the armies cleared the lands around of the remnants of the enemy’s scattered armies. They would rest here until they were well enough to return to Minas Tirith and would be his guests for as long as they wished, remaining under his care for as long as they needed him. Frodo drew his face into as close to a smile as he could manage, feeling drowsy now. With one hand he was still holding on to Sam.
“Rest now, Frodo.” Aragorn took the empty cup from him and guided him to lie back down. “I will return later and look after Sam. Do not worry. All will be well.” He kissed the hobbit’s head. Frodo’s eyes sought Gandalf. The wizard smiled. His eyes shone under his heavy brows and lazy curls of smoke rose from his mouth.
“I will be here. Sleep, Frodo.”
Frodo turned onto his side to look at Sam’s face. He appeared hardly like he remembered, even before the quest. In quiet moments, when Frodo had watched him in sleep, there had never been such a serene stillness to him. He appeared to be caught in a distant dream, peaceful and whole, but faraway, beyond Frodo’s reach. He held his hand. It was warm at least. And he watched Sam breathing, watched the even rise and fall of his chest under the covers, watched the fall of his honey curls upon the pillow, the fine blue lines in his unmoving gossamer eyelids and the dusting of light, feathery hair of his brows and lashes, the soft roundness of his nose and his cheeks, the pale rose tint of his lips, closed and still. He stroked his Sam’s fingers and looked on his Sam’s face until he drifted off to gentle, dreamless sleep.
When he woke again Sam was there. And his joy at seeing Frodo awake washed away all traces of any shadow in Frodo’s own heart. He smiled at Sam as the other hobbit kissed his injured hand and cradled it against his cheek. Frodo petted his hair —it was pressed at awkward, unruly angles from lying on the pillow for so long, quite the same as his own, surely— and kissed his other cheek. Gandalf was there as well but Aragorn was nowhere to be seen. From the fresh scent of athelas and the empty mug on the table that was not Frodo’s, he guessed he recently had to leave them on the King’s business. Frodo felt much better after he had slept again. The light that passed through the white canvas walls of their tent was still bright, as if it were a sunny day outside. The air was warm and fresh and smelled of grass and trees and earth.
They were soon brought to a wide field by the banks of the river, where Aragorn greeted them in truly kingly attire the likes of which they had not seen or imagined on him. But he held their hands as they were honoured and praised by the entire assembled army. Frodo’s heart beat wildly in blushing embarrassment and an anxiety that did not abate until Sam’s hand was in his again and they were sat next to each other at the King’s table, now clad in the garb of princes. Merry and Pippin were there, as well as Legolas and Gimli, and the fellowship greeted each other with a joy that pierced their hearts deeply. Sam wept and Frodo was strangely bewildered at a few tears trickling down his own face. It was Pippin who wiped them away while Merry hugged Sam, laughing and rambling and overwhelmingly happy.
“Don’t cry, cousin Frodo. Come, sit and eat. You will feel more like yourself again.”
The feast was good, if more modest than an elaborate hobbit meal ought to be, and the company soon became joyful and familiar, even with so many strange men at the table who treated Frodo and Sam with such deference that it made them both bashful. They both listened much more than they spoke, but the food did indeed make them feel more like themselves again and whenever their hands were not busy with cutlery and cups, their fingers would touch under the table. After the feast the fellowship withdrew to the smaller glade where Frodo and Sam had woken that morning. Three smaller tents stood there as well, across a short expanse of grass. The place was surrounded by tall, bright trees, swaying stately in any breeze, their canopy of fresh green on high branches painting patterns of tinted shade and glittering sunshine during the day. Along one edge ran a small, cheerful water into a cluster of close, dark evergreens, through which they reached the main camp. It was lovely and quiet and more private than could reasonably be expected in a military encampment.
As the sun set and the forest around them sank slowly into balmy darkness and stars winked down at them, they lit a fire and remained huddled around it long into the night, telling each other of their fates, singing songs, telling jokes, laughing and sometimes crying together. That night the four hobbits fell into a nest of blankets and pillows together, all wrapped around each other and feeling safe and warm with love for it.
Their days in Ithilien were calm ones. They remained slightly removed from the main camp, though they often mingled with the men of the armies of Gondor and Rohan, sharing fires and meals and pipes. Merry and Pippin were familiar with some of the soldiers and Frodo sometimes found himself quietly sitting by Aragorn while he discussed with his captains and scouts, Sam like an agreeable shadow by his side. Every day soldiers left the camp and others returned, having completed another mission of combing the lands to the north and west of servants of the enemy. The forests around them were deemed safe now and the fellowship spent some time walking among the trees and meadows and little brooks and ponds. They never went very far, Frodo and Sam had not yet fully recovered and especially Frodo tired quickly. On the days when Frodo did not feel up to a walk Merry and Pippin would sometimes go a little ways by themselves, sometimes they would stay and entertain Sam with stories of the Ents or of Rohan and Minas Tirith while Frodo dozed with his head in Sam’s lap. Sometimes they would all quietly talk of home, sometimes they huddled among piles of pillows and blankets with Frodo in the middle of it all, napping or just quietly being together. Sometimes Frodo didn’t want to be touched and sat by himself somewhere in the grass or at a table, reading or scribbling idly, with Sam hovering nearby trying very hard not to appear like he was hovering.
Legolas and Gimli were seen walking the woods every day, sometimes in company, but often just the two of them and it put their friends in mind of when they had first forged a friendship in Lórien.
Gandalf spent a lot of time with the hobbits. The only times that Sam would ever leave Frodo’s side was when Frodo walked with the wizard. Even then he often trailed just a little behind them until Frodo or Gandalf turned around to invite him into their conversation.
The least they saw of Aragorn, who was busy directing the efforts of the armies. But he took at the very least a little time out of every evening to spend with the fellowship and came by usually once a day to look after the hobbits’ health. Pippin and Sam soon refused his care, insisting that they had long since healed, Pippin somewhat indignantly at the “fussing”, Sam embarrassed at the attention. Frodo and Merry, however, sat quietly for his examination. Frodo’s hand had healed and it would soon cease to bother him, but his old chest wound and Merry’s arm had good days and bad and they took Aragorn’s care gratefully.
On one of their good days Frodo woke fresh and content and spent a good while of the early morning cuddling with Sam in bed. Sam was still sleepy and drowsily happy at Frodo’s good cheer as the other hobbit giggled and chattered and kissed his hands and face. It was a bright and warm day as most days were in spring in this land and as the four hobbits still sat at breakfast that their friends had long finished, Gandalf remaining near them smoking a pipe, Legolas and Gimli getting ready to explore more of the woods to the south, Aragorn joined them and suggested that, if they were all feeling up to it, they all take a bit of a longer walk together as he said that the armies could do without him for a day. The hobbits, still munching on their breakfast, got excited to plan a nice picnic lunch and maybe also tea for everyone, depending on how long they ended up being away. Sam got so swept um in it that he ran off with Merry and Pippin to ask for what provisions they could get from the cooks in the main camp. Frodo smiled as he watched them go, then he helped Aragorn pack up the remains of their breakfast. The others were sure to be hungry again long before it would be time for lunch and they would be glad to have the leftovers then.
“Are you well enough, Frodo?” Aragorn asked. “We will turn around when you get tired.” Frodo gave him a smile. His cheeks had already started filling back in and were more rosy today than they had been for a while. Though he was still much slimmer than he had been when they had first met in Bree, a lifetime ago it seemed now, though in truth it had not even been a year. Aragorn’s heart ached as he remembered the frightened, but self-assured and joyful hobbit from then. Frodo seemed often so frail now, like there was a distance between himself and the world and if one did not watch out for it, he would be washed away. But today his eyes shone and his hands were sure and quick as he wrapped sausage and bread in cloth.
“Yes, I feel good! It will be a great time all of us going out together! Just like before but without the shadow over us.”
“And if you do get tired Gimli will be able to carry you, never fear.” Legolas chimed in, skipping close to them and brushing gentle fingers across Frodo’s cheek. Frodo looked past him to the dwarf. Gimli crossed his arms.
“Mocking my statue again, elf? This might all be muscle,” He flexed his upper arms, puffing out his chest. “But is it not you folk known for uncanny feats of strength and skill? Why don’t you carry the hobbit then, eh?”
Legolas’ face fell. “I wasn’t… I was praising your strength, Gimli. I apologise for offending you, I should not have volunteered your services for you.” Gimli’s beard trembled and his eyes glittered.
“You are sweet, aren’t you? I was only teasing you, lad, forgive me. I’m sure I can lift your elven slightness easily, the hobbit would be no trouble at all.”
Legolas blushed and looked embarrassed for a moment, but as ever he shook it off quickly and sprung laughing back to his dwarf’s side, putting his arms around him.
“We can always just take a rest.” Aragorn told Frodo, his eyes crinkling at the antics of his friends. “Whenever you need.”
Frodo was touched by the deep worry and care of these people who loved him, even if it seemed almost too much to bear some days. “I won’t be shy to speak up. I promise.” He said and Aragorn nodded.
Soon their packs were as full of comforts as the hobbits could make them without being a hinderance and they set off at a leisurely stroll into the woods.
Though it was still spring the air felt like summer, smelling sweetly of the grasses and herbs growing under their feet between the tall, slender trees, red and yellow flowers floating down from their branches.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Mr. Frodo?” Sam said, taking his hand. He had been laughing and joking with Merry and Pippin, the other two falling back into the habit of good-naturedly teasing him, as they had ever done at home.
“You haven’t called me that in a while, Sam lad.” Frodo said smiling and Sam blushed. He squeezed Frodo’s hand in both of his.
“Yes, sorry, Mr.- I mean Frodo. I’m just falling back into old habits, I suppose. With everyone around and- Only, this place reminds me so much of home now. Kind of like that little birch wood on the other side of the Water, you know the one?” Frodo looked around at the slowly drifting tree blossoms in the warm glow of late spring.
“I know the one.” He said vaguely. With a little effort he could bring to mind a blurry memory of the small collection of bright, slender trees. But the land around them did not remind him of home. It reminded him of the journey. They had passed through these very woods not even that far from where they now were and the thought felt dangerous, like gingerly poking at a dully aching tooth that may or may not break off to expose the nerve entirely.
“It is beautiful here.” He added after a pause and turned back to look at Sam. He squeezed his hands in return. “And more beautiful for the company.” Sam’s eyes widened as Frodo swayed a little closer. Red spots appeared on his cheeks. Frodo darted forward, kissed him soundly on the mouth, then twice more on each cheek, turned around and pulled his Sam with him, forward, after the others. Sam stammered and protested and cast around if anyone had seen but he continued to hold on to Frodo’s hand and would not stop smiling for the next hour at least.
They travelled through the fair woods of Ithilien in groups, ever within sight of each other, ever breaking up and reforming. Legolas and Gimli were walking together most of the time, except when Legolas danced away, dipping in and out of the trees singing like a spring bird in his high elven voice, or skipping around the four hobbits to entertain them. Gimli would watch him with a scowl and grumbling into his beard, but Aragorn, checking his long strides to the dwarf’s shorter legs, could see the bright shine of his eyes and the slight blush of his cheeks. Sam stuck with Frodo, often reaching for his hand again, prompting Frodo to pull Sam’s fingers to his lips and make the other hobbit blush and smile, except when he was being noisily pulled along by Merry and Pippin for jokes and pranks or to explore some curious rise or dip in the land a little ways off, while Frodo fell behind, watching his friends in contentment. He was not up to keeping up with the younger hobbits all of the time and then often Gandalf would fall into step with him, or Aragorn. And they would walk in silence or talk of many things far off and long past, or Frodo would ask Aragorn about his realm, new and old and he would talk of his hopes for the future to Frodo.
The three hunters, too, walked together for a while, calm and quiet as they had never been on their journey together, and fastened their friendship with reminiscence and plans to keep their lives entwined.
As the day wore on and the first thoughts of lunch made the wanderers slow down, Aragorn started showing the hobbits, especially Sam, what all could be found among the trees and grasses and underbrush that was edible, stopping often to inspect the ground and the plants. Eventually they had gathered a good supply of wild roots and herbs to add to their lunch, and a good spot to stop to settle down was found. There was some good-natured debating over who built the best fire and how, then the company gathered around to enjoy a break and Sam’s cooking.
The hurts of their quest, that had not quite healed yet, now caught up to some of them. Frodo was blinking drowsily within minutes of sitting down and after they had eaten he and Pippin were the first ones to drop off, with Merry and Sam soon draping themselves over them for a midday-nap. The others watched them sleep for an hour or so, at times talking quietly among themselves, at times dozing off a little under the play of cool shadow and warm sunshine, and the fragrant scents of the forest. When all awoke again, comfortable and only a little drowsy, they took their time to break up the little camp and pack up their things, and then set off again, taking a path generally back in the direction of the camp by the river.
They had come further east than they had thought, not paying too much attention to where it was their feet took them during the day, and the land had begun to rise towards the mountains which they now kept mostly to their left as they made their way back south, to turn in a more westerly direction soon.
The sunlight was beginning to slant between the tree trunks and though night was still far away, the approach of evening could already be guessed. The friends did not pick up their pace, the idea of walking the woods at night seemed now no more perilous to them than in the bright sunshine. But there was now less loud talk and laughter and they went together as one more often than not. Their talk turned more serious, even thought they always came back to light-hearted topics and song. Pippin, with his eyes on the ground before his feet and his voice low, finally told them about his fight with the troll whose carcass had nearly crushed him to death had Gimli not found him. He spoke of the hopelessness of the battle and how the darkness taking him had almost been relief. Frodo looked at his young cousin with a near desperate sadness, now more regretful than ever that he had taken his friends on this journey with him. But then Pippin told of the friends he had made among the men of Minas Tirith and how the story of his glory won in battle would inspire their awe and admiration. Soon the seriousness fell off him and he was boasting and brazen again. Frodo let himself be caught left and right by his cousins as they linked arms and teased one of Bilbo’s sillier walking songs out of him to lighten the mood once more.
Gimli and Legolas told the hobbits some more of the journey under the Dwimorberg and the creeping terror of the paths of the dead. They spoke only in near whisper while the sun was still shining on their faces. Aragorn remained silent.
But he did, at Frodo’s question, tell some about how he had faced the dark lord’s power in the palantir. His face was severe and pale as he spoke of it and he would not say much.
“That is no small feat, indeed.” Said Sam, almost to himself, in a voice grave and hushed. “A battle of wills with him would be the greatest of battles in all this war.”
They all looked at him in surprise. They had almost forgotten that he too had borne the ring for a while and been tempted by the will of the enemy. Frodo’s gaze on his old gardener was heavy with the full contents of his heart. Then he looked up at Aragorn walking on his other side and his hand tentatively came up to brush along the man’s fingers. Aragorn clasped his hand briefly but firmly.
“It was no small thing indeed, Sam.” he said and gave the hobbit a nod that he returned gravely.
As the afternoon grew later Frodo began to lag behind.
“We may have overestimated your recovery.” Aragorn said, falling in step with him. “Do you want a rest? We are in no rush to get back. Or should I carry you some of the way?”
Frodo smiled at him. “I’m fine, I don’t need a rest yet. I will just be taking it a little easier. As you say, we are in no rush. And my feet are still enjoying the walk, if a slow one.” Sam wound Frodo’s arm through his.
“Here, my dear, you can at least lean on me a little. And the moment you feel like it, we will have a rest.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
They went on, slower than before but still cheerfully telling stories to one another. As Frodo gradually grew quieter they began to stray apart a little again, inspecting this tree and that hollow nearby. Frodo leaned on Sam like he was beginning to nod off.
Then Frodo stopped suddenly. His hold on Sam’s arm tightened and he looked around in a distracted, harried way. His hands were trembling.
“Frodo?”, Sam asked quietly but with rising concern. “What’s wrong?”
Frodo didn’t turn to him. He was looking behind them at the empty forest, the rest of the company having strolled on before them. He spoke in a harsh, panicked whisper.
“We’re being watched, I think!”
Sam’s head whipped around to survey the trees they had come through. The forest seemed serene and lovely and quite safe to him. It was still bathed in warmth and very late afternoon sunlight. Birdsong and the rustle of small animals over the voices of their friends were a comforting blanket of peace and drowsiness.
“I don’t see any, Frodo, dear.” He said. Frodo was still staring wide-eyed into the woods. “But let’s do tell Strider. He said the woods here are safe now but who knows what may have snuck around from beyond.” He cast a glance eastwards. The forest grew too densely and in gently climbing slopes to make out the rising mountains that must be not too far away.
“We must hide!” whispered Frodo urgently. “We should not be walking so openly while it’s still light. What were we thinking! Quick, now! Where’s Smeagol?”
Sam’s heart jumped into his throat. Frodo was pulling on his arm now, staggering forward towards a patch of dense undergrowth some way to their right.
“Mr. Frodo…” Sam said miserably. “Frodo, it’s not… We’re…”
But Frodo wasn’t listening. He almost seemed to not even hear him, not really see him either, his gaze went vaguely over him as he surveyed their surroundings wildly. A fear was in it that Sam hadn’t seen since the plain of Gorgoroth. He looked to where their companions were but Strider was already coming towards them. His questioning gaze quickly turned to concern. Frodo must still be somewhat aware of the real world around him, for as the shadow of the large man fell over them, he gave a frightened gasp and stumbled backwards, almost letting go of Sam’s arm. Sam stepped with him to make sure he didn’t fall. He also seemed ready to bolt away from them and Sam shuddered at the thought of losing him in the darkening forest, frightened and imagining terrors around. Frodo was trembling hard now.
“Sam, what happened?” Aragorn asked quietly. He had stopped short at Frodo’s obvious fear of him and crouched down now, to be of their height and less imposing.
“I-I don’t rightly now.” Sam stammered, half holding up his master who was muttering and panting in panicked, short breaths. “Mr. Frodo was getting tired, I think, and then he said he thought something was watching but I didn’t see naught. And then…” The rest of the company were looking back at them now, slowly coming closer. Sam whispered his next words in an effort to not alarm Frodo further. “He wanted to hide till dark. Asked where- where Gollum was. Like when we come through here before, you understand. We used to try to travel by night only. That being safer then, right?”
Aragorn’s face darkened with worry as he watched Frodo. Frodo pulled on Sam’s hand.
“Sam, let’s hide, come on! I- it’s watching- I-I can’t-“ He whimpered and turned as if to run but his leg’s were shaking hard and he stumbled. Sam caught him.
“Mr. Frodo, it’s alright. I promise we are safe. Let’s just go back to camp and you can rest and it will all look better in the morning.” Sam could feel tears rising in his throat. Frodo wasn’t even listening. He cast around and his injured hand was clutching at his chest now, where the Ring used to hang. Gandalf was with them now. He stood a pace away next to Aragorn, exchanging a quiet word with him, but Sam was all too aware how he would seem to loom over them to someone so caught up in terror.
At the approach of the wizard Frodo shrieked in fear and he fell. Sam couldn’t hold him up anymore with his legs suddenly buckling under him. Frodo raised up the arm that wasn’t groping at a burden that wasn’t there anymore, as if to protect himself from blows or a seeking, piercing gaze.
“I don’t have it! I don’t have it” he cried. “It’s not- you can’t- you can’t take it! I won’t! Leave me! Leave me!”
He was shaking so hard his teeth clattered and a sob wrenched from him. Sam held his shoulders gingerly but Frodo flinched away, curling in on himself. Sam drew back as if burned, wringing his hands and watching his master with tears in his eyes. Gandalf stepped swiftly forward, knelt down, and lifted the hobbit’s face in both of his large, aged hands. Frodo’s wide staring eyes were glazed. In the place of Gandalf he was seeing some looming and terrible phantom. Gandalf murmured some words that Sam couldn’t understand, fixing Frodo with an intent stare and cradling his cheeks gently. After a moment Frodo’s eyes drooped and the panicked seizing of his body died down into shivers. Sam stifled a sob.
Half cradled into the wizard’s lap the little hobbit lay in a swoon, his cheeks having grown deathly pale.
“It was just a shadow, Frodo, it can’t harm you now. You’re safe. Come back to us.” For long, silent minutes Gandalf held Frodo in his arms and spoke soothing words to him, surrounded by the shaken faces of the company. Frodo appeared insensate for a while until he blinked and shivered.
“Gandalf?” His voice was small and sounded very tired.
“Yes, I have you.” The wizard gave a huff. “Come, Aragorn shall carry you back and then you can rest in safety and comfort. It’s all right now.”
They wrapped him in a blanket and Aragorn lifted him into his arms with ease. Frodo turned his face into his shoulder, still shivering.
Sam watched him be carried off briskly in the long strides of the ranger. Before long they had disappeared among the trees that seemed to him suddenly to be standing closer and darker. The sun seemed to have done a dip towards night and he shivered.
“Sam, what happened?” Merry whispered next to him. Both he and Pippin were wide-eyed and pale.
Sam pressed his lips together. He had to swallow thickly. Gandalf had picked up his staff, rising with a soft groan, and stood now looking after the ring-bearer and the king. He was speaking half to himself when he said:
“The journey left a mark on him. One that it is likely he will never quite be rid of. I feared as much…”
“What do you mean?” Pippin’s voice was high and fearful. He grasped the wizard’s robe and looked up at him with large, pleading eyes. Gandalf sighed and laid a hand on his head.
“Let us get back and talk more in the safety and comfort of a campfire and dinner. Do not worry too much for Frodo, my dear young hobbits. He is in the best hands and everything will be better in the morning.”
Frodo clung to Aragorn as he was carried. The ranger went as quickly as he may while trying not to jostle him too much. Everything seemed to Frodo to be hid behind a veil, obscuring the light of the setting sun and muting the noises of the forest. Frodo did his best to focus on the movement of the man holding him close, the smell of woodsmoke and leather and sweat enveloping him, the texture of his tunic agains his cheek. But he felt desperately fragile and wavering, like a waning shadow, like the fading daylight was shining right through him and in a matter of minutes he would be gone, mist on the wind. He wanted to make a sound, but he couldn’t, he could hardly move at all.
Aragorn’s voice drifted through his fog, distant but very clear.
“I promise you are safe, Frodo. I have you.”
He closed his eyes and held on.
They were not much comforted but the followed Gandalf back towards the camp. Gimli tried to talk to the hobbits and reassure them, telling them of what he had seen of Aragorns healing art after the battle of Pelennor. The younger hobbits gave him wan smiles and he quieted down soon, trudging along next to Pippin. Sam hurried along silent and pale. The world seemed narrow around him and there was a rushing in his ears. He was afraid in a way that he did not want to try and think about.
When the rest of the company returned to camp, Frodo was already in a deep sleep. His brow was smooth and he appeared peaceful in the low-lit tent filled with the scent of athelas and lavender.
Aragorn reassured the friends. Frodo had strained himself more than he had noticed and they had come close to the area that the journey had led him through before, the memories tearing at the still healing wounds in his mind and spirit. Sam confirmed this, dashing away tears, angry at himself for not having thought of it and acted to shield his master. For him that part of their journey had been mainly the memory of fresh rabbit stew and the sweet smelling grasses of spring, but of course for Frodo it had been just another stage in the constant battle against the will of the enemy.
“There’s no fault with you, Sam.” Aragorn said. “In truth I was afraid something like this may happen. But remember how little time has yet passed since the ring was destroyed. And how long Frodo was under its influence. You have felt for yourself the enemy’s will upon you, Sam, and for a much shorter time. Frodo suffered an injury to his mind and soul. None can tell for certain how deep it runs. But the best healing for him now is in sleep and in being surrounded by people who love him. Be not afraid for him tonight. The shadow is passing and it will be gone by morning.”
The shadow had passed in the morning. Frodo woke with clear eyes and mind, though his body ached as if he had lain ill for a long time, and he was withdrawn and sad. He talked for a while with Aragorn away from the others and even Legolas, whose elven hearing could easily span the small expanse of their camp, wandered a little way into the forest, singing so as not to overhear them.
Frodo blamed himself for what had happened. All the fear and pain and bitterness of the quest and his failure to fulfil the task had come once more to the forefront of his mind and he felt that it had been his own weakness that had caused him to frighten and worry the whole company yesterday. Aragorn listened as tears of despair spilled down Frodo’s face and he quietly lamented that he felt tainted and as a burden to everyone around him and that he could never return home where he would only be hurting more people.
Aragorn listened, and when Frodo had finished turning out all his dark thoughts he told him more than even Gandalf knew about his own battle with the enemy’s will through the palantir or Orthanc. He spoke of the immediacy of the terror and the sickly way in which the enemy had attempted to prey on his hopes and fears to turn him against the world. He also talked about his heritage of Isildur’s line and how long he had believed that there was a flaw in him as there had been in his forebears that would eventually lead him to ruin.
“I do not believe that you are a burden on those around you, Frodo. I do not believe that you are tainted. But if you truly fear to go home, know that you will always have a place in my kingdom and by my side. It will never be a hardship for me to care for you, for as long as you wish to stay.”
Frodo was comforted by his profession of sympathy, understanding, and devotion. Though it did little to relieve his fear and resentment of his own mind that the events of last night had brought up, he did his best to be reassured. At least, even if he could not go home for fear of poisoning the Shire, distant and free, with his spoiled presence, he would not be entirely lost and there would be a place for him to live out the rest of his diminished life.
During the day, quiet among his friends, the despair in Frodo’s heart gradually lessened and by the evening he was chuckling at his cousins’ jokes and fell asleep arms entwined with Sam. As the camp began to prepare to remove back to Minas Tirith in the next few days, his spirits continued to lift out of a deep pit. Even if he was not yet all back to himself, his friends held out some hope. Out on the way to the city he then rode mostly with Aragorn and the knights and soldiers of the kingdoms of men watched with awe the small person next to the king. Resilient and ethereal he appeared to them in his silver mail and dark cloak, like an elven child prince in the depths of time.
Frodo enjoyed Aragorn’s stories about the everyday folk across the lands he had seen in his already long life. They reminisced happily about Butterbur back in Bree and what he might say if they came upon him now. Frodo told stories about growing up with Bilbo as his guardian and before that in Brandy Hall. Thus laughter rang among the fellowship more often than not in those peaceful and gentle days.
And as the king returned to the throne of Gondor for the first time in many generations the ring bearer and his companions came to this land of men with him and stayed there for a while. They shared much joy, as well as some sorrow while they remained in Minas Tirith, before eventually they all departed towards their own lands and the fellowship parted for the last time.