The rustle of wings tearing the air trickled into the walls of the Healing hall. Of all the people inside it's walls, the man heard it first. Probably because he had both his ears and his spirit open and yearning for the sound ever since the wizard had brought the rest of them here. His mind had been conjuring up horrid situations, compounding his panic until the images behind his eyes were hazy swathes of cut fear and fire. He was so distracted with the fate of the two hobbits he paid no heed to the binding of his own wounds. Elven folk came to him, anointing him with healing oil and deftly applying bandages but he hardly saw them.

When he heard the sound he jumped up, straight as an arrow. The protests of those tending to him were unimportant as he strained again to hear it again. Yes, that beautiful heart warming sound was getting closer. He rushed out onto the balcony, face beaming with over flowing joy. The wizard on the eagles back, the tiny form nestled in it's grip. The beating wings, like the throb of a pulse sweeping into the proud body as the great creature landed. Aragorn hurried out to meet it, arms crooked and ready to bear the hobbit's body.

As he did he caught sight of the hobbit's face. His chest tightened as if his heart was struggling at its walls. His throat was thick with tears as the young hobbit rolled into his arms. The effects of the harrowing journey he'd undertaken were evident on him. He was broken, bloody and bruised, splotches of angry red and deep purple decorating him. Every nook of his soft figure was hurt in some way. His bones strained at the walls of his skin. His clothes hung off him as they would from a scarecrow. He looked pale and sick. Even unconscious he shivered as if cold. Laying him down, Aragorn pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse. What he felt was so weak he couldn't determine if it was real or imagined.

He spread a hand over the hobbits chest, praying to feel the thud of his heart. Thank the Valar, there it was, a pulse of life under his hand. He was alive. Aragorn held him close, laying Frodo's head against his chest, weeping into Frodo's hair. He rubbed gentle circles on the hobbit's back. Elves came to him and offered to take Frodo from him. He refused them all and turned away from them, backing into a solitary corner, carrying the hobbit with him.

He held Frodo to him as a father holds his child, wrapping his arms around him and whispering soothing words. It was then he noticed Frodo's finger. Or rather the lack of it. A gnawed and bloody stump. The tip had been torn away. Aragorn hissed a curse, hating himself. He'd let Frodo go, let him wander off alone where he couldn't protect him. He may as well have given Frodo his injuries, starved him of food and water himself for all the good his promise of protection had done. He may as well have delivered the young hobbit into the dark lord's clutches for all the good his oath had done. The Halfling stirred in his arms. He looked down at him, eyes glassy from crying.

"Aragorn?" the hobbit's voice is faint and thin, struggled out from a dry and weak throat.

"Oh, Frodo" the man's voice is thick with tears, choked out from a grieving throat. "I'm….. I'm so…sorry"

"Sorry?"

"I never meant…"

The hobbit smiled at him "Aragorn. It was my burden and I bore it. You had your burden and you bore it. We were each triumphant. There is nothing to be sorry for"

Aragorn smiled down at him, tears falling from his rugged cheek onto the hobbit's. Frodo lay his weary head on his chest and drifted to sleep. And his guardian bore him to safety and health, just he promised he would.