'And yet less thanks have we than you. Travellers scowl at us, and countrymen give us scornful names. "Strider" I am to one fat man who lives within a day's march of foes that would freeze his heart.'
—"The Council of Elrond," The Fellowship of the Ring
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Frodo watched Sam vanish into the night. A variety of feelings chased through him: gratitude, admiration, and relief predominantly, mingled with concern for his friend's safety. Apprehension regarding the safety of the party, should anything attack them during Sam's absence, was another consideration; Frodo was under no illusions that he and Merry could offer anything approaching an adequate defense for their injured members. In fact, Frodo doubted that he'd be able to protect himself. What Merry might manage was probably beyond either of them to speculate at this point. Still, Frodo suspected that one good swing would be all it would take to put Merry on the ground for good.
Frodo fed another branch to the fire. The warmth on his face and chest felt good. He leaned forward, hoping that the fire might unfreeze his icy arm, although bitter experience had taught him not to expect much. The long day had taken a toll on him, from their brisk march down from that dreadful saddle that had been last night's camp, to the flight from and then battle with the troll, to the tending of their fallen friends. Frodo couldn't remember the last proper rest he'd had. Or perhaps he could. Luncheon, beneath the legs of the stone trolls? He shook his head. That seemed ages ago, almost as if it had happened in another life.
Wrenching the Ranger's leg free had been the final brick to collapse an over-weighted burrow. Frodo had had to crawl beneath the very body of the troll, twist Aragorn's knee round and tug his foot out so Merry could drag him free—and he had to do all that before poor Sam collapsed from the strain. Frodo saw how the sturdy hobbit's body had trembled from the exertion. He wondered, should Sam let go or the lever break, if the weight of the falling troll would kill him.
But both Sam and the stick had held out—good old Sam. Frodo had crawled clear in the nick of time, but the incident had drained whatever tiny reserve of strength was left to him. The cold in his shoulder was so intense that he could feel it radiating against his chin. Even as he huddled before the fire, a palsy of weakness swept over him. Now he shook as if with fever, now he shivered with cold. He longed to lie down and rest, but could not. Aragorn needed his help. In fact, Frodo should try to move him nearer the fire, now that it was built. And they had to remove his clothes before that, to keep the poison from soaking through more than it already had. Just the thought of such a chore sent Frodo nearly into despair. Why, oh why, had he listened to the wraith on Weathertop? His moment of weakness kept coming back to haunt him, again and again. Wretched, ill-done mistake.
Merry's close footstep startled him out of his stupor. Frodo squared his shoulders and tried to sit straighter, as Merry sank down beside him.
His cousin's eyes narrowed with the effort of lowering himself to his knees. Now that Sam had gone, Merry allowed himself the luxury of a groan. "Beastly bugger," he growled. "I'd like to break his ribs."
Frodo mutely offered him the stout stick he'd been stirring the fire with. Merry waved it away. "No, thanks. There wouldn't be any satisfaction in it, as he's already dead."
"Pity. He makes an easier target this way."
Merry grunted an acknowledgement, then bent forward. Frodo saw that he had Sam's smaller water-filled cook pan in his hands. Using his poker, Frodo scooted a burning limb close to another to make a base for it. Merry set the pan on the sticks over the flames, then sank all the way onto his heels, his discomfort evident.
"How's Pippin?" Frodo asked.
"The same. Sleeping." Merry turned pain-clouded eyes on him. "How about you?"
"No worse than before," Frodo assured him, not quite truthfully. He felt altogether done in, but supposed there was little point in saying so. "So the troll broke some of your ribs, did he?"
"It feels like it." Merry indicated his left side. "It hurts worst here, on the outer edge. And my head feels swollen as a melon. I knocked it rather hard against the floor when he dropped me, the wretched brute."
"Well, you mustn't blame the brute. You'd drop somebody, too, if Pippin landed on your arm, sword-point first."
Merry smiled. "Impulsive Took. I'm looking at this all wrong. Instead of complaining, I should be overflowing with gratitude that Pippin didn't chop off my ear, by mistake."
Frodo nodded an assent, but felt too weary to answer.
"Well?" Merry prompted.
Frodo started, and realized he'd been drifting again. "Yes?"
Merry nodded at the Ranger, sprawled two paces away. "Shouldn't we move Strider closer to the fire?"
"Yes, of course." Frodo roused himself, collecting his legs to stand. Mindful of every required motion, he pushed himself up.
He straightened to find Merry, also standing, eyeing him dubiously. "Frodo, my lad, you look regularly done."
"Speak for yourself," Frodo answered tartly.
"I believe I just did. I'm not sure that I should allow you to help."
"Don't be silly. You'll never be able to drag him any distance by yourself."
"Ah, but I don't intend to drag him at all." Merry walked past Frodo to the Ranger's pack. He knelt carefully, and retrieved the Ranger's thick blanket, which was all that the Man slept with. Rising with that same stiff-bodied motion, Merry walked round to the side of the Ranger nearest the fire. He unrolled the huge blanket, then walked about its edge, kicking it flat on all sides.
"The fire's only two steps away," Merry explained. "I say we roll him. Two turns, and we'll have him next the fire, or near enough."
Frodo measured the distance with his eyes. It was certainly worth a try. Frodo nodded and walked round to the Ranger's farther side. He knelt with difficulty. As soon as he stepped away from the fire, the cold laid hold of him. He tugged his cloak closer about himself.
Merry sank down at his side. Instead of rolling the Man over, he started to work the lacings of his vest. Frodo stared, and then realized what Merry was doing.
Merry briefly caught his gaze. "We might as well do it now, so we don't foul the blanket."
"Of course." Frodo reached to help. "But let me do this. You get his boots. That's a two-handed job."
"More like a two-hobbit job, but I'll manage."
Manage they did, but only just. The Man was heavy, and moving his unconscious limbs awkward. His clothes were leaden, stiff with crusted blood. They removed what they could as he lay, then gently tipped him over, with Merry pushing on his chest and Frodo guiding his hips. When Aragorn toppled onto his chest, they tugged off the rest of his clothing. While Frodo worked the final sleeve free, Merry moistened a cloth so they could wash the troll blood off the back of his neck; fortunately his clothing had protected the rest of his skin. Frodo winced when, working under his hair, the cloth came away red, not black. Some of the blood on the Ranger's scalp was his own. Frodo didn't care to bring the troll-stained cloth in contact with the Man's injuries. The Ranger's pale skin revealed too clearly the ferocity of the battle. Numerous bruises, bumps, and scrapes marred his body. The worst was a patch of abraded, purplish flesh on his thigh. Frodo prodded the area gingerly. He had no doubt that such a blow must leave the Ranger lame. How they should make it to Rivendell now, Frodo couldn't imagine.
Merry meanwhile spread out the Ranger's cloak, ready for the next turn. Trapped under the Man's body, it had remained relatively unsoiled save for one edge, which Merry turned under to keep away from his skin. Working side-by-side, the hobbits turned the Man once again, so that he lay face-up on his cloak. This done, Merry covered him with the blanket.
"There!" He was puffing from the effort. "Now we can give him a proper wash. Is the water boiling yet?"
The water was boiling nicely—so much so that Frodo was dismayed to see that some of it had boiled away. He eased the pan off the fire, while Merry rummaged round Sam's pack. He emitted a cry of triumph, and then displayed a gory pouch to Frodo. "Here we are. Artillis leaf, or whatever it is."
"Athelas," Frodo corrected. "Or so I believe. According to Sam, we need two leaves."
"Right." Merry tugged open the pouch. "Whew, smells strong. Good, though. Rather… invigorating."
"That's fortunate." Frodo accepted the leaves that Merry handed him. "I can use all the invigoration I can get."
"I'll get some more water for washing." Merry walked back to where the other pan lay.
Frodo held the long, slender leaves in his hand. He hadn't been overly aware when Strider had prepared the infusion for him on Weathertop; he had still been in shock from the attack. No, not Strider—Aragorn. He remembered how the Man had responded to that name when Frodo had tended him earlier. That was his true name, Gandalf's note had said. Only moments after Frodo had learned it, Aragorn had proclaimed that name himself.
I am Aragorn son of Arathorn.
Slowly, Frodo crushed the leaves in his hand. Instantly, a pungent odor filled the air, ten times as powerful as it had been the moment before. As the scent hit his nostrils, Frodo felt his worries fall away. His mind grew calm. His body was tired—he could feel that. Yet he felt more rested than he had all evening, as if someone had removed a heavy burden that he hadn't realized he had been carrying until that moment.
Footsteps hurried to his side. Frodo looked up to see Merry staring down at him, eyes wide. "What did you do?" he demanded, looking shocked.
Frodo looked at his hand. The athelas tried to straighten as he uncurled his fingers. "I bruised the leaves." Frodo could see the oil gleaming in the fresh seams on the leaves. He extended his hand, and dropped them into the hot water.
At once a soothing vapor wafted from the pan, filling the air with a refreshing fragrance. Frodo closed his eyes and tipped back his head, reveling in it.
"Ah." Merry inhaled deeply. "I'd forgotten how good that smells. It seems even better tonight than it did on Weathertop."
"I'll have to rely on your assessment for that." Frodo opened his eyes, and looked round for his washcloth. "I was rather preoccupied at the time."
"Brr, don't remind me." Merry knelt near the fire.
Perhaps it was an impression of Frodo's gentled mind, but his cousin seemed to move more easily than he had moments before. "We should bathe your side in this," he mused.
"And your shoulder." Merry produced a tin cup. Into it he carefully poured some of the athelas infusion, then plucked out one leaf to add to his portion. "I'll keep half of this clean in this cup. I'll start with Pippin, then we can use it on ourselves afterwards. The stuff you use on Strider won't be fit for anyone else, once that troll juice gets into it."
"Aragorn," Frodo corrected. He met Merry's startled eyes. "We must remember to call him Aragorn. It's his name."
Merry blinked. "Right. Aragorn it is."
As Frodo maneuvered the flat pan closer to Aragorn, he noticed Merry tuck a second tin cup near the fire. "What's that?"
Merry positioned the cup so it wouldn't tip, then twitched his hand away from the coals. "Just some water. I put a bit of dried meat in it. I hope it might make a broth of sorts—for Pippin to drink, when he wakes." Merry rose, taking the cup of athelas with him. In two steps, he reached Pippin's side. "Hullo, Pip. It's me. I've got something soothing for your head. It will bring you round in no time."
Frodo smiled, then turned his attention to Aragorn. The Man lay as they had placed him, but his face looked more relaxed than before. And his breathing—Frodo frowned. He hadn't noticed previously, but the Man seemed to be breathing more deeply than before. Frodo crawled towards his head, nudging the pan along with him.
"Aragorn, I have the herb you found. Athelas." Settling himself, he dipped his washcloth into the pan, and wrung it out as best he could one-handed. Gently, he applied it to the Ranger's head, trying to locate the hidden cuts beneath his hair that he had noticed earlier. The one at the front was easy to find; a trickle of red tracked the Man's hairline. Frodo traced it back to the source. There was a cut and a bump, doubtless from the Man's head striking a stone.
"I'll tend to your cuts first," Frodo murmured as he worked. He tilted the Ranger's head to get at the lump he'd discovered on the back of his skull. "We don't want any nasty troll blood in there, do we, Aragorn?" Frodo blotted the cut, and then repeated the name. "Aragorn." Unlike before, the Man did not stir at the sound of his name, although his face looked restful.
With a sigh, Frodo moved on to his other injuries. He recalled how Aragorn had bathed his hurt shoulder with the brew, so that's what Frodo did now in return. He ran the washcloth over the Ranger's battered side; a livid, semi-circular bruise marked where the troll's head had rested on the rim of his rib cage. Frodo then bathed the bad area on the Ranger's thigh, lifting the blanket to work. He had no idea if it would help, but it seemed only sensible to clean the abrasion, at least.
Frodo tucked back the blanket all round, then scooted up to the Ranger's head. He refreshed the cloth in the dwindling brew. Carefully, he leaned over the sleeping man's face. "I don't know if this will help," he murmured, going over the inflamed patches of skin. "You were burned by the troll blood. Perhaps this brew might ease it. It won't hurt to clean it again, in any event."
Aragorn made no response, but his breathing deepened when Frodo brought the washcloth to his face. Gently, he lathed the area on the Ranger's face and neck, where the blood had spattered the thickest. It was easy to see the red discoloration in the firelight, even through the Man's bristly whiskers.
"I hope this helps, Aragorn," Frodo continued. "If anyone deserves help, it's you. You didn't have to come with us. And you didn't have to risk your life to save ours. But you did." Frodo refreshed his cloth, and then wrapped it around to bathe the back of the Ranger's neck. "Why did you? Was it because of Gandalf? Did he make you promise to look after us? Or was it your own idea? And if so, why?" Frodo mopped all of the area where the troll's blood had been. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the skin did look less flushed where his cloth has passed.
Frodo returned the cloth to the pan, and then paused. He could see the Ranger's eyes moving beneath the closed lids. This sign of returning consciousness arrested him. Wringing out the cloth once more, Frodo bent near to the Ranger's face.
"Aragorn," he said softly in his ear. He blotted the battered skin. "Can you hear me?"
The Man's nostrils fluttered. He was definitely responding to the athelas, now that it dampened his very face. Frodo patted the area round the Man's lips and nostrils, so the scent would permeate. "Aragorn, can you hear me?"
Something was there, restless, evasive—some shred of consciousness that Frodo could almost touch. He leant closer, resting his forehead against the Ranger's. With the damp cloth sponging the Man's face, Frodo closed his eyes, and reached for that elusive presence. "Aragorn," he whispered.
Suddenly Frodo envisioned a tall young man. He was fair of face, as youths often are before their bones thicken into the harsher lines of adulthood. His hair was dark, but his eyes were light, so clear they were almost empty of color. They caught the orange glow of the sunset, and reflected the gleam of the white birch stems, through which he walked. The light of joy was in his face, and he sang.
Some insight told Frodo that he was seeing Aragorn in truth, as the young man he had been. With a start, Frodo realized that he recognized the song. It was the same that Aragorn had sung to them upon Weathertop—the lay of Lúthien Tinúviel, the Elf maid.
Upon the thought, his mind leaped forward, to that night. They stood in circle about the fire, backs to the flames, peering anxiously into the darkness. Frodo was chilled; he could not stop shaking. Sam cringed at his side, all fight for once gone from him, as the tall shadows, like holes in the blackness, advanced. From the closest shadow came a venomous hiss.
A swirl of activity flashed through Frodo's mind—an irresistible call, pale faces, the rush of a cloak and a piercing, mind-numbing pain. Strider lashed out with a flaming brand. Frodo was falling, falling—but Strider had leaped past him, wielding fire against the deadly cold. And though he had fallen, Frodo could see the Man, the Ranger—Aragorn son of Arathorn—pit himself against the creatures of darkness. There was nothing in his mind but this: to defeat the servants of the Enemy. No Frodo. None of his friends. Not any of the people of Bree. Only duty, and determination, and a will set like adamant.
No, there was one thing more. Tinúviel. Frodo could see the thought clearly. Even as Aragorn fought, the song lingered on, low and piercing, full of heartbreak. Softly as it played, it remained in the mind, as Elvish songs do—sharp and clear, unspoilt by time.
Frodo faded from the scene. He was nothing. He had been nothing to Strider but an obligation—was less than nothing to Aragorn the Man, veteran of many journeys. But Tinúviel was vivid, alive. She was the song inside him that never died. She was the life pulse of his blood, present with every beat of his heart.
Frodo's fingers stroked the Ranger's face. "Aragorn," he breathed. "Come back to the light. Come back to Tinúviel. She is waiting."
Though his eyes were closed, Frodo felt the Man's heart rate pick up. He huddled against the Ranger, his teeth chattering in his head. He was so cold! Stubbornly, he forced himself to speak. "Come back, Aragorn. Leave the Enemy behind. Come to the meadow, where Tinúviel dances."
And just as the young Aragorn must have seen it years ago, so Frodo saw it now through the Man's own eyes. It was impression merely, for he could visualize no face. But the haunting beauty of the Elf maid pierced his heart. He turned (Aragorn turned). Tinúviel stood before him, clothed in a mantle of silver and blue. Her long dark hair, bound by gems, stirred in the breeze. She stood still, looking towards him, yet her body was music; her poise, movement; her clear eyes, wisdom tempered with laughter.
Frodo's lips moved, but it was Aragorn's ragged voice that whispered, "Tinúviel."
Light blazed in Frodo's mind. With other sight, he saw what he had glimpsed before—outside the barrow, when Tom had spoken: a long line of grim Men, tall and fell, with bright swords, and eyes that were fierce, yet wise. The last of these strode towards him, strong and magnificent. It was Aragorn, and he had a star upon his brow. Frodo heard himself call, "Aragorn!" His voice seemed faint and far away.
Beneath him, something stirred. A distant part of his mind knew that this must be the Ranger, struggling back to consciousness. A harsh voice rasped in his ear: "Tinúviel."
In his vision, star-gem Aragorn looked at Frodo, and smiled. Somewhere in the distance, Frodo heard Merry's voice, calling his name, but he could not see him. Frodo held dream Aragorn's eyes. Their keenness merged with the light of the star stone to dazzle him. Frodo raised his arm, but there was nothing to prevent his fall. No hand—no patch of earth, even. Just a shadow that wisped past his face, leaving him frozen and helpless and alone.
Frodo toppled forward into white oblivion.
