Aragorn emerged from the wilderness of Dungortheb, under the shadow of Ered Gorgoroth, the Mountains of Terror. Narsil was in his hand. The short blade flickered in the weak light, its jagged edge fouled with the black blood of some spawn of Ungoliant. The webs of the many-eyed monsters clung to his face, sticky and stinging. He could not claw them away. Narsil dragged at his arm, weighed down with gore. Yet when he looked, it was not Narsil, but his handless wrist that pulled so heavily, with blood dripping from the stump to stain the grasses red. Weariness swept over him; he staggered forward, barely able to lift his feet.

The sound of a song drew his gaze. Lúthien was dancing before him, there in the forest of Rivendell. She was clad in raiment blue and silver—or was it golden stars? He was stricken dumb, watching her. Her beauty bewitched him, but he could not move; the poison from the wound was strong in him, slowing his limbs.

He strove to speak. What shall be our doom? he asked. But the question sounded only in his mind.

Yet the Elf maiden heard him, for she answered, "I will cleave to you, Dúnadan."

And he said, "'Estel' I was called, but I am Aragorn, Arathorn's son, Isildur's heir, Lord of the Dúnedain."

And she said, "The gift of the One to Men is bitter to receive."

Narsil was gone. His restored hand held a different blade, yet it was somehow the same. A red light gleamed in the metal, and flickered over the many runes and devices set into its length.

Lúthien's face began to glow. "Aragorn," she said, though her lips did not move. "Come back to the light."

He stepped forward to embrace her. But she was gone.

"Tinúviel!" Aragorn seized his scabbard to sheathe his blade; the housing glimmered, for it was made of silver and gold, and was strange to him. He quenched the light of the sword. The dark trees stood around him, seemingly closer, thick with webs. A stench was in the air, clogging his breath.

From a place beyond the shadows, Lúthien whispered, "I am waiting."

Through the blossom-heavy trees of Caras Galadon he ran, and his garments were silver and white. Yet brighter still gleamed Lúthien Tinúviel, away upon the hill. "Tinúviel!" he cried.

She stood still. Aragorn approached her across a field of yellow elanor, and she held his gaze the while. When he reached her at last, he said, "Now the time of payment draws near."

She answered, "Maybe my doom will be not unlike hers."

Aragorn took her hand, and caressed it. Her skin was soft, like a flower petal. He spoke through his grief. "Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness. I would have you see it, and be glad."

And the brightness of her face grew, until it blotted out all else, blinding him. He shielded his eyes with an arm, for he could not bear her radiance.

"Come back to the light," she said, and her voice was strange. It held a tone of weariness, sharpened by pain.

Aragorn blinked as the light receded. A figure faced him, wrapped in a brilliant glow. The eyes that looked out of the broad, fine-featured face were calm, large, arresting in their intensity. Aragorn did not know this being. It looked upon him sadly, with suffering in its eyes. With an effort it reached out its right hand, and laid it against Aragorn's cheek. "Come back to the light," it said.

Then Aragorn saw a thing that tore his heart; for this gentle, luminous being was pierced by a ribbon of darkness. It had entered the left shoulder, and left a dark track through the creature's clear tissues, like the trail of a slug. At the end of that track lay a black chip that repelled all light. Even now, Aragorn could see the inky shard pressing inwards, working its way towards the being's pulsing heart. Yet he did not blench, this wounded soul, but looked upon Aragorn with kindness and pity. Gently, he touched Aragorn's face. "Come back," he said.

Aragorn felt the bitterness of his years like a weight upon his chest. He said harshly, "A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship."

"I believed that you were a friend." The being stroked Aragorn's face, and the touch was wet. "At least I wished to."

With horror, Aragorn saw that the being's hand was wounded. Red smears trailed its touch, staining his skin. With a jolt, he realized that part of the hand was missing. Aragorn shivered, knowing this to be the mark of a Bane fulfilling its doom. He knew it as surely as Beren must have known, when he had clasped the Silmaril for so short a time, before losing both it and hand to the ravening jaws of the wolf. And Aragorn wept.

The being stroked his hair. It whispered, "All that I have and might have had, I leave to you."

Then Aragorn clasped the creature's hand, and held it to his face. Its skin was like flower petals, and his tears fell upon it. And someone else was crying out, and trying to pull him away, but Aragorn heeded him not. He clung to the being's hand as if this one alone could lead him out of the wilderness. He could not… let… go.

"Frodo!"

The agonized cry burst upon his ears. Aragorn's hand was torn from his gentle guide. He was alone, and darkness was around him.

"Frodo!"

Something landed near him; footfalls beside his head. Aragorn flinched, then gasped a huge breath. Fire lanced his side. Aragorn curled towards it, wrapping his arms about his agony. He coughed, and the spasms were like spears. The air reeked of death.

There was a brush of cloth against his shoulder, and movement at his side. "Frodo, speak to me." There was a sound, as of a palm patting flesh. "Don't do this, Frodo. Come along, wake up."

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. What was that stench? It nearly suffocated him, much as his body longed to breathe. Aragorn opened his mouth to draw in short, painful breaths. Each gasp drove daggers into his side, and points of pain into his skull.

"You're frozen!" that half-remembered voice exclaimed. "We must get you warm. Here you go, face the fire now." There was scrabbling beside him, and more footfalls, this time away.

With an effort, Aragorn looked towards the sound. He was lying on earth; the ground was uneven, littered with lumpy, turf-covered stones. A blanket covered him, and naught else. A being lay at his side, facing away from him, yet so close that Aragorn could feel the warmth of its back against his skin. It was small enough to be a child. Red highlights from the fire gleamed in its dark, curly hair. It did not move.

Another creature sprang into sight, also small. This one had lighter-colored locks, and bore a blanket. The firelight showed its face clearly, as it rushed to where its companion lay.

Merry.

With the name, everything clicked into place: the fight, the troll, the hopeless battle. Yet his final strike must have succeeded, for here was Merry, still alive. And here beside him lay… Frodo.

Frodo. The name shocked him into awareness, even as it pulled him back to the dream. That being, that beautiful, glowing soul, was… Frodo? Aragorn stared in amazement.

Merry reached Frodo's side and stopped, shocked. "Strider!" The blanket swung loosely in his grasp. "You're awake."

Aragorn drew breath to answer him. Pain flared in his side, but he managed to gasp, "He called me."

"He did." Merry knelt, moving with a peculiar stiffness. Swiftly, he bundled Frodo's limp form in the blanket. "I heard him calling you. Then he cried out, and fell."

Aragorn hadn't the breath to explain. The "calling" he referred to went deeper than a mere vocal summons. Frodo had set his awareness loose, to find the wandering spirit and bring it home. That power should have been beyond any but certain of the Eldar, and those of the Dúnedain who had acquired the gift through their blood. Never had he heard of another mortal performing this feat. Aragorn looked upon the motionless hobbit with wonder.

Merry tucked the blanket around his friend. "I'm so glad you're awake! I've been frightfully worried about all of you. And now Frodo has reached his limit, I fear."

"He should—" Aragorn halted, as the words brought fire to his side. Legacy of the troll, no doubt. It must have nearly crushed him when it fell.

"Yes?" Merry watched him anxiously. "Tell me what I must do."

Aragorn reconsidered what he was going to say, in the face of Merry's distress. Frodo should not have attempted this. Yet, how did Frodo accomplish it? Had the hobbit even known what he was doing?

Suddenly, insinuating itself through the fetor of the troll, Aragorn distinguished a familiar, pungent aroma. He glanced down, startled. A nearly empty cooking pan lay near his head. It contained a wadded cloth in a small amount of liquid. Both cloth and pan gently released a healing scent. Aragorn frowned. "You used athelas?"

"We thought it might help," Merry babbled. "You had that… fluid, all over your face. We were trying to clean it off."

Aragorn had felt the burning of the troll blood, even in his dream. "Of course."

And Frodo had been the one sponging Aragorn's face—Merry's earlier words had made that clear, and fitted with Aragorn's disjointed thoughts upon awakening. It would have been natural for Frodo to call to him, while tending him. He could not have known how the athelas would aid him in reaching a consciousness adrift; Aragorn had not needed to use that property before, when he had bathed Frodo's shoulder at Weathertop. Yet Frodo had somehow sensed that potential. What is more, he had somehow harnessed it to his will. Aragorn could not begin to think how the hobbit had managed it.

Aragorn turned his gaze towards Merry, crouching at Frodo's side, eager for instructions. Aragorn steadied his breath. "Have you more water?"

"Some," said Merry instantly. "A bit in the pan over there. I've also some athelas infusion left, in the cup near Pip."

"Make the clean water hot." Aragorn shifted. The pain was sharp, but he could bear it. "We will add the infusion you have to it, and bathe Frodo's side."

Merry hesitated. "That's all the water we have left. Sam has gone looking for more, but I've no idea how long that might take."

"We must trust Sam to find some. Frodo needs our help now."

Without a word, Merry dashed away to a pack near the fireside. Aragorn steadied his breath, and eased himself up on one hip. He looked down at Frodo, curled on his side. He looked frail, so young. Yet he had found Aragorn's spirit where it had been wandering, and called him home. And he had done more. Aragorn could feel as much, in the tingling in his skin. The athelas, under Frodo's innocent hand, had knitted his damaged flesh together, binding it into something strong enough to bear the fragile essence that was his mortal soul. Frodo had called him, and his touch had healed him—this hobbit, this tiny being. Aragorn could scarcely absorb the strangeness of it.

He recalled his dream. The glowing being, with his strange, deep eyes, bearing the track of evil in his side. With a start, Aragorn knew that it had been no dream. By some grace, he had seen Frodo in truth. He was not the foolish creature that had so alarmed Aragorn in Bree, flaunting the Ring almost carelessly, regardless of the danger it called upon them all. At least, he was much more than this. Assuredly part of him was naïve. Yet the hobbit had impressed Aragorn more the longer they remained in each other's company. Despite Frodo's poor introduction of himself, Aragorn had come to appreciate the thoughtfulness that underlay his actions. And, though he had fallen briefly under the Ringwraith's spell, Aragorn could not but admire how stubbornly the hobbit had resisted what Aragorn knew to be a mortal wound. His recent vision had reaffirmed this certainty, and filled him with renewed horror. Evil continued to work in the hobbit. For Frodo to resist it, against such challenges as this journey had posed, was little short of astounding.

A clink drew his attention; Merry had positioned another pan across the coals.

"This will take a few minutes to heat." As Merry turned back towards him, Aragorn could see now that the hobbit was injured; he held himself in a stiff, unnatural manner. Yet he appeared determined to say nothing of his hurts—a resolution that Aragorn had already made for himself. Perhaps they weren't so different after all, these little creatures and Men.

"Well done." Aragorn measured his breath, to minimize strain on his ribs. "There are some woolen underclothes in my pack. Would you bring them, please?"

"Right away." Merry scurried past to comply.

Bracing himself on one arm, Aragorn shifted Frodo's blanket and jacket to reach the left shoulder, which faced upward. He had but to touch the material to feel the bitter cold rising from beneath the closed shirt. This is what was taking him, this frigid bite of the dead. How unjust that would be—after all his suffering, for this gentle soul to be bound in endless agony to the tortures of vengeful spirits.

Aragorn loosened the buttons of Frodo's shirt. He worked awkwardly, one-handed (as he remained propped on his other arm), and the buttons were small. Aragorn hovered over the unconscious hobbit. "Forgive me," he whispered. "I did not know."

Gandalf had known. The certainty flashed through Aragorn without question. Had the wizard not told him that Frodo was the finest hobbit in the Shire? Yet all Aragorn had seen, when he had come upon Frodo in person, was a fool, toying recklessly with forces he could not begin to understand. Aragorn had greeted him with barely concealed disdain. If this was the Shire's finest, he had thought, then pity the Shire! He had missed, in that outrageous first meeting, the gifts that to Gandalf must be as clear as the radiance of Frodo's unveiled spirit.

Yet perhaps it was fated for Aragorn to be so blind, when the hobbit himself remained so oblivious of his hidden gifts. The strength, the adaptability—the surprising resourcefulness which had been, day by day, revealed to Aragorn, seemed to be completely unguessed by their owner. Frodo almost certainly had no inkling of what Gandalf, and now Aragorn, saw him as: a being filled with light, possessed of a rare strength and the will to call Aragorn back.

Frodo's shirt was open, but there was little Aragorn could do, until the water heated. Softly, he stroked the hobbit's cheek—petal soft, as in his dream. What an incongruous shell, to house such a bold and selfless spirit. Aragorn felt tears sting his eyes. He repented, humbled by the proof of his arrogance. Yet, however blind his eyes had been, his heart must have recognized the truth, when it had moved him to swear fealty, back at the inn at Bree. At least Aragorn now knew for whom he had pledged to lay down his life. How ironic. For the promise thus far had been kept, based on nothing but Aragorn's given word. And though Aragorn might now need to turn that promise on end, at least he was granted to know the person he was betraying, rather than perform the awful deed in ignorance.

Aragorn leaned close. "Forgive me," he breathed into the upturned ear. "I did not see."

He stroked the curls gently, hoping against hope that the hobbit would wake. For if he passed into the wraith world—Aragorn swallowed hard. His final act of faithfulness, to this marvelous being, would be to take the hobbit's life himself, to preserve him from the forces of darkness. Only by so doing could any part of Frodo be saved. Aragorn bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

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A/N: All quotes from other characters that Aragorn hears in his dreams are taken from various chapters and Appendix A in The Lord of the Rings.