Lord of the Rings 1. Chapter 1

Summary: The War is over, but the Ringbearer still suffers from deep scars. An unexpected accident provides a possible solution, but is it really a remedy, or just another wound?

Disclaimer: I would claim that Lord of the Rings is mine, but King Elessar has informed me that "LotR answers to Tolkien alone. It has no other master!" So, sadly, it's not mine.

It may be a little while before I can update this, because 1) I'm going away to camp and won't get back until July 10, and 2) My computer is finally going to its eternal home...lol. It's an ancient Macintosh, and for the last couple days it's been extremely laggy and has frozen frequently. So, I may have to get a new one before I can write more...

**Chapter One**

_Chasms of darkness. Chasms filled with flames. They scorched him, licking at his flesh hungrily, leaping and dancing about him like edacious predators encircling their prey. And there, in the shadows beyond the flames...he saw it. An Eye, its flames much more intense, more excruciating, than these small flares. It pierced his flesh, seeing through him, into him, crushing and devouring him. The agony was intolerable, indescribable, could not be borne by any Being, mortal or immortal. But the Eye continued to glare at him, tearing and dismembering him with just a Look, rending his mind and making his spirit cower. It called out to him mockingly, "And you thought you could destroy Me, halfling. You were wrong, for it is _you _that has been destroyed." It laughed, a horrible sound filled with thousands of years of accumulated malice, hatred, and evil. "You cannot hide from Me, for I will always be a part of you you, Frodo Baggins... Frodo...Frodo...Frodo..."_

"Frodo! Frodo!"

With a gasp, Frodo sat up suddenly in his bed, a sheen of sweat glistening on his clammy forehead, his azure eyes wide with terror. His face was covered with a frenzy of panic, and every one of his limbs was shaking violently. The bedsheets were tangled and twisted about his legs, evidence of his attempt to escape from the horror of his memories. He felt hot and cold at the same time, as though the flames still lingering in his mind were in contention with the night chill of the stone room.

Still petrified, he glanced over at the doorway, where Sam came rushing in. "Frodo!" He stopped upon seeing his master safe in bed, a look of first relief, then sorrow, crossing his round face. "Oh, Mr. Frodo. Another nightmare, was it?" Cautiously stepping over to the bed, he peered at his friend worriedly. "It wasn't as bad as the last one, was it?"

Frodo ducked his head and and nodded slightly, not looking at Sam. "I'm sorry I woke you," he said in a small voice that hitched with each tremor passing through his still gaunt body.

Sam sighed. "You know I don't mind none, Mr. Frodo. No, I'm the one who's sorry," he said. He sat on the bed, taking the trembling Frodo in his arms, soothingly rocking him back and forth. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently. Frodo jerked his head from side to side vehemently, then softly began to cry.

"Why can't I let it go, Sam? Why can't I be happy again, like you?" he murmured brokenly. "Why can't I just forget?" He buried his head into Sam's shoulder, the locks of their heads curling together there in a peculiar intermingling of gold and darkness. Sam didn't reply to Frodo's query, just lay down on the bed, the elder hobbit still in his arms. He stroked the forehead of his distraught friend, using his other hand to arrange the sheets and blankets in a more orderly fashion, all the while humming a soothing lullaby that Bilbo had written many years ago. Finally, an exhausted Frodo fell back to sleep, tear tracks still visible on his cheeks in the pale moonlight permeating the room.

Sam ceased his humming, resting quietly. Inside, though, he was in turmoil. Why _couldn't _Frodo have some peace of mind? Why couldn't he let go of his pain? After all he had done, after all he had sacrificed, after the complete and utter _agony_ he had endured, couldn't he be allowed just a little respite? Just a little happiness? What kind of Creator would do this to a Being who had done his utmost in the service of Light?

And it hurt worse than anything knowing that he himself could do nothing to help his master, could do nothing to aid the friend dearer to him than his own life.

Sam laid his head down wearily and cried himself to sleep.

-----------------------

The four hobbits sat together at the small wooden table, quietly finishing their breakfast. Frodo and Sam were still bleary-eyed and subdued from the occurrences of the night before. Merry and Pippin, sensing this, were also more subdued and taciturn than was their wont.

Since the day he had awakened in Ithilien, Frodo had gradually been having more and more nightmares, so that now he rarely slept enough. Nonetheless, he persistently and stubbornly refused to allow any of his friends save Sam to aid him after a frightening dream, despite their remonstrances and pleadings. More often than not, lately, he resisted even Sam's attempts at comfort.

This was not the only matter of concern, however. The hobbit's nightmares were not restricted to slumber alone. With the passing of time, the dreams that hindered his evening rest continually invaded his daytime hours, abusing his spirit further and driving him deeper into the shadows that constantly threatened to consume his mind utterly. His friends were deeply worried about him, but all their offerings of succor went unheeded or wholly rejected. It seemed there was nothing they could do to correct the situation, no way for them to drag him out of the dark pit into which he was inexorably sinking.

Merry and Pippin were unhappily aware of these facts, and their sorrow increased with the knowledge that they themselves contributed to Frodo's grief. Sam had admitted to them that one of their cousin's most heartfelt regrets was his inability to shield his two young friends from the horrors of war and the loss of innocence. Merry and Pippin could see this truth reflected in Frodo's eyes every time he looked at them. Consequently, they often found themselves unsure of what to say in his presence. Should they discard their heightened maturity just because this maturity was purchased with pain? Should they feign the unblemished innocence that was no longer theirs? Or should they display their newly acquired adulthood, even if it caused their cousin sadness? At least such would not be a lie.

Constant exuberance seemed to come naturally to Pippin, so he frequently chose a route of levity when Frodo needed to be cheered up. Still, the thoughtfulness that now underlaid his actions and words often came to the fore. Merry, as well, had acquired an obvious sense of solemnity through the months of the Quest. Their mental and spiritual growth could not be denied.

While it was true that their innocence had been compromised, they had yet retained their pristine joy in life. Still, Frodo tended to see all their experiences in a negative light, despite the many positive results.

Merry glanced at Sam, clearing his throat. "Warm day today, isn't it?" He winced inwardly. He hated making small talk at times like this, yet he didn't know what else he could do. It was like walking on stones across a wild, powerful river: one small misstep, and everything could fall apart.

Sam nodded in response to Merry's observation. "It surely is. Warmer that any other day this week so far. Wouldn't you say so, Mr. Frodo?" He looked at his dark-haired friend, who was pushing the food around in circles on his plate.

Frodo stirred and glanced up at Sam, vague confusion in his red-rimmed eyes. His thoughts had clearly been someplace far away from the conversation. "What...?" He shook his head to clear it and tried to smile at the gardener. "Sorry, Sam. I suppose I'm still a little tired." Sam, Merry, and Pippin glanced at each other anxiously.

"You'll wake up if you eat your food instead of playing with it, me dear," Sam said gently, both compassion and resolution evident in his tone.

Frodo sighed, almost inaudibly. "I'm afraid I'm not very hungry today, Sam."

_You're never hungry anymore, _the gardener thought, allowing some of the bitterness of the previous night to creep back into his mind. Aloud, though he merely replied, "That's all right. Maybe at elevenses..."

The hobbits looked up as Gandalf entered the room. They were staying with him and the rest of the Fellowship, excepting Aragorn, in a small but comfortable guest house on Minas Tirith's sixth circle. Gandalf smiled at the four in greeting, casting a furtive glance at Frodo under his long, snowy eyebrows. He had overheard Frodo's nightmare and had looked in on the hobbit and his companion after they had both fallen asleep. He, like the rest of the Fellowship, was very concerned for Frodo, and his concern was tinged with a sense of responsibility; for hadn't he sent the hobbit on the quest which had nearly destroyed him? Hadn't he allowed one he loved as a son to depart on a mission that the wizard had known would quite possibly lead to a torturous death? Guilt weighed on Gandalf heavily, and he often found it difficult to look his young friend in the eye. He tried to conceal his remorse around others, though, especially the hobbits. They did not need the added burden of another's regret.

Clearing his throat, the wizard made an effort to be cheerful. "How are you this morning, my lads?" he asked. He glanced at Pippin. "Are you keeping yourself in order this morning, young Peregrin?" Gandalf suppressed a rueful chuckle. He _had _become inordinately fond of the ridiculous, incorrigible Took.

Pippin smiled brightly at Gandalf. "Of course! When have you ever known me to do otherwise?" The wizard rolled his eyes at this.

"Are we finally going to be able to take Frodo and Sam on their tour of Minas Tirith today?" Merry questioned Gandalf. The two ringbearers had scarcely been able to see anything of the city thus far; Aragorn had forbidden any unnecessary walking, as the gashes and burns on the hobbits' feet were still in the healing process. The previous day, though, he had declared Frodo and Sam fit to go on an expedition, saying with a smile that "it would not do to suppress the curiosity of hobbits any longer than necessary."

"Yes, I think we may do just that, if Frodo and Sam are feeling well enough." The wizard cast an inquisitive glance at the two.

Sam nodded slightly. "Aye, I feel well enough, and it's a right fine day, Mr. Gandalf. It's about time we saw the city, too." _And it will do Mr. Frodo good if he can distract hisself from his thoughts for a while. _

Frodo nodded as well, taking a deep breath. "Of course, why not?" He smiled tensely, an expression wholly destitute of any true happiness. The hearts of the four watching him broke just a little more at this, as they did every time they beheld a smile on his lips coupled with the near despair manifest in his eyes.

Gandalf recovered first. "Well, then. We will be departing soon after luncheon, for I believe Aragorn will wish to join us, and his duties are keeping him quite occupied this morning."

"Are Legolas and Gimli coming as well?" Pippin asked hopefully.

"No, they withdrew from the city early this morning and will not return until nightfall. They went to meet an embassy from Legolas's people, " the wizard replied, gesturing in the general direction of Mirkwood with his hand.

Pippin looked crestfallen. "Oh, that's too bad. I wish they could have been here. Not that we need their help, though. May I remind us all who is this city's Most Knowledgeable Resident and undisputed Expert in all affairs and goings-on, small and large?" he said, an expression of great importance on his face.

"If that is the description you set forth, then I believe you are speaking about Aragorn," Gandalf said gruffly, but with a twinkle in his eye. He turned to exit the room.

-----------------------

Frodo sat curled up in the cozy, overlarge armchair, reading a book of Gondorian history. He had ensconced himself there almost immediately after breakfast, turning down the other hobbits' offers to stay with him. He wasn't genuinely in the mood to read, however; he did it merely to divert his own attention, to keep himself from thinking for fear that his thoughts would overtake him and seize him and drag him weeping and begging and screaming to a place from which he would never be able to return...

He strove so hard each and every day to escape the contemplation of his memories and of his all-consuming desire to once again hold the gloriously alluring, hideously abhorrent piece of jewelry that had conquered him. Indeed, in a way, it was almost worse than fighting the ringspell; for he had had hope of one day being freed from the siren song, while he had no hope of ever being freed from this battle. It stretched on endlessly before him, a path of eternal suffering. Would it never end? Would he forever be fleeing from his own mind?

He hated to feel such loneliness as he felt at such times as these, and he truly wanted to be among his friends. And yet...yet, at the same time he knew that he was impure, _evil,_ a vile traitor, not even worthy of any common kindness, let alone friendship. He was himself afraid-- afraid of what he had become. How could he expect others to tolerate his company, if even he could not bear being alone with himself? But he was so lonely...

It was nearly the lunch hour and the time for the promised tour of the city. Not that he much wanted to go anywhere, though. Indeed, he had only agreed to the expedition for Sam's benefit.

Fresh sadness welled in his heart as he contemplated his faithful friend.

_Dear Sam has been spending all his time indoors with me, _the hobbit thought despondently. _I'm hindering his return to a normal life. He deserves better than to be confined all his days to caring for someone worth it so little as I. _Shadows of sorrow crept softly all over his face, and a tear traveled down his cheek. His book was forgotten completely.

He felt his cousin's hand laid on his shoulder. "Frodo?" Merry said quietly. "How are you doing?" Sam and Pippin were both engaged in preparing luncheon, so Merry had readily taken upon himself the duty of checking on Frodo.

With a sniff, Frodo wiped away the single tear and turned to face his cousin. "I'm doing well enough, Merry, really. Indeed, you worry about me far too much of the time. You shouldn't _have _to worry about me. You shouldn't have to be worried about anything." A familiar nagging guilt occupied his eyes.

Frustration clamored for recognition in Merry, but he tried to squelch it. "Don't you think my worry is justified, cousin mine?" he asked softly. The other hobbit didn't respond. Merry went on, "I know you don't like to have anyone fuss, but everyone gets anxious over those they love; and we have more reasons than most, for you were almost lost to us."

"Perhaps it would have been better so, dear cousin," Frodo replied quietly, with finality, gazing straight ahead. "Perhaps, if things had only occurred differently..."

A small gasp escaped Merry's mouth, and before he could restrain himself, he was standing in front of Frodo, tightly gripping his cousin's shoulders and shaking him gently but firmly. "Don't you ever say that again, you obstinate Baggins," he muttered. "Don't say it." Suddenly realizing his position, he took a step back, studying Frodo sadly. "There's a reason for everything that happens, cousin; you taught me so yourself. Perhaps you just can't see the reason for your being here quite yet. Give it more time..."

Frodo said nothing, just stared at Merry wearily. Merry managed a small smile. "It'll be all right," he said, then turned to leave the room.

-----------------------

Merry met Gandalf and Aragorn in the hallway. Aragorn, dressed in his worn Ranger clothes once again, was obviously pleased to have gained a respite from his kingly duties for a short time. He smiled and nodded at Merry in greeting. "How are you today, Master Hobbit?" he asked.

Merry smiled briefly in return, but then his expression grew more serious. "I'm all right, but Frodo...he's worse than usual today, I think. I've just been in to check on him, but he doesn't seem to want much company right now. We asked to stay by him this morning, too, but he refused."

"Apparently he had a terrible nightmare again last night, Aragorn," Gandalf offered. The three shared a look of sadness.

"I just don't know what more we can do," Merry said honestly, a crack in his voice. "We've all tried. He's just...lost. He's hurting terribly, and he knows we know about it, but he won't let any of us help him-- except sometimes when he's just had a nightmare and is too disoriented to struggle against Sam. More and more we have to pretend around him that everything is fine, even if it isn't, merely for fear of making matters worse. Why does he work so hard to conceal his pain? There must be something we can do for him, if only he would allow it!"

Aragorn gave Merry a long look. "Those who have experienced such trials as his often must contend with a great deal of guilt, guilt for which there may be no true reason but which exists nonetheless. You know he confessed to me in Ithilien that he believed it to be his fault he could not destroy the Ring."

"But it wasn't!" Merry protested. Aragorn nodded.

"No, it wasn't. It was too strong for any to resist. But his feelings of insufficiency have damaged his spirit to an extent that he feels he must push away all those who care for him." Aragorn sighed. "And doubtless, he has many other issues that must be dealt with as well. No person can go on a journey so arduous and come away without deep scars."

Merry frowned. "He'll have moments where he's almost his old self again, but then he'll always regress and become even more reclusive and gloomy. The Quest is over, and his spirit is supposed to be healing, but overall, he's growing much worse, not better!"

Gandalf looked grimly at Merry and Aragorn. "Frodo is resilient, but there is only so much one being can withstand alone, however strong. If this self-imposed physical and spiritual isolation continues, the shadows haunting his mind will eventually cause him to fade. I fear for him."

Aragorn looked deeply troubled. "As do I. Well, let us hope that our expedition today will serve to raise his spirits, at least temporarily." Hobbit, wizard, and king all understood tacitly that something _must_ be done, for this torment was slowly destroying each and every member of the Fellowship.

-----------------------

Upon the conclusion of their noontime meal, Gandalf, Aragorn, and the four hobbits gathered up their gray elven cloaks and stepped out of the house. The door scraped along the smooth stone threshold as Aragorn pulled it shut. The king looked about at the others in the party. "Shall we depart, then? Pippin, you know much about this city for all your short time here. Why don't you assist me in pointing out places of interest and in giving explanations about our surroundings?" Looking very pleased, Pippin compliantly moved to the front of the group. Aragorn winked at Gandalf.

"Frodo and Sam, you know the sixth circle better than the others, so we will spend just a short time here. We will then tour the remainder of the city." Aragorn began strolling down the paved road, pulling his hood up over his head as he did so. He did not want his subjects to identify him and deluge him with obeisances as he passed.

As they walked, Aragorn nodded at a tall, impressive building. "I do not believe you have seen this before, Frodo and Sam. It is an archive of the annals of Gondor's nobles. Thousands upon thousands of ancient records are stored within. You may enjoy spending some time here, Frodo," he said, glancing at the dark-haired hobbit. Frodo nodded.

"This one is a guest house for important visitors to the city," Pippin announced, pointing at a imposing edifice to the right of the group. Frodo and Sam gazed at it in wonder.

"Is anyone stayin' there now?" Sam inquired. With a shudder, he confessed, "I'd almost be afraid as to stay there if I was a visitor to the city." Frodo nodded his agreement.

Pippin smiled. "Yes, I believe a group of ambassadors from Umbar is staying there now. You're right, though, the buildings can be a bit intimidating at first. It's a great deal different from back home."

"Meetings with delegates from foreign lands are sometimes conducted here," Aragorn stated, indicating a structure with intricately patterned glass windows. "Faramir's duties have called him here many a time of late."

King and hobbit pointed out several other conspicuous buildings before the group descended a level. Neither Frodo nor Sam had been to the fifth circle thus far, aside from the day they had entered the city, so they looked at their surroundings curiously. Sam, glancing at his master out of the corner of his eye, was relieved to see that the expedition had already done Frodo some good; he was peering around with interest and his cheeks had a great deal more color in them than they had had that morning. Catching Aragorn's eye, Sam nodded slightly, and the man's posture relaxed subtly.

The king and Pippin began again to inform their companions about the buildings situated along the road, pointing out potteries, stables, blacksmiths' forges, inns, and other places of interest. The others eagerly scanned goods and peeked through windows and doorways. Finally, Aragorn brought the group to a halt in front of a large, round edifice with many windows.

"This is a greenery. The owner sells both dried herbs and seedlings which he grows in earthenware pots. Sam, I thought perhaps you might like to stop inside for a few minutes?" Sam nodded enthusiastically at the king.

They entered the shop and peered around. Sam was delighted with one of the small plants he saw. "Why, that's a miniature orange blossom if I ain't mistaken!" he exclaimed to Frodo. "We sure don't got too many of these back home. I've always wanted some to plant in Bag End's garden but never could get none."

Overhearing part of Sam's remark, the shopkeeper came over to the plant. "Are you interested in this flower, small master?" he asked. "It is indeed a miniature orange blossom. You aspire to become a gardener when you come of age, perhaps?"

Sam glanced pleasantly at the man. "Already of age, good sir. I've been for nigh on six years now, and I've been working in the garden for many years a'fore that. I'm a hobbit, what you folk here call a perian or something such-like."

The man flushed deeply, feeling like a fool. He had recognized the famed White Wizard who had entered his shop, of course, but had failed to identify the four small beings accompanying him. "My apologies, my...my lords," the man stuttered, bowing to them quickly. Sam waved this gesture off.

"No need for that, master. But tell me more about this here flower. Do you have many of them in the South?" Sam questioned.

"Indeed we do," replied the shopkeeper, recovering. "They are most prevalent. And since you seem to admire them so much, you must take this one with you." The man held up a hand as Sam made to protest. "No, no, I insist. Take it as a gift. It is the least I can do for so distinguished an individual." Sam, though somewhat flustered at being called "distinguished," thanked the man.

"You are very kind, Master Shopkeeper. I'm afraid we must be taking our leave now, but we will hope to visit your greenery again. A good day to you, and may your business continue to prosper." The hooded man who had entered the greenery with the rest spoke. The shopkeeper frowned; where had he heard that voice before? Suddenly, a look of shocked horror crossed his face as he realized the truth. He made to prostrate himself on the floor, but found that the visitors had already exited the shop. Staring after them openmouthed, he chuckled quietly and a bit nervously to himself and resumed his work caring for the plants.

The hobbits, wizard, and king continued on their expedition. Sam smiled down lovingly at the potted blossom in his hands. "Well, that was right kind of him, weren't it? Might not survive a trip back to the Shire, but it's nice enough to have now. Maybe I can even get some seeds sometime to take home."

"Yes, you can certainly procure some seeds either from that shop or from another that is located two levels down," Aragorn informed him.

The group moved forward, their examination of the fifth circle nearly concluded. Suddenly Aragorn spied another shop. "Ah. This one is interesting. It is owned by a former soldier, one of Gondor's oldest residents. He sells mirrors, all in frames with lovely and intricate carvings." He looked solemn. "They say he has eyes that see the truth." The others seemed curious at this odd remark, except for Gandalf, who merely nodded with respect.

"Strider, how is it that you already know so much about this city?" Pippin at last asked the question that had been bothering him since the tour's inception. "You really haven't been here all that long."

Aragorn smiled briefly. "I served here once, many long years ago, as a soldier under the Steward Ecthelion. None then knew my true identity, yet I still recall much from that time. Come, let us go on to the next circle."

The group moved onward, except for Frodo. He had been singularly fascinated and disturbed by the king's commentary on the shop of mirrors. Hesitating, he watched as the others walked away, then quickly ducked into the building.

He knew not entirely the reason for this sudden impulse. Perhaps it was because he hadn't seen a mirror for months upon months--not since Rivendell, actually. Oh, he had caught brief glimpses of his reflection here and there-- a glance into a stagnant pool, a fleeting look in the Lady's Mirror before visions took its place-- but even here in Minas Tirith he had not yet seen a true glass mirror. When Aragorn had begun describing the shop, he had suddenly been captured by an inexplicable fear that if a hundred different hobbits were lined up, he would not be able to discern which was himself. He knew of no adequate way to express this fear even to himself, though, and certainly not to his friends.

Once inside the shop, he peered around with fascination. Mirrors upon mirrors adorned the walls, each, as Aragorn had said, in a skillfully carved frame. An aperture in the ceiling allowed sunbeams to enter, hitting the mirrors and bouncing from one to another until the whole room was bathed in light. His eyes roved, searching for the shop owner, but there was no one in view.

Suddenly, he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder. Spinning around, he found himself staring up at a hunched old man with a long grey beard who somehow reminded him of Gandalf. The man's wrinkled face lent him an ancient look; yet his eyes were surprisingly youthful and his grip unnervingly strong. He smiled at Frodo in an odd way.

"Good day, child. And how is it that you came to visit my shop this fine afternoon?"

Though protesting inwardly at being referred to as "child," Frodo chose not to correct the man. "I...I am newly come to the city, sir, and wanted to see--"

"Ah, wanted to see my mirrors, of course!" the man interrupted him. "Many people do, indeed." He squinted at the hobbit, his eyes piercingly bright. "You must be careful, though."

Frodo flushed painfully. "Sir, I can assure you I'll be quite careful, and won't break them."

The man barked a harsh laugh. "Oh, that's not what I meant, precisely. You must be careful of the mirrors themselves. My mirrors...well, they show only truth." He looked at the hobbit with a odd combination of warning and compassion in his eyes. "And you may not always like what you see."

Frodo swallowed hard and felt a shiver run down his spine. What exactly was this strange man trying to tell him? "Er...thank you for cautioning me, sir. I...I'll be heedful, and I'll only look for a moment." Hastily he crossed to the side of the room. Glancing around, he spotted a mirror with a round frame that reminded him of the one in Bag End's front parlor. Fighting an unexpected wave of nostalgia, he positioned himself before it and peered with a slight measure of trepidation inside.

He saw...himself. Though somewhat pale, thin, and red-eyed, he was still just an ordinary hobbit. He _recognized_ himself. Immediately, he knew a brief sense of victory, feeling that he had just reclaimed some facet of his identity that had been lost. Breathing in a tiny sigh of relief, he closed his eyes.

But when he opened them again...ah! For the image in the mirror was no longer that of a hobbit, but of a tall, menacing being, clothed in flashing black armor, wearing a cruel diadem, eyes deep crimson instead of blue--the third finger of his right hand missing. He _knew _this being. He had seen him first in Rivendell-- in a painted depiction of the Last Battle of the Second Age. Frodo suddenly felt weak in the knees as the figure beckoned to him. The figure..._was _him. They were one: forever united in a golden band of fire.

Breathing heavily, Frodo backed away from the mirror and stumbled toward the door of the shop. He might have fallen had the shopkeeper not placed a supporting hand upon his back. He guided Frodo to a seat and sat down beside him, groaning at the creaking and snapping of his joints. He gazed at the hobbit, who was shaking badly and staring at the floor.

"You are greatly disturbed," the man stated bluntly, his keen eyes seeming to peer into Frodo's soul. "What has frightened you so?"

With a final shudder, Frodo looked up at the man, not quite meeting his eyes. "Me," he said, barely audibly. "Though I suppose it's nothing I didn't already know."

The shopkeeper was about to reply but was deterred by a high voice calling, "Frodo? Cousin! Where have you got off to?" The voice drew nearer. "Frodo?"

Getting down from his seat quickly, Frodo hurried over to the doorway and nearly collided with Pippin. "There you are!" the younger hobbit exclaimed, relief evident in his voice. "Let's get moving! We still have four more circles to see, and there's one inn I want to stop at. They have even better ale than Barliman's..." Still talking, Pippin exited the shop.

Frodo began to follow automatically, then halted and slowly looked back at the shopkeeper. The man stared at him with an inscrutable expression. "Thank...thank you, sir," the hobbit said timorously.

The man continued to stare at him. "Child. Listen carefully to this final word. _You cannot escape from who you are._ You cannot hide it. Neither can you change it. However, it is your choice as to what you will do with it. And it is _your responsibility _to use it for good." He waved a hand at Frodo. "You may go now."

Confused and disturbed still further by these words, Frodo merely nodded briefly and hurried out the door, trying to shake off his unease.

-----------------------

Pippin sighed and leaned back, rubbing his stomach. "Now _that _was a meal worth eating!"

The hobbits, king, and wizard had completed their exploration of the fourth and third circles of the city. All of them-- even Pippin, to his slight dismay-- had acquired new and interesting bits of information about Minas Tirith. Fortunately, the unfamiliar sights and sounds had proved an efficacious distraction to Frodo and had alleviated most of his distress at the occurrences on the fifth circle.

Upon reaching the second circle, the group had chosen to stop for their dinner at _The Black Cygnet, _the inn whose ale Pippin had lauded to his elder cousin several hours earlier. Fortunately, Aragorn had not been identified by any of its patrons, so the party had been able to enjoy their meal in peace, despite some whisperings about the _periannath _and the White Wizard. Everyone had agreed that both food and ale were exceptional. Even Frodo had eaten more than usual, to the satisfaction of his friends.

Aragorn smiled in response to Pippin's statement. "It certainly was." He stood and stretched. "I will most definitely stop here often in the future."

The rest in the party stood as well, pushing back their wooden chairs noisily. With a final adieu to the innkeeper, they ambled out the door.

"Only two more circles to see," Pippin said, rubbing his hands together. "Well, one and a half, really...We're already partly finished with this one."

"There is really not much more to see on either," Aragorn commented. "Most of the damage inflicted upon the city took place on the first and second circles. Although there are men working on the restoration, it may be a long time before the city regains its pristine state." Indeed, as the group had descended circle by circle, they had noticed more and more signs of the devastation the war had wrought upon Minas Tirith.

Gandalf nodded toward a group of workers near a demolished portion of the city wall. "Let us go and ask after their progress."

The party moved toward the workers. One man who apparently was directing the others gave them a bow of deference and a friendly nod. He recognized the wizard and the _periannath_ immediately, though he wasn't certain who the man accompanying them was. "Good day, sirs," he said respectfully.

"A good day to you as well," Gandalf replied. "How are the repairs coming along?"

The man ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose, sir. Having more men would be helpful, of course. Also, we're running a bit short on materials, but another shipment is supposed to come in tomorrow." He gestured toward a group of horses by the wall. "And some of these horses are far too high-spirited for the work they're doing. Unfortunately, so many were lost in the war that these were all we could get."

"Ah," Gandalf said sympathetically. "Well, I'm certain you're doing your best with what tools you have. Thanks to the efforts of your men, Minas Tirith is already well on its way to becoming the proud city it once was."

With a final word of farewell to the man, the group moved away. Pippin, glancing at Frodo, saw his cousin drop his chin to his chest with a sigh. Perceiving Frodo's new melancholy and its cause, Pippin placed his arm around the elder hobbit's shoulders. "Don't be sad," he said softly. "The city is being rejuvenated, and the people are rejoicing."

Frodo raised bleak eyes to Pippin's face. "I...I know," he murmured. "I just wish you hadn't been here."

Pippin looked at his cousin with conviction. "I'm glad I was." Frodo peered at him in mild surprise. Pippin continued. "I'm proud I was able to help in what ways I could." An inscrutable expression swept across his face. "And I wasn't ever alone."

Frodo's chin quivered, and he looked as though he was about to respond. He was precluded, however, by an exclamation from Merry, who walked a few paces ahead of them.

"Mushrooms!" Merry announced in surprise and delight, rushing toward a vendor's stall where he had caught sight of the long-coveted morsels. Pippin and Sam hastened after him, and Aragorn and Gandalf strode along behind with a chuckle.

Frodo was beginning to follow, but suddenly he heard a commotion from the direction of the ruined wall. Turning around, he saw that one of the work horses had broken away from the group. A worker tried to restrain it, but it resisted. Rearing on its hind legs, it tossed its head and began galloping away-- straight towards him. Its coat was a deep, glossy black...dark as the blackest night...

_The horse is black: wreathed in darkness. Its eyes glow red, and he can feel its hot, flaming breath as it nears him. His eyes travel upward to its rider. Masked in shadow, just as its mount is, the Rider is carrying a naked sword in his hands. He looks into the Rider's face but sees only Emptiness...sees only--_

A sudden panicked shout brought him back to reality. "Frodo, look out!" He had only time to blink his eyes before he felt a mighty blow to his head. The world began to spin wildly, and everything became confused. The ground swiftly rose to meet him, darkness fell, and he knew no more.

-tbc-

Please do leave me a review if you can spare a moment! Pretty please:)


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: The War is over, but the Ringbearer still suffers from deep scars. An unexpected accident provides a possible solution, but is it really a remedy, or just another wound?

Disclaimer: I owned Lord of the Rings once. I really did! But then I woke up…

Medical disclaimer: Basically, don't try to heal anybody using any methods in this fic. I did some brief Googling for this chapter, but I'm certainly not a medical professional, and all of the websites seemed to disagree with each other…

My apologies to all readers for the looong delay in updating. I've been out of town a whole lot, and when I returned after my first trip, my computer had died. :( As I do all my writing on it, I didn't write anything until I (finally) got a new one hooked up. I am going out of town again this weekend, but hopefully there won't be nearly as long a delay in updating.

-----

Breon Briarwood - Thanks for yet another kind review! Yes, I'm afraid I made it rather easy to guess what's coming next. Oh well…cliffies are cruel, anyway. :D

BraellyraLeatherleaf - Thank you! Hope you like this chappie too!

Fili - Creepy? Yes, I guess it might be, haha. I find it difficult not to insert creepy and/or mysterious stuff into my writing. Guess I've read too many fantasy books. :)

monet3 - Yes, it is a slightly different twist…makes the story a bit more interesting. Intriguing? High praise, thank you.

Frodo Silverlune - Thank you so much for your compliments! Never been put on anyone's favorites list before…:D

Anawey - Thank you! Sorry for the rather lengthy suspense I put you through. Well, hopefully I'll update a bit quicker next time.

-----

**Chapter Two**

"_Mushrooms!" Merry announced in surprise and delight, rushing toward a vendor's stall where he had caught sight of the long-coveted morsels. Pippin and Sam hastened after him, and Aragorn and Gandalf strode along behind with a chuckle._

Upon reaching the stall, the hobbits stared worshipfully at the idolized mushrooms. Pippin reached out a hand reverently and touched one. "This is a Chantarelle…it's your favorite kind, Frodo." Upon not receiving a response, he frowned and turned. "Frodo?"

Suddenly his eyes grew wide and his face paled. "Frodo, look out!" he shouted urgently. Whirling around, Gandalf, Aragorn, Merry, and Sam were just in time to witness an escaped work horse deliver a swift, powerful blow to Frodo's head with its flying hoof. Frodo swayed for a brief moment and then collapsed.

The group rushed over to the fallen hobbit, followed closely by several of the men who had been working on the wall. Sam already had tears streaming down his face as he flung himself to the ground beside his master. "Mr. Frodo, Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" An anguished look passed over his face when Frodo didn't respond. Gandalf put a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, worry shining in his own ancient eyes.

Aragorn knelt beside Frodo, pulling his eyelid back gently. "He's unconscious," he murmured. He let go of the hobbit's eyelid, which slid immediately shut. Feeling around the base of his skull, he noted the extensive swelling and added, "I believe he may have a concussion."

"Oh, no," Merry moaned.

"Is there anything we might do, sir?" asked one of the workers, wringing his hands.

"No…no. Thank you for the offer, however. Just see to it that the horse is caught," Aragorn responded distractedly.

"Why isn't he waking up? Shouldn't he be conscious by now?" Pippin demanded, voice and lips quivering with his trepidation.

"No," Aragorn murmured, trying to keep his tone steady to soothe the young hobbit. "Do not be overly concerned just yet. The recipient of a concussion may sometimes remain unconscious for over thirty minutes." He stood up, pulling the insensible Frodo gently into his arms. "We must return immediately, though. I will take him to the Houses of Healing, for there are herbs there that I will use to aid him."

Aragorn began moving swiftly in the direction from which the party had come. Gandalf strode beside him, urgency speeding his moves. The hobbits followed as well, almost forced to run to keep pace with the two Big People. Distress was still written plainly upon their countenances.

Aragorn himself was praying as he moved. A concussion might not always present great danger to one whose health flourished, but to one like Frodo, who was already beset with numerous physical and emotional difficulties, it might prove far more perilous. The blow had also clearly been a very strong one. _Please, please, don't let him be hurt too badly._

-----------------

After what seemed like an eternity, the group arrived at the Houses of Healing. Aragorn, leading the others, hastened through the cool stone hallways toward a small room near the back. He had long since removed his hood, and several Healers scurried out of his way respectfully as he passed. One, an elderly woman named Gileth, called out to him. "My Lord, do you require assistance?"

"Yes," Aragorn responded after a moment's thought. "The Ringbearer has sustained a concussion. Please bring me a yarrow tea, diluted as would be a child's dose. Also, bring me a tincture of skullcap and a spare nightshirt." Gileth obeyed immediately.

Moving onward, the group soon reached their destination. Pushing the door aside with his foot, the king entered the room and carefully laid Frodo upon the bed. The others crowded around anxiously.

"What's those herbs and things you asked for supposed to do, Strider?" Sam asked, twisting the fabric of his shirt in his hands nervously.

"The yarrow tea will reduce the inflammation, bruising, and pain. The skullcap tincture will calm and nourish his nervous system," Aragorn replied. He placed a soothing hand on Sam's golden curls. "Let us hope for the best, Sam. When Frodo awakens, he will need your support and composure."

The king did not give voice to his own deep concern, however. Such a strong blow to the head was known to often cause memory loss and sometimes even permanent brain damage. There was no point in presenting these possibilities and upsetting the hobbits further until Frodo awakened and the truth of his condition was ascertained, though. Still, as Aragorn caught Gandalf's eye, he could see that the old wizard shared his worry.

Several minutes later, Gileth came hurrying through the doorway, carrying the items that Aragorn had requested. The king reached out and took the small nightshirt that was draped over her arm. She then set down the tea and tincture on a table beside the bed. "The tea was diluted as you requested, my Lord King," she said. "Will you require any assistance in your care of him?" She nodded at the Ringbearer.

"No, that will be all. I shall care for him. Thank you for your help, Gileth," Aragorn replied, smiling at the woman. She curtsied and exited the room.

The king gestured to Sam. "Sam, I am going to give him the tea now. Could you please hold him in an upright position against your chest?" Sam nodded quickly and moved to take his friend in his arms.

Aragorn picked up the cup of tea from the bedside table and turned back toward Frodo. Tilting the hobbit's head back slightly with his free hand, he poured a sip of tea into Frodo's mouth and gently stroked the small throat until the hobbit swallowed. He continued in this manner until the contents of the cup were gone.

"Could you hand me the tincture now, Pippin?" the king asked. The young hobbit compliantly reached for the tiny bottle and passed it to the man.

Aragorn placed a drop of the tincture inside of Frodo's mouth and stroked the hobbit's throat again. "I will continue giving this to him for the next several days," the man murmured, "for I have always found it highly beneficial to patients with injuries such as his."

Handing the bottle back to Pippin, the king reached toward Sam, taking the unconscious hobbit from him. He gently removed Frodo's clothes and placed the clean nightshirt on him, taking care not to jar his head. Smoothing the covers of the bed back, he laid Frodo inside and pulled the coverlet up to his chin. He then turned to face the others.

"I will stay with him now. I know that all of you— especially you, Master Gamgee—require rest. You are not yet fully recovered, Sam, and I have no doubt that your exertions today have tired you." Sam indeed had an air of exhaustion about him, but a stubborn look crept onto his face at the king's words.

"I'll not be leavin' my master anytime soon, Strider," he said quietly, but with hidden steel in his tone.

Aragorn nodded his understanding. "I know you don't wish to go, Sam," he said softly," but you do need to retire for at least a short time. There is nothing more we can do for Frodo right now. I promise to notify you the moment he awakens, however."

Sam still looked hesitant, but Pippin, concerned for the gardener, tugged on his arm. "Come on, Sam. You _do _need to rest. Aragorn will tell us when Frodo needs us again." With a final longing look toward the bed that held his heart's best earthly treasure, Sam allowed himself to be pulled from the room.

-----------------

The tiny being in the bed gradually returned to awareness, struggling to open deep blue eyes that seemed to be permanently fastened shut. After blinking rapidly several times, he was finally successful. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling, for several long, silent minutes.

The being very slowly became aware of his extreme discomfort. Everything was blurry, as though he was viewing the world through a thick sheet of ice. His head pounded; he was quite certain he had never had such a monumental headache in all his life. His stomach churned, threatening the imminent loss of its contents. But worst of all was the empty, hollow ache at the center of his chest. He didn't understand it, didn't know what it was or how it had gotten there.

Now that he thought about it, where was he? An even worse question, nagging at the back of his mind for the past few minutes, rushed to the fore on a wave of utter panic. _Who _was he? He couldn't remember, and trying to think made his headache worsen. He couldn't recall _anything, _anything at all, except for—

His voice croaked out in a hoarse whisper. "Sam?" He closed his eyes. _Sam, I need you. _He moaned softly. _Please…_

The sound of his voice alerted a tall figure who was sitting in a chair near his bedside. The hobbit, who had not noticed the man, shrank back in fright at the figure's sudden movement. The man looked concerned for a brief moment at the hobbit's reaction, but then he smiled. "How do you feel, Frodo?" he asked quietly.

Despite his efforts to suppress it, a small whimper of fear escaped the hobbit's mouth. "Who…who…?" he muttered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

The tall man's smile faded. "Do you not remember me, Frodo?"

The hobbit finally opened his eyes, shaking his head and wincing at the movement. _Is that my name, then? Frodo? _"No," he finally managed to reply. Locking eyes with the man, he asked in a rush, "Who…who are you? And I? What is this place? Why can't I recall? Has something happened to me?" His questions tumbled over one another in his anxiety.

The man let out a sigh, then gave an encouraging pat to the hobbit's shoulder. "Try to calm yourself. You've been in an accident, and you received a concussion. It's not unusual for memory loss to accompany such an injury. I am hopeful, though, that your memory will soon reassert itself." He smiled again tenderly. "My name is Aragorn. We have been friends and companions for something less than a year now. We are in the Houses of Healing in the white city of Minas Tirith. You have many other friends here as well; they have been deeply concerned for you."

"Sam?" The hobbit breathed longingly.

Aragorn felt a strange rush of both melancholy and relief. "You can remember Sam, then?" Somehow, the king was not surprised.

"Yes," Frodo murmured. "He…he takes care of me. May I see him now?"

"First, please tell me how you feel," Aragorn asked softly.

"My head…it hurts so very badly. And my stomach feels dreadful—" As if to confirm his words, Frodo's face suddenly paled as a wave of nausea swept over him. Aragorn quickly reached for a nearby basin and supported the hobbit's back as he retched weakly into it, expelling the few contents of his stomach. Frodo gave a soft moan as he collapsed back onto the bed, trembling ever so slightly. A cold sweat was visible on his brow.

"I'm sorry, little one," Aragorn said soothingly, regret evident in his voice. "You will soon feel better, though; these effects will only remain for a day or two. Do you feel badly in any other way?"

"Yes," the hobbit murmured. He clutched a hand to his chest, directly over his heart.

Aragorn looked puzzled. "Your chest hurts?"

The hobbit seemed saddened and confused as he turned a woeful look upon the king. "No…it…it doesn't hurt, exactly, it's just that—" he broke off his speech and sighed. "It's like…there's something important that has gone missing. I just can't remember—"

Light dawned upon Aragorn suddenly. _He misses the ring, _the man thought miserably and with a touch of bitterness. Dredging up a façade of cheerfulness, the king again patted Frodo's shoulder. "Do not fear; we shall deal with all your pains in due time."

"Could I see Sam, please?" the hobbit asked again, more plaintively this time.

"I think it is best for you to rest a while longer," Aragorn replied after a moment's thought. "Once you awaken again, though, I will certainly bring him in to see you."

"Thank you…Aragorn. I…I need him…," the hobbit whispered, his eyes drooping shut once more as he departed for a place where the bewilderments of his life would no longer trouble him for a time.

-----------------

Aragorn sighed to himself as he headed away from the Houses of Healing toward the dwelling of the Fellowship. He had requested that one of the young apprentice healers sit with Frodo while he was gone so that he could speak to the others without as great a time constraint. He was not looking forward to imparting the news to them, though.

Upon reaching the house, Aragorn knocked quietly at the door. It was hastily opened by Gandalf, who eyed the king with concern. "Has he awoken?" the wizard asked. "How is he doing?"

Aragorn looked sad. "He has awoken, but he doesn't feel well, of course. And," he swallowed, "as we both feared might happen, he cannot remember…"

"Oh, no," Gandalf murmured. Sweeping the door wide open, he gestured for Aragorn to enter. "We must tell the hobbits."

Aragorn stepped through the door and entered the house's sitting room, where Merry and Pippin sat staring into the dancing flames of the fire. The two hobbits glanced up and immediately jumped to their feet, bombarding the man with questions.

"Did he wake up?"

"How is he?"

"Will he be all right?"

"Can we go see him now, Strider? Please?"

Aragorn held up a hand, and the storm of questions abated. "Yes, he awoke. He is sleeping again, though, so you cannot visit him now." He looked around. "Where is Sam?"

"I'm here, sir," the hobbit in question responded, slipping into the sitting room and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Looking into the king's face, he spotted some deep emotion that Merry and Pippin had failed to see, and his own body went still. "Strider?" he asked quietly, his face paling.

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair. "I was just telling them—" he nodded at Merry and Pippin, "about Frodo." He took a deep breath. "There is something that we must discuss."

"What is it, Strider?" Pippin asked nervously.

"Well, Frodo will likely be suffering from the effects of his concussion for a day or two; namely, he will experience dizziness, nausea, and a terrible headache. But his injury has also presented another problem."

"What? Tell us!" Merry demanded. Pippin nodded his head rapidly in agreement. Sam remained perfectly still, though a muscle in his jaw twitched slightly.

Aragorn sighed heavily. "Such a powerful blow to the head is often known to cause amnesia, which is when a person, well, loses the whole or a part of his memory." He paused. "Frodo cannot remember us right now."

"What?" Pippin wailed. Aragorn was about to respond when he noticed the extreme pallor of Sam's face and realized that the hobbit was about to faint. He swiftly guided him to a chair.

"Breathe, Sam," he said softly. With an effort, the hobbit drew a few ragged breaths in and out and finally glanced up at Aragorn. His eyes were full of tears. The king hugged him tightly, resting his chin atop the hobbit's head.

Merry glared at Aragorn fiercely. "Why didn't you _tell _us something like this could happen?"

"Merry," Aragorn said patiently, "I did not know whether this would come to pass or not. There was no point in causing you further concern until I was certain."

"He _will _remember everything eventually, though. Of course he will. Won't he?" Pippin asked miserably.

Aragorn nodded at him. "I have great hopes that it is only a temporary problem and that he will recover quite soon. It is very rare for such memory loss to be permanent. Also," he said, glancing at the hobbit snuggled against his side, "he already remembers Sam. That is a good sign." Sam looked up at him in surprise, eyes shining with hope and an even deeper feeling that the king could not fully fathom.

Aragorn continued. "At the present, Frodo's mind is merely partaking of the weakness of his body. It is likely that both body and mind will mend together." He looked around at the wizard and hobbits. "He will probably not awaken again until the morning. By that time, Legolas and Gimli will have returned, so we will all go to the Houses of Healing together to…introduce ourselves." The king managed a weak smile. "We must be calm and supportive. Do not pressure him to recall anything, for he is both upset and confused." The others nodded.

The king pulled in a deep breath. "There is one final matter. We must not mention anything to him of the ring, or the Quest, or the Dark Lord. We _must not._"

"Why?" Pippin asked.

"As I said, he already feels terribly lost and bewildered. A sudden forced recollection of these evil memories may break his mind completely and drive him forever past the point of recovery. If he is to remember these things, he must do it in his own way and his own time." Aragorn looked down at his hands for a moment. "However, I believe that he yet retains many of these memories— at least subconsciously. When he woke—" the king swallowed, "When he woke, he was missing the ring terribly— though he didn't truly know _what _he was missing."

"Oh, Frodo," Merry whispered, tears filling his eyes. The others looked heartbroken as well.

"Why?" Sam asked quietly. The others looked at him. "Why'd this have to 'appen to him?" He glanced at the king, eyes full of a barely contained rage that almost frightened the man in its intensity. "It ain't _right, _Strider."

"No," Aragorn said softly. "No, it's not. Take heart though, Sam. Perhaps this unfortunate turn of events will lead to good for your master in the end. It may even bring him the emotional healing he needs so badly."

As the king continued to comfort the hobbits, he privately and despondently reflected on the grim situation. _May my words to them only be proved true, _he thought bleakly to himself.


End file.

Lord of the Rings, Angst, Drama