“Hand him down to me, Gandalf!” Aragorn cried into the swirling wind and dust as he sprinted to the giant eagle. He had to shout to make his powerful voice heard above the clash of arms and cries of the surrounding battle. “Imrahil! Get the other one!” Aragorn reached up and took what appeared to be a small bundle of filthy black orc rags from the White Wizard’s arms. But the bundle was splashed with crimson blood. A weak cough came from the bundle as it lay near-motionless in Aragorn’s arms.

Prince Imrahil also had a filthy bundle cradled in his arms, collected from the back of another of the giant eagles of the Northern Misty Mountains.

With a flash the wizard dismounted from his avian charge. Freed from their burdens, the great birds vaulted into the soot-filled skies to continue in the on-going battle.

“Quickly, Aragorn, lest we loose them both!” Gandalf cried. The hobbits were laid side by side on the cluttered battleground.

“Where is the blood coming from?” Aragorn shouted, trying to locate the source of the stain.

“His right hand,” the Wizard replied. Gandalf uncovered the rags to reveal a gaunt hand missing a finger. It was Frodo. Aragorn could hardly believe this pitiful collection of bones stretched over ashen skin was the same fair and cheerful hobbit he knew from the Shire. Explanations would have to wait. Time was running out for the hobbits.

Imrahil attended the other hobbit. “You! Soldier! Bring me your water bottle!” he commanded the nearest armored combatant. “Bring more water and cloths, and hurry for the love you bear your King!” The soldier handed over his flagon then sped off to bring the items as quickly as he was able.

Aragorn tore strips of cloth from his under tunic and bound Frodo’s wounded hand. Gandalf tended Sam’s bloody head wound. Imrahil dampened a strip of cloth from his own royal swan banner, using it to wipe the clotted blood and black soot from Sam’s face and lips.

Aragorn got out his own water flagon as he moved to raise Frodo’s head. He dribbled the precious water over Frodo’s cracked and ashen lips, encouraging the wounded hobbit to take a drop of the life-giving moisture. The Ringbearer did not stir.

“No! Look out! He’ll attack!” Sam suddenly cried out in his delirium. Gandalf gathered the struggling hobbit into this arms to keep Sam from injuring himself even more.

“Samwise, calm down,” the elderly wizard crooned. “You are safe now. Frodo is safe. Here. Drink this.” He put the soldier’s flagon to Sam’s parched lips. Sam gulped down the water and began to cough. Each spasm brought up frothy pink and black mucus. Gandalf’s white robe quickly became stained with Sam’s blood.

“Aragorn! I need you here now!” Gandalf cried. Imrahil went to Frodo’s side as the King rushed to Sam.

Sam struggled to breathe. Breathing was getting harder and harder to do. He couldn’t get any air! He was going under! Drowning again! Drowning in ashes!

“Sleep, Samwise Gamgee. Sleep.”

Sam could hear a comforting voice from far, far away.

“Sleep. Rest. Sleep.” He could resist no longer. Sam knew no more.

Aragorn released Sam. “Take him to the healer’s tents and tend to him as you would to me,” he commanded the soldiers who had gathered around their captains. “I shall come tend to him myself as time allows.” The soldier whose water flagon Imrahil had confiscated returned with water, cloths, and two stretchers. Sam was quickly loaded into one and carried off the battlefield.

Gandalf and Aragorn joined Imrahil at Frodo’s side.

“I could not get him to take any water,” Imrahil sighed. Frodo coughed weakly.

Gandalf placed his hands over Frodo’s heart. “He is fading. I may have arrived too late. I fear he may have contested the will of Sauron by himself and cannot come back from that dark pit of despair.”

“Let me try,” Aragorn softly said. “I, too, have struggled alone against the Eye. I might be able to reach him, if there is yet time. And if his strength holds a little longer.”

Aragorn sat cross-legged upon the ground. Imrahil placed the unconscious hobbit into the King’s arms. Frodo’s head lolled against Aragorn’s armored chest. The hobbit struggled for each breath; weakly coughing up the same blood and ash mixture as Sam. Gandalf placed his hands once again upon Frodo’s chest, closed his eyes, and started chanting in a tongue Imrahil did not recognize. The sounds of the battle continued on, but all ears were focused upon one small hobbit’s struggle to breathe.

After a few minutes, the Prince noticed that Frodo’s breathing had synchronized with Aragorn’s, and that the wounded hand had stopped bleeding. In another minute, the coughing stopped. Aragorn and Frodo opened their eyes simultaneously. Frodo stared off into space, unresponsive to any movement or sound; his normally beautiful blue eyes bloodshot and clouded.

“Try to give him some water now,” Aragorn whispered to Imrahil. The Prince unstopped the flagon and poured the liquid across Frodo’s lips. At first he did not respond. But at the second attempt he closed his eyes and swallowed. Frodo murmured something, then slipped in total unconsciousness.

“What did he say?” Imrahil asked.

Aragorn looked with concern to Gandalf.

“He asked me to let him die.”

He became aware that he was aware only because of his overwhelming need to take in air. He involuntarily rolled over onto his left side and struggled to breathe between fits of unbearably painful coughing. It was as if his lungs were on fire! A cool hand touched his naked feverish side, helping him steady himself as he fought to breathe. He was drowning in brimstone. Burning from the inside out.

A bowl of steaming water appeared near his face and a towel was draped over his head. Something wet was coming out of his mouth as he retched and coughed. The taste of iron and ashes. The unfocused sight of frothy blood and black tar bubbling out of his mouth. It was so hard to breathe. So hard. But there was something in the steaming bowl which was comforting. He recognized the crushed herbs floating in the water from somewhere in his dim past. But he couldn’t stop the coughing to form a clear idea of where or when he had experienced it. Wasn’t it supposed to smell good? He couldn’t smell or taste anything except ashes and blood.

The large, cool hand stirred the contents of the bowl. A flowering of comfort swept over him and the coughing subsided. He could breathe a bit easier now even though his ribs hurt. The hand dipped a cloth into the bowl and brought its cooling comfort to his flushed neck and chest. It wiped away the foul bloody foam from his lips.

“Here now,” the Hand said, “try to suck some moisture out of this.” A sponge with cool water was placed on his cracked lips. He managed to swallow a mouthful of blessed water. So sweet. So pure. He had never tasted anything so cool and refreshing in his life.

The Hand helped him roll from his fetal position onto his back again. Something sticky and wet was on his back. But it felt good. He thought he could see a gauzy white tent being repositioned, and another bowl of the herbed water being brought in by the Hand. But his mind drifted away into the numbing comfort of forgetfulness.

He became aware that he was aware only because of the unbearable thirst. Yes, he was terribly thirsty. He had been thirsty for weeks. Months. Years. But something else was wrong. His eyes. He couldn’t open his eyes. Something was covering them. Perhaps they had blindfolded him again? Or perhaps the others had put out his eyes this time. He could feel someone doing something to his right hand. It was quite painful, but not as painful as the thirst. He could not speak for the thirst.

He tried to reclaim his right hand but it was held down somehow. However, he could move his left hand. He struggled to lift his heavy arm up to remove whatever it was which was making him blind. The Hand was back again, restraining his movement. He was so weak with the overpowering thirst that it took no more than a gentle touch to his left hand to still its movement. He tried to move his head, his legs, anything…

“Quiet now. Don’t struggle so. We are only trying to help you.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was too swollen to translate the words from his mind. “Water” came out as a croak. The voice of ashes. But the Hand must have sensed his dire need. A leather flask magically nudged against his cracked lips, and precious, sweet water trickled into his parched mouth. At first he could not swallow. The life-giving liquid dribbled out of his mouth and down across his neck. He would have cried for the shear wastefulness of the Hand, if only he had tears. If only he still had eyes. It was torture. They were torturing him again.

But upon the second try, a small amount of liquid worked its way around his parched tongue and down into his mouth. He tried to swallow. The unexpected water caused an immediate reaction.

Once again he was doubled over in agony as his lungs involuntarily tried to expel the long-denied moisture. The Hand steadied him again until the coughing fit was past. Something had fallen away from his eyes, but he could not bring himself to open them yet. At least he still had eyes. The Hand helped him regain his former position. The flask was once again set to his cracked lips. This time the water made it past the tongue and down the correct pipe. He could swallow again. He took another drink. And another. But the Hand took the flask away.

“Not too fast. Easy now. You are doing well.”

But he heard no more.

He became aware that he was aware only because someone was touching him. Running a wet cloth over his face. It felt so good. He had been on fire for so long. So long. He thought he could hear voices, but was not certain if it was a nightmare or not. So many of his nightmares had been true. He was afraid to open his eyes.

“I think he is coming around again, m’lord.”

Something or someone sat down next to him. He decided to open his heavy eyelids. The blazing white image swam before his feverish eyes. At first he could not focus on what was sitting so close to him, so he tried looking up instead. There was fabric where the sky should have been. He became aware that he was lying on soft pillows and covered with fresh sheets. Where was the mountain? Where were the fires? Where were the ashes and fumes and stones? Where was the thunder of crashing towers and collapsing earthen works? The hideous shriek of the Nazgul? The stench of poisoned air? He heard nothing except his own raspy breathing and the sound of a gentle breeze blowing through leaves. Leaves? There were no trees in Mordor. Where was he? Was he alone? Where was ? …. Where was …..

“Sam!” Frodo tried to cry out.

“Shush. Calm down. Sam is nearby in the next cot over. You don’t want to awaken him, now do you?”

Frodo turned his face to see the last person in Middle Earth he expected – Gandalf. But a different Gandalf. This wizard was white, not grey. Frodo’s mouth gaped open in surprise. His mind wanted to shut down again in the confusion of the moment. It would be so easy to do. And he was so tired. But he had to know. He had to find out.

“Am I dead then?”

Gandalf chucked and patted him on the arm. “No, my dearest hobbit. You are very much alive, thanks to the heroics of Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles, and the healing talents of the King of Gondor. Oh yes, and we must never discount the amazing tenacity of hobbits to hang onto life and hope after all else has turned to despair.”

Frodo looked askance at the wizard sitting next to him. He looked and spoke like Gandalf, but was somehow much changed. Perhaps this was yet another ploy of the Enemy. “But how can you be Gandalf?” he asked. “I saw you fall in Moria. Who are you, really?”

The smile faded from the wizard’s face. It was as if the sun had been eclipsed. The hobbit was much changed since his carefree days at Bag End. It signaled a shocking loss of innocence to the Wizard. But such was the price of the triumph. It was the price they all had to pay. “Yes, I am Gandalf. But I am Gandalf the White. Gandalf the Grey fell in Moria. I battled the Balrog of Morgoth until we both were slain upon Caradhras. But my work was not yet accomplished. I was sent back as you see me now. To finish my task.”

He smiled and the clouds were lifted from the sun. “But you, my dearest hobbit… You have accomplished what even the very wise had assumed to be impossible. For the Dark Lord is overthrown and his power over Middle Earth is destroyed.” Then Gandalf laughed. A laughter born of shear delight and love.

“Where am I?” Frodo whispered.

“You are in Ithilien, in the keeping of the King,” Gandalf replied.

“M’Lord Mithrandir?” a soft feminine voice whispered, “the King said the Ringbearers were to be given food and drink as soon as they were aware.” The voice of the Hand.

Gandalf turned to the middle-aged Gondorian woman and smiled. “You are quite right my dear. My apologies to you and to the Ringbearer for keeping you from your duties. An old man can prattle on if not gently reminded otherwise.” Gandalf got off the bed and moved out of the way of the lady, who approached Frodo. She lay one soft white hand on his right shoulder.

“Are you able to sit up, m’lord?” she asked.

Frodo nodded. He struggled to raise himself up in bed, but it was terribly difficult. His right hand was swaddled in bandages and he could not put any weight on it. And he noted that he was completely naked. The grey-eyed woman helped him sit up without damage to either his wounded hand or his modesty. Moving from the prone position aggravated his sore chest and he began to cough again. The lady held him upright and gave him a handkerchief soaked in the same herbed water he remembered from earlier. Athalas. That was it. More black mucus emerged from his mouth and he felt dizzy. The lady moved piles of soft pillows behind his back and helped him into a more comfortable position. Frodo coughed again.

“What is wrong with my lungs?” he managed to choke out as the lady handed him a brown leather flagon of water.

“We could not reach you and Samwise before you breathed in some of the poisonous fumes of the mountain,” Gandalf said. “You were both covered in ashes by the time we found you. Only Gwaihir’s eagle eyes could discern your hobbit shapes amidst the rocks and fires. A few more minutes and you would have been dead.”

The healer took the water flagon from Frodo’s hand and placed it on a small table beside the cot. She returned with a bowl and a spoon.

“What is that?” Frodo asked.

“You cannot smell it?” she asked in surprise. She sat down on the bed next to Frodo and started gently stirring the bowl’s contents. “Can you smell the athalas?”

“No,” Frodo answered. “I cannot seem to smell anything at all.”

“Probably because of the ashes you inhaled,” Gandalf replied.

“This is a little white bread soaked in fresh milk and honey,” the healer said. “It is time you started back on solid food, your lordship.” She brought the laden wooden spoon to his mouth.

“Frodo,” he mumbled between spoonfuls. “My name is Frodo Baggins, please.”

“Yes, m’lord,” the healer replied, waiting for him to swallow before presenting him with another spoonful. Frodo attempted to take the spoon from her hand, using his good left hand.

“Please, I can do this myself, I do believe,” he said. She handed him the spoon and placed the bowl in his lap. “What is your name, my lady, if I may ask?”

“You may ask me anything, m’lord,” came the reply. “I am called Maywyn Thelmasdoiter.” She placed a towel across his naked chest.

“Many thanks, Maywyn Thelmasdoiter,” Frodo politely replied. He was slow and awkward at feeding himself, but it was less embarrassing than being spoon-fed like a baby. Maywyn went back over to Sam’s cot, uncovered his feet, and started rubbing a salve on them. Gandalf settled into a chair between the two sickbeds and lighted his long-stemmed pipe. He blew white and blue smoke rings as Frodo slowly chewed the simple bread pudding.

“No smoking inside the tent, please,” Maywyn quietly admonished the wizard. Gandalf rolled his eyes, but obediently tapped out his pipe and put it away. He shrugged at Frodo.

In the quiet Frodo could hear Sam’s labored breathing as he slept. Frodo noted that someone had evidently given them both a bath while they were unconscious, as they were both clean yet naked under the sheets. He hoped it was Gandalf and not Maywyn, but feared it was the later.

Frodo set down the little earthenware bowl. He could only manage a couple of mouthfuls of the milk-soaked bread before he had to stop. He could eat no more. He and Sam had gone without proper food and water for so long he found he could only tolerate small helpings of either. Sam stirred in his sleep and moaned. Maywyn stopped applying the salve and went to his head bearing a damp cloth and a clean towel.

Frodo leaned back into the pillows. “Gandalf? How is Sam?”