“He is improving, as are you,” the wizard replied. “Sam’s lungs were also burned by the ash and flames of the mountain. I think he may have breathed in less than you, or perhaps his constitution is more robust than yours. You lost a lot of blood when you lost your finger. Sam is still coughing up ashes like you are, but he did not have a fever like you when we brought you here. However, the bottom of his feet are burned. He must have walked over some live coals sometime in the last week. It is strange. You do not have the burns he does.” Gandalf looked expectantly at Frodo.

Sam was coughing into the towel. Maywyn cradled him in her arms, helping him dispel the blackness into the moist towel.

“He carried me on his back,” Frodo whispered. Frodo swallowed hard at the memory. “I had lost all hope and wanted to stay by the Cracks of Doom and die. Be swallowed up by the fire. But Sam wanted out of there. He still had hope.” Frodo closed his eyes and rested his hand in his lap. “I gave into Sam’s wishes, but I had lost all my strength by the time we escaped Orodruin. Sam carried me the final steps.” Frodo’s voice broke under the emotional strain.

Gandalf came over and took the bowl and spoon out of Frodo’s hands, placing them on the table. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” His voice was low and carried overtones of infinite understanding.

Frodo glanced down at his bandaged right hand. The ring finer was gone. He looked at the kindly wizard’s face. It was Gandalf. He was sure it was Gandalf now. A tear escaped his eye. He cleared his throat as the wizard silently handed him the water flagon.

“I did not think I would be able to shed a tear ever again,” Frodo sighed. He wiped the tear away with his good left hand and took a long drink from the flagon. Gandalf pulled his chair over to be closer to Frodo’s side. Sam’s coughing fit subsided and he was again asleep. Frodo could finally see his best friend’s face. Sam’s head was wrapped in bandages, but his sturdy brown hobbit face was peaceful as he slept.

Frodo closed his eyes and started to speak in a quiet voice. “You were right about Gollum. He was with us most of the journey. Sam and I captured him in the Emyn Muil after he attacked us.”

“Gandalf, I tried to help him,” Frodo looked at the wizard. “I tried to save him. But the Ring was too great a temptation for Smeagol. In the end, he betrayed us in the tunnels of Cirith Ugol.” He stopped and cleared his tight throat.

“We finally made it into Mordor. But the burden of carrying the Ring was wearing me down. It became so heavy. So heavy. It talked to me all the time. Tempting me to give up or trying to get me to put it on. It was consuming my mind and will. Every step closer to the mountain gave it strength and sapped my own. Yet I could not give it up. I could see it before me at all times. Tempting me.”

Frodo’s voice was bitter with self-recrimination. “I knew it would betray me, yet I wanted to give in to it. I was so weak. I wanted the suffering to end.” He sighed. “But Gandalf, I was already lost to it. If Sam had tried to take it from me, I would have killed him. So I tried to put as much distance between Sam and me as I could. I did not want the Ring to push me into killing him. So I talked to him as little as possible. I know it hurt him and it hurt me too, but it was the only way I could go on. At times I could not even look at him; just at the ground. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I could not afford the luxury of friendship or companionship any more. If I could just get to the mountain, it would all end.” Gandalf reached out and held Frodo’s left hand.

“We ran out of food first,” Frodo whispered. “I really did not mind that though. We had been living on nothing except lembas for so long. I had become used to the gnawing in my empty stomach and used it as a distraction from the Ring’s whispers. I really could not think about hunger. Food was immaterial. Smeagol was still shadowing us. We could not let our guard down. I could not think about anything except getting to the mountain without getting caught again.”

“You were captured and tortured in Mordor, but rescued by Samwise, I take it,” Gandalf gently said.

Frodo was startled. “How do you know that?”

Gandalf smiled. “The healer treated some infected whip wounds on your back. And I was presented with your original traveling clothes, including the mithril coat and Sam’s small sword, but not Sting or Galadriel’s gifts, or any of Sam’s clothes. The Enemy offered your things to me as evidence that you had failed in your mission. But they did not show us you, my dear Frodo, nor Sam. And as long as the two of you were free, there was hope.”

“Hope,” Frodo sighed. “That should be Sam’s middle name. Sam insisted I eat the lembas until there was nothing left. But then we ran out of water. We had only one water bottle for the two of us, and water is non-existent inside Mordor. The lack of water was more difficult.” Frodo stopped and shifted position slightly. He took another long draught from the flagon. “I do not think I shall ever get enough clean water to drink,” he sighed. “I know Sam dreamed of beer. But water will always be my drink of choice.”

Sam started coughing again. Maywyn moved the bowl of fragrant water to Sam’s side and started setting up a tent over his head. She and Sam disappeared beneath the white gauze fabric, leaving Frodo and Gandalf to their relative privacy.

“My dearest Frodo,” Gandalf said, “you do not have to go into great detail or tell me everything right now. You are just starting your recovery and Mistress Maywyn will chastise me greatly if I keep her charges up too long or overly tax them.”

Frodo slid down into the covers and slipped the water flagon under his pillow. “I am tired. But can you tell me if Sam is going to be all right?” Frodo looked over to his friend’s cot. The healer had finished setting up the small inhalation tent which blocked Frodo from seeing Sam’s face.

“Your companion also suffers from the black breath,” the healer said as she disposed of the soiled towels. “And the burns on his feet must be quite painful. We are keeping him lightly sedated so that he does not suffer needlessly. He may not remember much which has occurred this past week. But he is recovering quickly.” She turned to Frodo. “I have never met a periannath before, your lordship. Do all your people enjoy such remarkable recuperative powers?”

Frodo looked in confusion at Gandalf. “Periannath?”

“The Gondorian word for hobbits,” the wizard explained.

“My lady,” Frodo addressed the healer, “I cannot speak for all my people, nor do I have any rod against which to measure a hobbit’s recuperative powers, save the Elves which I have met. And one cannot compare mortals to immortals. So I cannot answer your question. I do apologize.”

“You are a courteous race simply judging from your reply,” Maywyn smiled. “But could I talk you into eating a bit more for me before you retire?”

“I am sorry, but I do not believe I could.” Frodo also could not stifle a large yawn.

Maywyn silently laughed and went to remove the extra pillows. She discovered the hidden water flagon. “May I take this, m’lord?”

Frodo blushed at her discovery. “May I … May I keep it nearby, please? I would sleep easier if I knew where some water was. I am sorry, but… well…”

“Nay, m’lord,” Maywyn interrupted as she tucked the flagon back beneath his pillow. “You need not explain. It is logical and a small thing to ask.”

She moved one of the extra pillows so that it was under his bandaged right hand, tucked the covers around his slim form, and moved over to tend to Sam. Frodo fell asleep with his left hand clutching the flagon’s leather strap.

He became aware that he was aware for reasons unknown. It was dark. A small oil lamp emitted a feeble light, casting fantastical shadows up onto the inside ceiling of the tent. The moon cast its own shadows of tree branches and leaves against the tent’s white cotton roof. Both sets of shadows wavered and twisted into swirling demons without substance or clearly definable form. Grey against silver in the darkness.

“Shift and shadow, we must be,” Frodo murmured.

“That sounds more like Gollum than you,” a voice quietly replied.

Frodo looked to his left. Gandalf sat in a chair wrapped in a grey cloak, quietly smoking his pipe and watching the Ringbearer. Frodo noticed he had been covered with a dark quilt of some kind. Evidently to ward off the night chills. Sam was snoring.

“Yes, Smeagol said that whilst we were in the Dead Marshes,” he replied. “It is true, you know. We are nothing more than shift and shadow in this world, only to fade in the end.” He was feeling extremely melancholy. His missing ring finger ached and stung. He could feel that he was running a fever. His eyelids were hot. He longed for the Ring, but it was to be forever denied him.

“We are more than shadow and shift,” the wizard softly replied. “What troubles your heart, my friend?”

Frodo could not answer at first. He gazed at the ceiling of the tent, looking through a small opening and out into the star-filled inkiness beyond. So vast. So lonely. So lonely….

He finally replied. “You should have left me on the mountain, you know. You should not have risked yourself for me like that. My task was done. It was over. I could have ended it there and then. A clean ending to the tale. The Ring is destroyed. The Ringbearer dies. All weep at the loss of the Ringbearer, but praise his unselfish actions. The King is crowned and everyone lives happily ever after. The End. But no. You had to rescue me, and now the truth will be known.”

“And what truth is that, Frodo Baggins?” Gandalf impassively asked.

“I failed,” Frodo addressed the shadows. “I failed at the very end. All I had to do was to drop it over the edge. But I could not bring myself to destroy the Ring. I was too weak. I gave into its temptations at the very last moment. I finally harkened to its voice and did what it wanted me to do. I put the Ring on and claimed it for myself. I failed Elrond. I failed you. I failed Sam. I failed everyone.”

“You may have faltered in the final moment, but your mission succeeded, or we would not be holding this conversation in the dark,” the wizard quietly stated. “If you did not throw the Ring into the fire, who did?”

“Gollum,” came the reply. “He had tracked us all the way inside the mountain before he realized what we planned on doing. But he had sworn an oath by the Ring to not harm is master lest he be thrown into the Fire himself. When he attacked me and bit off my finger, he broke his oath, and the Ring held him to his bond. He fell into the Fire, taking the Precious with him.”

“Ah,” Gandalf muttered. “So the kindness of Bilbo was the pivotal force for the ultimate good. But Frodo, your own kindness towards Smeagol also contributed to the good of all. If you had not shown him mercy this quest would have ended in failure. It is your own unselfishness which set up the conditions for success, even if it was not you personally who cast the Ring back into the Fire.”

“But it was I, personally, who did fail at the end,” Frodo insisted. “I gave in to it.”

“And what did it tempt you with?”

Frodo swallowed the sudden lump which had come to his sore throat. “It tempted me with a lot of different things throughout the journey. At first it tempted me with the things I expected: power; wealth; immortality. But then the Ring became more subtle with its temptations as it learned more about me over time. The ability to undo all the wrongs done to the world. To raise my parents from the dead and relive my life in the Shire the way it was supposed to be. To undo all my hurts. As the journey went on and on, and my strength began to fail, it renewed its efforts on me. It tortured me. Becoming unbearable heavy and then suddenly light. Deceiving what my eyes saw. What my ears heard. I fought it for so long. So long. No sleep. I was so tired. So lonely. So alone. So hungry. So thirsty. I think it was the thirst which finally broke me.”

Frodo stopped speaking. Gandalf did not make a sound. They both waited until Frodo could compose himself and continue. The only sounds were the chirping of night crickets, the gurgle of a nearby running stream, and Sam’s quiet snores.

“The last temptation was too much for me,” Frodo whispered into the velvet of the night. “I gave in.”

“What did it offer you?” Gandalf barely uttered the question.

“Death.”

Gandalf could not reply.

Frodo sighed. “And even as I yielded to it and put it on, I knew it had lied. It said my death would be swift and painless. It promised me that if I were to put it on at the Cracks of Doom, my frail form could not bear its glory and I would be instantly consumed. But it lied. I was trapped in the Wheel of Fire. Exposed to the Eye of Sauron. The Nazgul were in my mind, racing to take my physical form to our master for eternal torment. And the Ring laughed at its deception. I was lost. It would never kill me.”

“And now you are here,” Gandalf said.

“Yes. And now I am here,” Frodo answered back. “Will I never be allowed to die? Will I ever find peace?”

“Peace may be found in life as well as death,” the wizard stated. “Even if your body and will and mind failed you, your spirit was true. Find peace in life, Frodo Baggins. Choose to live again. The choice is yours to make. If you choose to live, there will be painful times. And the burden you bore will forever be carried on your body and in your mind. But burdens become lighter by sharing their loads. You are not alone unless you choose that path. We are here for you.”

Frodo could not speak. The confession had wrung out what little strength he had. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.

He became aware that he was aware because he could hear familiar voices. He did not move. He was comfortable as he lay; his left hand up above his head and the fingers twinned about the leather strap leading to a full water bottle. His bandaged right hand atop a soft pillow. The sound of his two best friends in the world softly talking.

“Well, Master Samwise, how do you feel?” Frodo recognized the voice as Gandalf’s.

“How do I feel?” he heard Sam reply. “I feel, I feel – like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!”

Frodo tried hard to keep his face neutral and not give Sam a clue that he was awake. It was extremely difficult to do. He wanted to smile and shout for joy at hearing his friend’s clear voice again. But he also wanted to savor the moment. To file it away in his memory for future tales around the fires on cold winter’s eves. To hear Sam wax poetic and explain to the Wise what true joy was.

“But how’s Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked. “Isn’t it a shame about his poor hand? But I hope he’s all right otherwise.”

Frodo could resist no longer. He opened his eyes, yawned and smiled. “Yes, I am all right otherwise.” He sat up and luxuriated in a huge stretch. “I fell asleep again waiting for you, Sam … you sleepyhead.” Frodo took a long drink from the flagon and offered it to his companion.

“No thank you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied. “I never thought I would say this again, but I think I’ve had enough water for the day. In fact, if you don’t mind too terrible much, Mr. Gandalf, sir, would you mind stepping outside so I could, um … well …um … get rid of some water?”

Frodo and Gandalf both laughed at Sam’s predicament. The Wizard stood to leave. “Your chamber pot is under the cot, Master Gamgee,” he chuckled. “Though I do not think this part of your adventures is going to make it into the stories and songs. And such tales shall be made! The bards are already at work on them. You are to meet the King shortly. He awaits you.” The wizard turned to leave.

Frodo arrested his leaving by grabbing the wizard’s sleeve. “Gandalf. In our state, I do not think Sam and I would mind just about anything right now. But please, all levity aside, are there some clothes we can wear? I would prefer to meet a King with at least some clothes on, although I have endured far worse than the loss of my dignity recently.”

“Well, the King has seen both of you in your, a hmmm, ‘natural’ states,” Gandalf laughed.

“Yes, what shall we wear?” Sam wrapped himself in a sheet and hobbled out of bed, looking for the chamber pot. “King? What King? Who is he?”

“The King of Gondor and Lord of the Western Lands,” said Gandalf, reaching under Sam’s cot and retrieving the much-prized pot. “The King awaits you… that is … after you’ve taken care of the necessities.” He chuckled. “Your clothes are at the foot of your cot.”

“These old orc rags?” Sam asked. He picked up his old and tattered clothes. They had been cleaned, but were definitely worn and threadbare. “You can’t go calling on a King in these things, begging your pardon again.”

“No silks and linens, nor any armour or heraldry could be more honorable,” Gandalf said. “But later I will find some other clothes, perhaps.”

“Look, Mr. Gandalf, sir,” Sam said, “I would love to sit and argue about fancy clothes with you till the cows come home, but I haven’t had the chance to make water in a long, long time. And I am going to enjoy every second of it. So if you don’t want to end up witnessing my enjoyment, you best be leaving now. We’ll discuss clothes later. All right?” Sam snatched the chamber pot out of the Wizard’s hands and started disrobing.

“And it is a joy to see you back to normal, Mister Gamgee,” Gandalf laughed and headed out through the tent flaps.

Frodo smiled and settled back into his bedsheets. It was good to be alive after all.