Prelude

Sam's face kept coming into his dreams, shocking him awake as if someone had pressed cold steel against his throat.  The mask of grief on Sam's honest, dirty face, looking up at him without seeing him…

He lay trembling in the dark; beside him Radagast snored gently.

Frodo had known before he ever reached the Shire that there was no going home for him.  The Ring had burned into him as if his very soul had been branded; waking or sleeping, he craved it as a starving man craves food. He had stood at the Havens with Gandalf and Elrond, hoping against hope that they would invite him to go with them into the West, into the realm of light and peace where evil was cast out forevermore.  The invitation had not come, and he saw now that he had been a fool to let himself hope for it. No mortal was permitted to make that passage, and himself least of all, tainted as he was.

So Elrond had kissed him solemnly on both cheeks and wished him well, and Gandalf had embraced him, shrouding him for a moment in robes of snowy white. For that one moment he had felt safe, but then Gandalf had kissed his forehead and turned away. The gangplank was drawn up and the ship had sailed, Gandalf in the stern holding up his hands in farewell.  Frodo had watched until the sails disappeared over the horizon, and then he had ridden home in despair, keeping up a façade of cheerfulness for Sam while his heart seemed to dry up and blow away on the sea breeze.

He was left with his shame and self-contempt.  He set his teeth and bore it, spending his days writing the book, the story that had to be told, the Ring and the War and the return of the King.  But nightmares haunted him and his mind began to wander; it was all he could do to finish the book, and when it was done his strength was spent. 

 He had crept away from Bag End in the middle of the night, intent on finding a place where he could end the pain and his life at one blow, without grieving Sam, or Merry, or anyone who loved him.  And he'd ended up hiding in a tree with the Brown Wizard, who had walked into the middle of his attempt at self-destruction, and called him Donkey and given him an apple for breakfast.

Sam had ridden after him, fearing the worst, and Frodo had hidden, still trying to protect his dearest friend, to conceal what the Ring had done to him.  And Sam had stared up at him without seeing, his face streaked with tears – Sam was not deceived; he guessed what Frodo had come there to do!

So it was all out in the open at last, and in the end it was Sam who begged him to go with Radagast.  Sam saw hope for him with the Brown Wizard; Sam still believed that he could heal from the Ring.  Frodo could not deny him that hope, even if he did not share it himself.
 
There was a soft whinny in the darkness and a rustle as the horses moved about, before they settled down again.  Radagast shifted in his sleep, throwing his arm across Frodo as if he would shield him from some peril.  Frodo lay staring up at the moon, shining pale and far away, a thin sliver in a black sky.  Perhaps there was healing in the wilderness.  There was danger; he had journeyed enough in the wild to know that.  If he could not find peace, he might at least find an end.  He was willing to settle for that. 

Even after a month traveling with the Brown Wizard, there were days when Frodo felt as if he'd been stood on his head. Radagast was as different from Gandalf as – he tried to think of an apt comparison – as different as an elf from a hobbit, he supposed. Or a dwarf.

They rose in the half-light when the birds began to call, and while Frodo cooked their breakfast, the wizard wandered about, chirruping back at the birds and poking into the underbrush, and not infrequently climbing a tree to peer into a nest. Frodo watched in guilty amusement when Radagast took to the treetops; it was such an unlikely spectacle, the old man with his long robe hitched up, climbing casually among the branches, sure-footed as a squirrel.

"You're not fooling me, you know, Donkey," the wizard called down to him one morning. "I can see your shoulders shaking from twenty feet up. Why don't you laugh out and enjoy it? Very healing, laughter is; it'll do you good."

Frodo looked up in embarrassment, stammering apologies, but Radagast just grinned down at him. "I'm well aware how odd I look up here, lad, and I won't be offended if you laugh. The fact is, I don't care how I look, and neither should you. Pay attention to what you're doing, that's all. Right now you're burning the bacon."

His attention jerked back to the task at hand, Frodo swore – he had, indeed, burnt the bacon – and then laughed, at himself as much as at the wizard, who by that time was sitting on a branch half-way up the tree, a nest in his hands and the parent bird perched confidingly on his shoulder.

He had wondered at first where they would find food in the wilderness, but at mealtimes Radagast simply reached into his mysterious sack and pulled out what was needed. It was a strange thing, that sack, hanging limp across the horse's back in front of the wizard as if almost empty, yet he took the most motley collection of objects out of it! It seemed to hold whatever he needed at the moment.

"The Fellowship could have used a bag like that on our journey," he said one day, half in jest. "Why didn't Gandalf have one?"

"We each have our own gifts, lad. Gandalf was far better protection against the Shadow than I would have been – and you, by the by, are an excellent cook! I haven't eaten this well in many years – I must remember, in future, always travel with a Hobbit to do the cooking."

Which made Frodo laugh again, as the wizard had intended.

They traveled erratically, rarely going in the same direction two days running, camping for days at a time if they found any creature in need of help. They stayed a week at a little hut deep in the forest, caring for an old man they found there, racked with fever. Radagast nursed him back to health, and Frodo cut firewood and stacked it, till the woodshed was crammed full. The first night his palms burned with blisters, and he tried to hide the pain while he cooked their supper. There was no hiding from Radagast, however, and Frodo went to bed with his hands well smeared with strong-smelling salve. By the end of the week he had a fine set of calluses and nurtured a secret pride in his competence with an axe.

Some days he almost forgot the Ring. Almost.

One night they were caught out in a storm, cold rain and lashing wind, and no shelter to be found. They wrapped their cloaks tight around them and pulled their blankets over their heads, huddled in the open, and Frodo half woke in the night, groping frantically for the Ring and calling for Sam. His fingers closed on Arwen's jewel, and Radagast pulled him close and wrapped his own blanket around them both, talking softly to him in a language Frodo didn't understand. He calmed and fell back into uneasy slumber, soaked in rainwater.

By morning the rain had stopped, but it was too wet for a breakfast fire. They ate apples and cheese from the wizard's sack, and spread their blankets and cloaks over bushes to dry. Under one bush Frodo found a ruined bird's nest, washed away by the storm, and a little distance away, the drowned nestlings lying in the mud. He squatted down, touching them sadly, and felt one tiny heart still beating. He scooped that one up hastily and carried it to Radagast.

"Get it warm, Donkey, and then we'll see. Hold it against your heart."

"But what kind is it?" he asked.

Radagast shrugged. "A ground-nester of some sort, by the looks of it. The Elves concern themselves with naming all the kinds, Frodo -- I just take them one by one. You may name that one what you like, just so you save its life."

At that moment he longed for Bilbo, who would have known what kind of bird it was, or not knowing, would have looked it up in one of his books. Who would have thought as Frodo did, that it mattered what kind, and would not have been content to simply make up a name. He bit back his frustration and set himself to saving its life, if he could. He unbuttoned his shirt and held the bedraggled creature against his bare chest, pulling the still-damp shirt closed over his cupped hand and going to sit on a rock in the sunshine.

The air was loud with birds. They took up where the frogs had left off at dawn – the frogs called all night, every night, in every little pond and puddle. Well, Radagast had promised him frog song! He smiled to himself, nestling the chilled, damp baby bird to his breast, feeling its heart thudding against his fingers. The frogs made a very different music from the Elves of Rivendell, but it had its own charm. Easier to translate, too. He thought he knew what the frogs sang through the night hours.

We're here – we're here – we're here -!

And I'm here, too, he thought. Against all odds, I'm here, and my heart is beating, and I'm going to save this little bird's life, or I'll know why not. He stroked the small head delicately with one finger. "Cuina," I'll call you. "Alive".

####

He had thought they were journeying at random, with no real destination, and then the eaves of the Old Forest loomed before them and he remembered Radagast's intention to visit Tom Bombadil.

The Forest was as breathless and unwelcoming as it had been four years previously, when he entered it with Sam and his cousins, but it no longer alarmed him. It was like passing a savage guard dog in the company of its master – as if the trees gave respectful, if reluctant, passage to the wizard, and therefore to him also.

And he didn't particularly care whether the trees killed him. There was that as well. But no, he remembered, he still had the baby bird to save. He reached up to caress its downy head and was rewarded with a soft cheep.

Radagast had made him a soft pouch out of a scrap of fur he took from his sack, so now the little bird rode in comfort, its makeshift nest hung by a thong round Frodo's neck. The wizard had chuckled as he slipped it over his head. "Poor Donkey, we're always hanging things around your neck, aren't we? But I hope Cuina will prove less troublesome than the last burden you carried that way."

And Cuina was no trouble, or not much. Frodo was kept busy catching gnats and flies to feed her – Radagast had assured him the bird was a female, though how he could tell defied understanding – but catching the insects was more sport than chore. There were plenty of the creatures in the air, this time of year, darting around them as they rode, and he had only to keep his seat on the pony while he caught them between his hands, then drop them into Cuina's gaping beak.

"You make an excellent father bird, Frodo," Radagast told him. "That nestling will be as chubby as any hobbit by the time she learns to fly."

"She'll be a proper Shire bird, then," Frodo retorted. "The Shire is a generous land."

"It is that, and it grows generous folk. There's none could deny it, who knew the history of the Ring." Frodo blushed scarlet and was silent.

They heard singing coming along the path before them, and pulled their mounts to one side to wait. Tom Bombadil came in sight, dancing with long steps, kicking up his heels, his yellow boots like flashes of sunlight in the forest shadows.

Hey now, come now, Spring has come again now!
Come and greet the morning, then, merry Summer's coming!
Merry dol, derry dol, Goldberry is coming!
Back home from a-visiting in the flowing water,
Home to Tom she's dancing now, pretty River-daughter.

Hop along, my merry friends, for you'll be home before us,
In the garden take your rest until we come to meet you.
Round the table we'll take mirth, when you come to supper:
Fruit and cheese and honey sweet, white bread and butter.

Yonder comes my lady fair, bright as sparkling water—
Tom will bring her home with him, lovely River-daughter!

He laughed and doffed his hat to them where they stood, but he didn't stop, continuing along the path until he was out of sight and only echoes of his song came back to them, mingled with the voices of birds high in the trees.

"Come along, Donkey; we'll wait for them in the house clearing. Tom will sing Goldberry home again now, after her visit to the River."

The house, when they came to it, was larger than Frodo remembered, low and homely-looking, with a little meadow of grass and wildflowers before it and the Downs rising behind. They followed the path around to the garden in back and dismounted, stretching their legs walking along the garden paths, while Smoky and Strider wandered through the meadow, cropping the long grass.

"Sam would like this," Frodo said. "It was autumn when we were here, and raining besides – he never saw the garden."

"Sam would like it indeed, and even he would learn something here, fine gardener though he is. I'm hoping Goldberry can give me seeds to take to Mordor, some plants that have a healing virtue for the soil there. She and Tom will know, if anyone does, what can be done for a land so ruined."

Frodo remembered the slag pits of Mordor and shuddered. "You really mean to go there? But not for a few years, you said."

"Not for a few years, no. Not until my Donkey is healed enough to leave me, if he does not wish to go with me."

Frodo stared out across the garden, bright in the sunshine, bees humming around clumps of fragrant herbs. He would be sorry to part with Radagast when the time came – could not imagine how he would go on without him, if it came to that. But even less could he imagine returning to Mordor.

Desolation crept into his heart, as it had so often since the Ring went into the fire, and he felt for Arwen's jewel on its chain round his neck. His hand found the little bird instead, warm and questing against his fingers, looking for food. He shook his mind free of the cobwebs and scanned the garden for some morsel Cuina could eat.

He was still feeding her when Goldberry came around the side of the house, purple water irises twined in her hair, singing clear liquid trills without any words. She wore a long garment of the same purple as the flowers, and her golden hair flowed down her back in ripples and little curls. Bombadil capered around her like a young goat, blowing shrill, sweet music on a willow whistle. They didn't cease their music-making as they passed Frodo and the wizard, but Goldberry smiled and beckoned to them, and Tom flapped his elbows comically as he went by, plainly wishing them to follow. Radagast laughed and pushed Frodo ahead of him, and his deep voice rang out in counterpoint to Goldberry's trills, singing in a language Frodo didn't recognize.

Frodo had dreaded having to talk about the Quest, but old Tom asked no questions. He welcomed his guests as if he'd been expecting them, made the acquaintance of the baby bird and let her nibble at his fingers, and sat them down, washed and refreshed, to a meal of strawberries and salad and white cheese, bread and butter and honey.

"It's long since you passed this way, Radagast Bird-friend," Tom said when they had taken the first edge off their hunger. "I had thought you gone away with Gandalf, over Sea."

"No, I linger on, the last of my Company in the West. The great work is finished and so the workers depart, but the clearing up is yet to be done. I need your knowledge of earth and water, yours and Goldberry's."

Goldberry's voice was lilting, like music. "Such knowledge as we have, we will give gladly. But does this small one go with you? Surely he has finished the task appointed him!"

"Donkey goes with me only as far as he desires. For now we bear one another company."

"Wizard's Donkey?" said Tom, grinning.  "That's a fitting nickname!  Only have a care, Friend Wizard, not to overload him."

"I place no load on him at all," said Radagast.  "He picked up the nestling of his own accord."

Frodo nodded.  "Cuina is no burden."  He flushed under Goldberry's searching look. "I am learning healing," he said. "I could not stay in the Shire."

"Indeed, you could not," she said softly. The conversation turned then to matters of healing, especially for the land, and Frodo listened silently as he ate. When supper was over, Tom rose and led them to the bedchamber where the hobbits had slept before.

"Early to rest this night, for Tom and for his lady! And you must be weary too, from many days' journey. Tomorrow is soon enough for long conversation," he said. And in truth, Frodo's eyes were heavy. He lay down and dropped into sleep as if it had been a dark hole to fall into.

Cuina roused him early, calling shrilly for breakfast. He slipped outside, leaving Radagast snoring in the dim room. Mist still lingered in the hollows, though the sun was beginning to light the Downs above him. Being a father bird was an endless chore.

He had not slept well, and his head ached. His dreams had been all of the Quest, a hopeless, stumbling climb through the Emyn Muil, with Sam always just out of sight while he hurried to catch up. He was in no mood to beat the meadow, wet with dew, for a bird's breakfast. But Cuina's wide mouth gaped up at him hopefully, so he waded into the tall grass, parting the long strands to find insects still sluggish from the night's chill. The baby bird eagerly snatched each one that he found, nipping at his fingers. Before long he was wet past the knees and his feet were numb with cold.

There was a trill of song behind him, and he turned to see Goldberry, gowned in sunshine yellow, her hair in two plaits over her shoulders. "Frodo, you are up betimes," she said. "I had not thought that hobbit folk were such early risers."

Cuina stuck her head up over the edge of her fur pouch and cheeped, and Goldberry laughed, coming over to touch the nestling's head with one slender finger. She warbled a snatch of birdsong, and Cuina listened with her head cocked. When Goldberry stopped, the little bird cheeped again, then haltingly sang the melody back to her.

Frodo hardly breathed, listening in wonder as Goldberry whistled another snatch of music and Cuina imitated her. The mist began to break up and float away, light flooded the garden, and his head stopped aching. Goldberry leaned down and came up with a small yellow spider in her hand, which she fed to the baby bird.

"Frodo, you are sad at heart," she said gently. "When last we met you were afraid, but now you're full of sorrow."

He nodded, not answering. A gnat flew up from the grass in front of him, and he caught it and gave it to Cuina.

"I failed of my Quest, Lady," he said at last.

She lifted her arms wide, as if she would gather the whole bright garden, green and fragrant, and give it into his hands. "Look, Frodo, raise your eyes! Here there is no Shadow! Some part, in all your Quest, you must have finished truly."

"I could not cast it away." His voice was low with shame, and he bent to his bug-catching, careful not to look at her. He held another morsel to Cuina's beak, and Goldberry reached out and took hold of his wrist. He stiffened, enduring her touch, as she examined the scarred hand with its missing finger.

"You see, Lady. It was – taken from me."

He dared a glance at her face. She met his eyes with an intentness that abashed him, but he could not look away. And she did not release his hand; she held her finger to his scar as if she sought to press healing into his very flesh.

"Ring-bearer, you were named, and you bore it truly, to the very Crack of Doom, nearly to your dying. Ring-destroyer you were not, and no one ever called you! That one followed at your heels, to his own undoing."

He shook his head. Ring-bearer, Ring-destroyer. Of course he had been meant to destroy the Ring; that was why he had been sent. She was trying to comfort him, but there was no comfort in this specious argument.

"No, Frodo, never think Goldberry speaks idly! You remember, Gandalf saw – before you ever started – you could not cast the Ring in your own fireplace! Don't you believe he knew you could not destroy it? But you were faithful still – you brought it to the Mountain. There was another sent, to finish when you faltered."

"Smeagol fought me for it and overbalanced – he did not intend to destroy it!"

She smiled sadly. "No, he did not intend, but it was intended. Smeagol was caught indeed – even had you cast it deep in the Fire's core, Smeagol would have followed. In truth he was enslaved to it, but you are breaking free."

It was as if one of the chains around his heart snapped and fell from him, and he took a deep breath of relief. Smeagol's fiery end had haunted him – if he had not hesitated, if he had cast the Ring into the Fire at once, the creature need not have perished so. But no –

"He would have, wouldn't he? He would have thrown himself after it." He did not need her quiet "Yes." He knew it in his bones – a few years longer, possessing the Ring, and he would have done the same. But now he was breaking free.

Suddenly he was starving. "I think Cuina has had enough for now. Is there breakfast inside for a hungry hobbit?" he asked. Goldberry laughed merrily and took his hand again, leading him into the house.

They stayed many days with Bombadil, and Radagast conferred long with Tom and Goldberry while Frodo roamed the outdoors, finding food for his nestling. By now he had a hearty respect for parent birds, watching them fly back and forth to their nests feeding their broods, even as he labored to feed his one little orphan.

"It's a good thing I only have the one," he told Bombadil ruefully. "I don't know how I'd manage, if I had three or four!"

"You'd have to find a partner, then, to help you with the bother!" Tom laughed. "Your little bird is fortunate in her foster father."

One day he came upon a grove of trees all in bloom. They were a-buzz with bees, pushing in and out of the blossoms, and as he watched one bee backed out too quickly and tumbled head-over-stinger toward the ground. Suddenly a brown hand reached out, stopping her fall, and he realized that Tom was sitting there in the long orchard grass. The bee righted herself and walked deliberately up one of Tom's fingers before she took flight.

"I thought she would have stung you," Frodo said.

"Thought she'd sting Bombadil? Not that little lady! Look now, friend Frodo." He unfolded himself from the ground and went over to the tree, holding out his hand to a cluster of blossoms. First one bee, then three or four more, left the flowers and alighted on his bare skin, and he bent his face over them, seeming to whisper something to them. At length he stretched out his arm, and they flew away. But the last one to leave his hand veered by his face in passing, landing just for an instant on his nose before she joined her sisters among the blossoms.

"What did you say to them?"

"I told them who you are, how you feed your nestling.  Now you are a bird to them, in the tall grass rustling."

Frodo pulled a face. "First a donkey, now a bird! Before long I'll forget that I started as a hobbit!"

"Be sure you remember that, until you understand!" Bombadil spoke lightly, but he rested his hand on Frodo's head as he spoke, and Frodo grew still, listening. "A hobbit's all you ever were, not hero out of legend." Then he laughed and leaped away. "You may yet be many things, before you reach the end. But hobbit still, beneath it all – don't forget that, Frodo!"

It was little enough, and yet it eased his mind. He was only a hobbit, when all was said and done, and he had done the best he could. The deep peace of Bombadil's house began to work on him, and he slept dreamlessly night after night and woke at dawn to his duties as father bird.

Cuina lost her soft down and sprouted feathers. She startled Frodo one morning by hopping out of the pouch, when he bent to catch a spider for her, and hiding in a clump of grass.

"Hi! Cuina, come back!" He held out the spider, and she crept forward and snapped it out of his fingers before she ducked away into the grass again. Feeding her became a game of hide and seek, as he first had to find an insect for her and then find her to poke it into her beak. When she was satisfied at last, she refused the pouch and rode back to the house on top of his head, pulling at his hair.

She led him a merry chase for several days, hiding behind baskets and bits of furniture inside, or in clumps of grass or under the garden plants outside. When she was hungry she would hop to his feet, cheeping piteously, and follow him as he hunted bugs for her. It was a relief when she caught her first caterpillar, all by herself, and then within a day or two she could feed herself and was beginning to flutter up to his shoulder from the ground when she wanted company.

A week later she flew indeed, soaring high above the trees and breaking into song as she rose. He followed her with his eyes, caught between regret at losing her and a leaping joy at seeing her so free, thrilling to her song. "A skylark!" he whispered. "Now I know what kind you are!" She hovered in the sky, her song floating down to him, and then suddenly she dropped and the next thing he knew she was sitting on his head again, tweaking his ear.

Radagast chuckled beside him. "She will find it hard to see you leave, Donkey. You cared for her too well."

Frodo had been trying to persuade the bird off his head and onto his finger. He stopped with his hand still upraised. "Are we leaving, then?"

"Yes, it is time. I have learned what I may from Tom and Goldberry, and Goldberry has given me seeds. Summer is upon us, and there are calls I must make in the Northlands, before the cold comes again," said the wizard.

"And Cuina will stay here." It would be a wrench to part with her, and his heart contracted.

"I would expect it, Donkey. If I were a bird, I would not leave Goldberry's garden." Radagast laughed, laying an arm across Frodo's shoulders. "Would you?"

As it happened, Radagast was wrong.  They had been riding half the morning and were well beyond the Forest, cutting across the northern edge of the Downs,  when there came a whir of wings and Cuina alighted on Frodo's head.  Her presence lightened his mood, which had been somber, and he reached up to caress her satiny feathers with one finger.
In a few minutes she leaped into the air again, her song following them as they rode, but now and then she would drop to Frodo's head and tug at his hair, before she took flight once more.

The wizard chuckled.  "Your friends are very faithful, even among the beasts.  There is some blessing on you, I think."

"I had thought it was a curse!" Frodo snapped.  Then he reddened with shame.  "No, forgive me.  My friends are a blessing, of course.  And they have been faithful."

Radagast seemed unruffled.  "There is a curse, Donkey, but not on you, though you felt the heaviness of it.  The curse was on the Ring and its Maker, for pride and malice.  But the Ring is gone now, and its Maker also."

"So the curse is gone as well?"

"Ah, no, not while pride and malice remain.  But there is no malice in you, Donkey, and only a little pride."

"I thought you accused me of great pride, a while back."  He sounded sulky even to himself, and he bit his tongue.

Radagast laughed at him, as at a child.  "You have let much of it go since then, however.  You have remembered who you really are – only a little fellow in the wide world after all, as I believe someone told Bilbo on one occasion."

"Gandalf did," Frodo admitted, smiling in spite of himself.  "Bilbo was insulted at first, but he got over it.  How did you know?"

"Oh, word gets around.  A very famous personage, your uncle."

"Yes.  Brave and resourceful.  A pity he was too old to take the Ring to Mordor."

"You would not wish that on him, Donkey."

"No, of course not – only, he would have done better than I did."

Radagast pulled at his lip thoughtfully.  "He had great success in the affair of the Dragon, but that was a different kind of problem, you know.  In all his adventures, Bilbo faced dangers that could be confronted directly, by battle or by escape.  But you carried your enemy on your own person, and there was no escape.  I am not sure he could have done what you did."

"What did I do, Radagast?  I got it to the Mountain – nearly killing Sam and my cousins along the way, and leaving Boromir dead behind me – and when the moment came to fulfill my task, I refused!  If Smeagol had not been there, Sauron would have the Ring at this moment!"

The wizard's voice was quiet.  "And why was Smeagol there, Frodo?  Why was he not dead back in the Emyn Muil, or shot by Faramir's archers?"

Frodo said nothing and Radagast answered himself.  "Because you had pity on him. Because you would not have him killed."

"Bilbo would not kill him either," Frodo said stubbornly.

"Not when he had the chance," Radagast agreed, pulling up.  "Time for lunch.  I should know better than to let a hobbit skip meals."  He swung down from his horse.  "Don't wander far, Smoky," he said absently, "it's only a short stop."

He  pulled bread and meat out of his sack and passed a share to Frodo.  "We won't bother with a fire.  I think Goldberry sent some buttermilk with us.  Yes, here it is."  He handed a stoppered earthenware jug to the hobbit.  "Eat up, lad; you'll feel better for it."

Frodo ate, staring into the middle distance without interest, his shoulders hunched up.  Radagast ate standing, leaning against a tree, watching the sky.

"Here comes your foster child," he said presently, and Frodo looked up just as Cuina landed on his shoulder. 

"Will you eat beef?' he asked her.  She took a morsel from his fingers but dropped it at once.

"Not to her taste – no more than what I tell you is to yours," said Radagast.  He whistled for Smoky and Strider, and they mounted up and went on. 

They traveled two days, breaking out of the forest into a rocky meadow that glowed with little yellow flowers.  It took another day to cross it, picking their way among the  rocks that lay scattered across the land, half hidden by the tall grass, and they came in late afternoon to a wide stream that flowed slow and lazy across their path, and another forest looming dark on the other side.  They paused to let their mounts drink, then rode through the water.  Once across, Radagast got down and walked, leading his horse along the edge of the stream, looking for tracks in the mud and sniffing the air.

"This will do well enough," he said at last.  "Will you get a fire going, Donkey?  I have a call to make."  He strode away downstream, leaving Smoky to graze the grassy verge between creek and forest.

It only went to show that the Brown Wizard could be as mysterious as the Grey one, Frodo thought with a touch of exasperation.  He started half-heartedly looking for wood, but the westering sun glanced off the stream so the water shone like gold, and when he ventured under the trees the scent of new growth was as heady as wine.  By the time he returned with his third load of deadwood, his irritation had vanished and he was hungry enough to be wondering what would come out of Radagast's sack for their supper.  He set three rocks ready to hold the pan and kindled a fire in the middle.

Something orange flashed past him, scattering his little heap of firewood, and he jumped up.  For a moment he couldn't see what had startled him; then it raced past again, bushy tail straight out behind – a fox!  Strider shied and sidestepped as the little animal shot almost between his legs, and Frodo edged close to the fire – surely the creature had more sense than to run through the flames!  Not that he was afraid of a fox, he thought, but the way this one was dashing about, it could easily bowl him over.

Cuina chose that moment to drop from the sky, but she would not step on his finger when  he reached for her, and clung to his hair, making soft chirps of distress,  while he watched the fox.  It raced down along the stream and back again, circling the horses so they snorted and tossed their heads, and finally it stopped a stone's throw away from Frodo, looking into the hobbit's face with bright eyes, its mouth open as if it were laughing.

"Well, so you have met Rusco*, I see."  Radagast came back along the streambank.  "And he has frightened poor Cuina almost out of her voice, and  still she will not leave you!  Truly, Donkey, the loyalty of your friends is beyond anything I have ever seen."

"No, is that why she won't get on my hand? Poor Cuina!  Can't you make it go away, Radagast?  I hate to have her frightened."

The wizard smiled and went to take his sack from Smoky's back.  "I could, but it would hardly be courteous of me, since I asked him to dine!  Let Cuina sit on your head for the time being -- Rusco won't hurt her.  I have something better for him."  He withdrew a bunch of purple grapes from the sack and the fox trotted up beside him.

"There, Rusco, that's a treat, isn't it?  They won't be ripe here for another two months – the Brown Wizard is a friend worth having, after all!"  He squatted down, holding the cluster of fruit while the fox pulled the grapes off with his teeth and swallowed them.  In a short while Radagast was left holding a skeleton of bare stems, and the fox bumped his head deliberately against the wizard's hand and ran off along the stream.

Frodo realized that he was holding his breath and let it out.  Cuina fluttered down onto his shoulder.  "Is that who you went to call on?" he asked.

Radagast had moved to the fire, setting a pan over it and rummaging in his sack.  "Yes – we'll go visit him in the morning.  Fetch us some water, Donkey, and we'll get supper going.  I'll cook tonight."

When morning came they left the horses grazing by their camp and followed the stream south.  The woods drew closer to the water the farther they went, till the grassy area was only a few feet wide, and then it ended altogether at a giant oak that filled the space next to the stream, blocking their way.

Radagast gave a soft call that sounded like something crying, something that was not human, and he held Frodo's elbow to stop him going forward.  After a moment the fox slunk around the side of the tree, so cautious and furtive that Frodo thought he would not have seen it, in spite of the fiery coat, if he hadn't been expecting it.  They stood gazing at one another in silence for a heartbeat before the fox turned and went back the way he had come, and they followed.

The den was under the roots of the tree, half hidden by a boulder that must have been there when the tree took root hundreds of years before, and the oak had grown over and around the rock.  Another fox waited there, only her head visible inside the dark hole.

"I have brought a friend, Runya*," said the wizard. 

The vixen came forward, slipping out of the den quiet as a shadow, but there was an unevenness in her gait that drew Frodo's eyes to her feet.  Three elegant black feet – but the right rear leg ended in a blunt stub a couple of inches from the ground.  Another of Radagast's patients? 

Runya, the wizard had called her, and the name suited, he had to admit.  Not only her fur was flame red, but her eyes were like dark fire. She met Frodo's stare boldly, unlike most animals, who shied away from human scrutiny.  There was an intensity in her gaze, a wildness – he knelt without thinking and held out his hand.  He couldn't have said what he expected, but certainly not what happened.  The vixen came to him, sniffed once at his hand, and licked the scarred gap of his lost finger.  Then she rose up and placed her paws on his shoulders, balancing on her one rear leg, their eyes inches apart.

After a moment she gave a little "woof" and dropped down, turning back to the den.  She went in and brought out a cub, its fur still the grey wool of babyhood, and set it on the ground by Frodo.  Radagast sat down cross-legged beside him, and one by one the vixen brought out three more cubs, then lay down in the doorway of her den. 

Radagast had picked up the cub nearest him and was running his hands over it as if examining it for soundness.  "Fine, healthy pup," he said and reached for the next one.  Frodo petted them as the wizard set them down, burying his fingers in the wooly fur and picking them up to look into their baby faces and rub his cheek against their softness. As he put them down, they shook their heads and scratched their ears, and without warning one of them jumped on another's back, knocking him over in a heap. 

That seemed to be the signal for a free-for-all, and suddenly all the pups were pushing and shoving at one another, climbing over each other, nipping at each other's ears and feet.  They scrambled over Frodo and Radagast's legs without hesitation, and one burrowed under the wizard's knee to escape from a brother who had a grip on his ear.  Radagast chuckled and dug the cub out from under his robe, and Frodo laughed, taking it from his hands and nuzzling his face in the cub's soft fur.

"You rascal!  Two minutes ago you were chewing on your brother's tail; don't think I didn't see you!"  He set it down, and the cub returned to the fray.  Very soon, however, the vixen rose to her feet and caught one of the cubs by the back of the neck, carrying it back into the den.  One by one she carried them  inside, and after the last, she did not come back out.

"Feeding time," said Radagast.  He made a soft sound in his throat, and it was answered from inside the den.  "Time to go, Donkey."  The male fox trotted beside them till they were in sight of their camp, but then he stopped, and Radagast went to one knee.

"Thank you, Rusco.  I am glad you do so well, you and your family."  He stroked the orange head and the fox permitted it, gazing into his eyes, then suddenly leaped up and bounded away, into the stream and across, to the meadow beyond.

"Hunting.  He has many mouths to feed, that one.  Well, Donkey, how do you like my foxes?"

 "They're wonderful!"  The delight was still on him, Runya's blazing eyes and her friendship, the innocent playfulness of the cubs.  "Was the vixen your patient; is that how you know her?"

"No, she came by that injury before I knew her – chewed herself out of a trap, I suppose.  Rusco was in a trap when I found him, fortunately before he tried to chew himself free.  These lands seem deserted by Men, but from time to time some lonely trapper will winter here.  One of them must have lost track of one of his traps, for it was well into summer when I found Rusco."

"The trappers don't come in summer?" Frodo asked.

"Thicker pelts in cold weather, Donkey.  Rusco was young then; he knows the smell of a trap now, and so does Runya.  If only they can teach their cubs to be wary!"

"Runya is –"  Frodo could not think how to say what he meant.

"She is, isn't she? I wanted you to meet her.  A very knowing animal, and she has a passion to live – "  His voice trailed off, and Frodo stared straight ahead.  A passion which I do not have, he thought rebelliously.  Forgive me, Radagast, that I am not more like a fox! 

They scattered the ashes of their campfire and mounted, ready to leave.  "Back across the stream and turn south," Radagast decided.  "I have a fancy to ride in sunlight this day, not in forest shadows."

They rode all morning without talking.  The ground began to fall away in a series of rounded hills, and the stream became narrower and swifter.  Cuina must have been following them from above, for she dropped onto Frodo's shoulder when they stopped for the noon meal.  He lay back on the ground after they ate, his eyes closed against the brilliant sunlight, letting her strut around on his chest, pecking at his buttons as if she thought they might be good to eat.

"Did you ever hear Gandalf's name for your little gardener?" Radagast asked abruptly. 

"No, I don't believe so.  What was it?" 

"Harthad Uluithiad, he called him.  Hope Unquenchable."

Frodo nodded.  "It's a good name; it suits him well.  Even in Mordor – it was a mercy that Sam still had hope, for certainly I had none."

"It would have suited my little vixen, too – what hope she had, freeing herself from a trap, all alone and at the cost of her foot!  Without hope she would have lain down to die."  He sighed.  "Gandalf had a name for you as well, Donkey."

He paused, and there was a long silence.  "Are you going to tell me?" Frodo said at last.  "Or is it not fit to repeat?"

"It is fit, but are you ready to hear it?  He called you Bronwe Athan Harthad."

Frodo sat up slowly.  "Endurance Beyond Hope," he translated.  "Is that what he thought of me?"

"It is what you brought to the Quest, Frodo.  That, and your capacity for mercy, that would not let you kill Smeagol, or even allow him to be killed by someone else.  Few would have let him go free, knowing he might betray them – and fewer still could have driven themselves through what you suffered in Mordor, when hope was lost.  Your uncle could not have done that, and your little Sam had not your mercy."

But Frodo wasn't listening.  He sat with the lark on his hand, stroking the soft down on her belly with one gentle finger, his eyes full of tears.  Bronwe Athan Harthad: Endurance Beyond Hope.  Oh, Gandalf –

 *Rusco – Fox

*Runya – Red Flame

They did not speak again of Gandalf's names for the hobbits, but Frodo did not forget.  He treasured Sam's title of Hope Unquenchable  – it was so apt, so perfect. He rolled it over his tongue as he rode, and it seemed to bring Sam close to him, clear-eyed and faithful.  Not for the first time, he thanked the Valar for Sam's presence in his life.

But Gandalf's name for himself struck him with wonder every time he thought of it.  Endurance Beyond Hope – no, he thought, I don't deserve such a title – but he knew he did.  All the words of comfort that had been offered to him since the Quest had broken against the stone wall of his self-condemnation, but this touched him to the heart.  He could not deny that he had been hopeless, nor that he had endured. 

Was that enough? he wondered.  The Ring is gone, although it was not my hand that destroyed it.  Was endurance all that was required of me?  Endurance, and mercy? The days slipped away, sunrise and sunset, the slow miles unwinding under his pony's feet, and he pondered the question. 

Radagast had many friends to visit.  There was a hawk he had fostered when he lived at Rhosgobel, and had resettled here in the North when it was grown.  A deer he had rescued from wolves, who brought her twin fawns to him with a mother's pride in her mild eyes.  And – typical of the wizard's impartial care for all creatures – a wolf they found lying by the shore of Lake Evendim, worrying at the stub of an arrow buried in its shoulder.

"There are Men on the eastern shore, rebuilding the ruins of Annuminas," said Radagast.  "I think you ventured too close, my friend."

The wolf growled and stretched out his neck to lap thirstily at the lake water.  The wizard felt around the arrow's broken shaft that protruded from the wound.  "We will have it out, Greyling, but you must be patient.  No biting, mind!"  He drew a packet of herbs and a small pot from his sack, and Frodo went to look for firewood.   

It was a difficult business, and before they finished Frodo was enlisted to hold the wolf's head, for the creature could not restrain itself from nipping  at the arrow as Radagast worked to extract it with the least damage possible.

"If Sam could see me now!" he exclaimed, his hands buried in the wolf's ruff as he struggled to hold it still.

The wizard chuckled.  "He'd tell you to watch your fingers – and so you'd better!  I said no biting, Greyling!"  He tapped the wolf's snout smartly.  "Hold his mouth closed, Donkey.  He is not ill-natured, but it hurts him and his instinct is to bite back."

Frodo got his hands around the animal's snout, looking steadily into eyes that were ice blue, like a winter sky.  They were distant with pain, but as he held on to the wolf with gentle pressure, its eyes cleared and looked back at him pleadingly.  Pity rose in his heart and he bent to kiss the smooth fur of the creature's forehead. 

"Hold on, Greyling, it's nearly over.  Radagast is a good physician."  The wolf seemed to relax a trifle and remained still, staring into Frodo's face.  At last the arrowhead was out – a cruel, barbed thing it was – and Radagast was massaging a pungent salve into the wound.  As soon as Frodo released its head, however, the wolf turned and began to lick itself.

"Won't he lick off your medicine, Radagast?"

Radagast only laughed.  "Some of it, no doubt.  It will be as good for him inside as out, to stop that gash from turning foul, and he won't get it all off – I rubbed it in deep.  Well, as long as we're here, we may as well stay the night.  Make us some tea, will you Donkey, while I clean up?"

So the summer passed away, and flocks of birds began to gather in the trees, wheeling above them in practice flight for the long migration south.  Over breakfast one morning Radagast sat back and looked  Frodo over critically.

"We need to find you some new clothes, I think, Donkey.  You are nearly in rags."

Frodo looked down at himself.  In truth, his shirt was threadbare, and his jacket and trousers  stained and full of small holes, the result of pushing through too many thickets and bramble patches.  It was odd that he hadn't noticed before; he had always been fastidious about his appearance.  Only the Elven cloak was still whole, and it needed a good wash.

"We will stop at a village I know and get what you need," said Radagast. "Then we'll turn south and follow the birds away from ice and snow, before winter takes these lands."

Frodo had no desire to go among people – the wizard's quiet presence was a balm to him, but his spirit was still troubled and he wanted no other company. There was no denying, however, that he needed new clothes.

The village was in a little bowl-shaped depression, a few acres cleared from the encircling forest.  There were a couple of dozen dwellings, small houses with steep, wooden-shake roofs, each one in its patch of garden surrounded by a log fence.

It was quiet, too quiet.  The sun was high in the sky, nearly mid-day, and yet there were no people working in the gardens or, indeed, visible anywhere at all.  Frodo and Radagast picked their way down the steep decline cautiously, expecting any moment that someone would appear to challenge their approach, or shout a greeting, or in some way let them know they had been seen.  But there was no one.

"There's something wrong here, Radagast."

"Wrong, indeed.  Stay here, Donkey.  Or better, take Smoky and see if you can find some water – I think there's a well –"  He waved vaguely toward the other end of the village and dismounted, handing the reins to Frodo, and striding toward the nearest house.  Frodo waited while he ducked into the low doorway, but he did not return and there was no outcry, so he led Smoky away to look for water.

There was a well at the far end of the clearing.  Frodo slid off Strider's back and hauled up the bucket, pouring water into the stone animal trough that stood handy – there was a hitching rail, as well; plainly the village was accustomed to horsemen.  Smoky and Strider came eagerly to drink.

Suddenly there was a high, keening cry, and a small figure burst from a house across the clearing.  Whoever it was paused in front of the house, looking wildly in all directions, and then ran straight at Frodo.

"Help me, you've got to help me!" 

It was a lad of Frodo's own height, but with a young face, a child of ten or eleven summers, Frodo guessed.  He wound the reins hastily round the hitching rail and hurried to meet him.

"It's Mum – my mother.  She's –"  He didn't finish but dragged Frodo bodily across the clearing and into the house.

The inside was dimly lit, but even in the half light Frodo could see signs of trouble – clothes and bedding thrown about the room, dirty bowls and cups on the table and a few on the floor, no fire on the hearth, an upset water pail.  The child gave him no chance to look further, but pulled him to a bed that stood in one corner.  A woman lay there, curled on her side, her face startlingly pale in the shadowy room.  She was dead.

Frodo went down on one knee and took her hand.  It was warm and limp in his – she had just died, then.  The boy grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him violently, shouting.

"Help her!  You're a healer, aren't you?  You came with Radagast; I saw you – you have to save her!"

He turned to catch the child in his arms.  "Shh, shh – it's too late, lad, too late for anyone to save her. I'm sorry." 

"No!"  The boy broke free and threw himself across the woman.  "No!  Mum, answer me!  Mum!"  He listened, but there was no answer, and he collapsed in tears, his face hidden against his mother's neck.  Frodo knelt by the bed, rubbing the lad's back in slow circles, feeling utterly useless.

At last the storm of tears ceased, and the lad lay quiet, still clinging to his mother's body.  Frodo got up and began tidying the room, folding the clothes and laying them on a chair, picking up the dirty crockery and piling it in the basin that stood on a chest against the wall.  There was a rack of firewood by the door, and he got a fire going and looked round for a kettle.

"I'm going for some water," he said, touching the child's arm.  "Will you be all right for a few minutes?"  The tousled head nodded without looking up.

He was almost to the well when Radagast appeared from one of the other houses, walking faster than Frodo had ever seen him move.  "Donkey!  I wondered where you were.  You've been inside?"

"Yes, in there."  He nodded toward the house.  "There's a woman just dead in there, Radagast, and her son. We came too late."

"Too late for her and many others.  I wish you had not gone inside, Donkey.  I would not have had you exposed to this."

The water pail was full.  "Exposed to what, death?  Do not treat me like a child, Radagast!"  He began walking back toward the house, and the wizard fell in beside him.

"Not death, infection.  There is not a house untouched by it – the whole village is taken by pestilence!"

The fearsome word sent a chill through him, and he willed himself not to let the wizard see. "Can you treat it?  Can you save any of them?"

"I will try, but I fear for you, Donkey.  Still, you have spent only a few minutes inside – if I send you away now, you may be safe enough."  They stood at the door of the house, and he caught Frodo's shoulder to stop him going in.

"I thought I was to learn healing.  Isn't that why I ride with you?"

"To learn healing, yes, but not to tempt death, lad!  Even now it may be too late to prevent your catching this illness."

"Then let us think no more about it."  Radagast still gripped his shoulder, and he pushed the wizard's hand away.  "Have you forgot how you found me, Radagast?  I may not slay myself, you say, but must I run if Death comes seeking me?" 

Radagast had not forgotten.  A row of poison mushrooms on a stick, over a too-hot fire – he sighed.  He had hoped the summer in the wild had given a happier turn to Frodo's thoughts.

Frodo's voice softened at the expression on the wizard's face.  "Who will help you care for these people, then?  Here I am, healthy and strong, and willing to learn.  Teach me what to do for them."

He went into the house and filled the kettle.  The boy inside gave a strangled cry and ran to hug him around the waist.

Radagast had spoken truly; there was no house untouched.  They gathered those who were sickest into one house, the better to care for them, and those who were on the mend in another.  These, Radagast decided, were no longer a danger to others, so the women and older children who had not yet been stricken were set to tending them.  The men who were able, were sent out to dig graves.

Radagast himself, and Frodo, took over the care of the sick.  The lad whose mother had died carried water and wood for them, and shadowed Frodo whenever he came outside.  They tried in vain to chase him away, for this house was the focus of infection and most of the villagers would not come near it, but the boy would not leave, although they did not allow him inside.

"'Twas just Mum and me," he said, when they tried to send him back to the other children. "My father is dead, and this was his village – we have no kin here."  And he went back at night to sleep in his own deserted dwelling, but all day he hung about the door of the sick house, ready to run any errand they might send him on.

He begged Frodo to come with him, when his mother was buried, and Frodo was disturbed to see that indeed, he seemed to be alone in the village.  There were others buried at the same time, their families gathered about the graves, but this child stood apart, with none but Frodo at his side.  It seemed that no one would even help with the burial, and after the words had been spoken, the two of them worked alone to fill the grave.  At last one of the men nearby finished the grave he had been working on and came to help them, shoveling fast without looking at the boy, and turning away without a word as soon as the task was done. 

It made no sense, Frodo thought; the father's family must have been kin to the boy, but there was no time to pursue the matter.  They had nearly a dozen patients to care for, most with raging fevers that necessitated frequent sponge baths and sent them off their heads besides, prey to terrifying waking dreams.  One man was particularly violent, flinging Frodo off with such force that the hobbit was thrown across the room, when he tried to bathe his limbs in cool water. Frodo picked himself up and came back to try again, with Radagast to hold the patient down, but the man died that night.

The days grew cooler, and when he stepped out to send the boy for water, Frodo saw that the forest around the village blazed with autumn color.  He shivered as he stood for a few minutes to talk with the child – he was so lonely, this waif who stood alone even in a time of such suffering, when all differences in the village should have been laid aside.

"I have not even asked your name," he said contritely.

"Nano," the boy said.  "And you are Donkey – I heard Radagast say."

Frodo grinned.  "That is his name for me.  Do you know him, then?"

"Of course.  He comes every summer, but he was late this year. Is he kin to you?"

Frodo stared.  "Kin? He is a wizard; I'm a hobbit!  How could we be kin?"

Nano looked surprised.  "You are not a young wizard, then? But he seems fond of you, as if you were family."

Frodo leaned against the wall of the house, laughing helplessly. "A young wizard?  I doubt there is any such thing, but certainly I am not one!"  He pulled himself together; he had lingered out here long enough.  "Go on, Nano, the water, please.  I must get back to work."   

The next morning when Nano appeared, he carried a bundle of clothes.  "You are not dressed warm enough," he told Frodo.  "We're the same size, so you can wear some of my things."  And he would not let Frodo refuse. "I have enough to share!" he insisted, and "You helped me bury my mother," he added softly.  Frodo thanked him and took the clothes.

There were only two patients left in the house, when Frodo woke one morning with burning eyes and a blinding headache.  He staggered to the water bucket to splash cold water on his face, and Radagast took one look at him and steered him back to his bed.

"Lie down, Donkey, and no arguments!  You are my patient now, and I am a stern physician."  Frodo felt no inclination to argue; the room had spun like a hoop rolling downhill when he stood up, and it was a relief to close his eyes again. He felt a damp cloth bathing his face as he fell back into sleep.

When he woke again it was night, and he felt as if he were being baked in an oven.  He struggled to sit up, unbutton his shirt, and then Radagast was there helping him, rubbing him down with cool water and holding a mug for him to drink.  He tried to speak, to say thanks, but he was so weary, too weary to talk. He nodded instead, and the wizard stroked his hair.

"It's all right, Donkey.  Go back to sleep; I'm here."

While he slept, Nano crept into the room.  Radagast sat by the bed dozing, his hand lightly clasping Frodo's wrist, and Nano curled up at the end of the bed and waited.  When Radagast roused an hour later, the child was sound asleep.

"Lad, get up!  What are you doing here?" 

Nano was wide awake on the instant.  "I have come to help you," he said.  "Don't send me away, please don't!"

"You will be ill –"

"No, I already had it; I was one of the first.  Let me help you with Donkey, Radagast!"  His eyes were like coals burning in his face, and the wizard gave in.

"Very well, lad.  Fetch some water, then, and  sponge him down while I make a tisane for him.  His fever is up again."

Frodo woke, and slept. Sometimes it was dark, and the Mountain blazed before him; terrifying cries filled his ears and he cowered, pulling the bed clothes over his head. Other times he woke to dazzling light that blinded him, his skin burning like fire and itching so that he tore at it with his fingernails.  Someone held his wrists and bathed him with cool water.  "Rest, Donkey. Rest.  We're here."

Then he was drifting.  As if he had been in a little boat, and the current was carrying him away, farther and farther downstream.  He looked back and it seemed he saw Radagast standing on the shore, looking sad, and he tried to wave but his arm was heavy, too heavy, so he just smiled his farewell.  And then someone grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, shook him hard, and a voice exploded in his head, "No! No!  Donkey, come back!  Don't die, please don't die!"  There was a sound of violent weeping, and a heavy weight fell across his chest. The water of the river rose about him in a wave that seemed to reach the sky, and he slipped into unconsciousness.

He stood on the riverbank, the boat drawn up beside him, and he had to choose.  Forward, or back?  Sunlight danced on the water and the sound of its rushing away to the Sea was like music.  It was all his desire, to follow that shining river path, his face to the light, and he bent to slide the boat into the water, but something made him hesitate.

There was another path, on land, that stretched back the way he had come, along the riverbank.  It was overhung with branches, dark and gloomy, and he looked at it with distaste.  But someone was calling him, back there, and he stopped to listen.  The voice was faint, hopeless and melancholy as a bird that calls in the night watches, and he felt suddenly that he could not ignore it.  He left the boat and started back along the shadowed path, hating every step.

He tried to open his eyes, but the light was too strong. He raised a hand to cover his face, and a voice said, "Radagast, he's awake!"

"Donkey?  Can you hear me?"  That was Radagast, but who had spoken first?  He shielded his eyes with both hands and squinted into the light. A boy sat beside him, grinning as if all his wishes had just come true. Nano?

"Let go, Nano, before you squeeze him to death and all our labor is for nothing!"  Radagast was laughing, and Frodo took a deep breath as the bone-crunching tightness around his ribs loosened. 

"There, lad, try and open your eyes now; I've closed the shutters."   Frodo peered out between his fingers, but the room was dim and he lowered his hands and looked around.  They were alone in the house, Radagast and Nano and himself, and the room was swept  clean, not the shambles the sick house had been, with a dozen patients on pallets all over the floor.

"I didn't die."  It was a little surprising; he had been sure he was dying.

"No, Donkey, you didn't die. Nano here wouldn't let you go."

Frodo's eyes went to the child sitting on the edge of his bed, face alight with happiness.  He reached out weakly and his hand was caught in a warm grip that seemed likely to break his fingers.

"Thank you, Nano," he whispered.

 The next few days were warm, and Radagast had Frodo sitting outside in the sun on the second day, well wrapped up against any possible chill.

"I want to be gone from here as soon as may be, Donkey. Do get your strength back as quickly as you can." There was a twinkle in his eye and Frodo laughed, but he heard the sober truth behind the jest.

"What worries you, Radagast? That we may be caught by the first snow?"

There were people working in the gardens now, filling baskets with their harvest and carrying them under shelter. The Forest around the village was shedding its leaves; the turn of the season was at hand. On the far side of the clearing a few boys were playing with a hoop, and Nano was just coming back from the well with a filled bucket.

"There is something brewing here, and that lad is at the heart of it. I want him out of here before the storm breaks." Radagast looked troubled. "I do not want to leave you here alone, Donkey, but I must get Nano away. If you cannot travel by week's end, I will have to come back for you after I have got him to safety."

"I'll be able to travel, Radagast. Hobbits heal quickly." He had felt it too, the sense of brooding disquiet among the villagers. He would have understood sorrow – there had been nearly twenty deaths – or even giddy joy, because the sickness had passed and those who still lived had escaped it. But there was neither sorrow nor joy, only this uneasiness that seemed to hang in the air. People came by ones and twos to the house where he and Radagast were staying, bringing food and firewood and a word of thanks for help during the weeks of pestilence, but no one would meet their eyes, and they hastened away as if they were afraid to be seen talking.

The hoop the boys were playing with veered off course, apparently out of control. It spun across the open area and straight into Nano, bumping his arm so he dropped his bucket, spilling the water out on the ground. He turned on the boys in a rage, sending the hoop back at them with a furious push and a string of invective. But before he could pick up the bucket, Radagast was there.

"Come along, lad, back home with you. I'll fetch water later on."

"Home! That is no home of mine – that is Widow Sorra's house!"

"And where is she, then?" Radagast asked. "Are we keeping her from her home?"

"No, she died," Nano said.

"Then she will not begrudge us the use of her house. We will be leaving soon in any event." He steered the child through the doorway, and Frodo gathered up his blankets and followed them inside. The wizard added some sticks to the fire and hung the kettle to boil.

"There's water enough for tea, anyway. Now, lad, isn't it time you told us your story? This was your father's village – how can it be that you have no family here? Surely you have aunts and uncles, cousins maybe –?"

"No! My father had kin here, but they are none of mine." They stared at him in bewilderment, and he added, "They will not claim me. My father broke tradition when he married my mother; he brought her from a distant land, and the village held it no marriage at all. He was the headman, or they would have turned us out."

"Ah. I begin to understand," said Radagast. "I remember your father – a hard man, but he was honorable. And he is dead? So who is headman now?"

"I am," said Nano, and he drew himself up proudly, as if he dared them to contest it.

The wizard nodded. "Of course. It passes from father to son, and you are the only son. What if you were not here, Nano – who would it be then?"

"My father's brother. He pretends that he is headman, but that's a lie! I am my father's heir!"

The water boiled and Radagast made the tea before he asked, "When did your father die, Nano? And how?"

"At midsummer." The child's voice was flat, and Frodo wondered at his lack of emotion, till he noticed that Nano's hands were clenched so tight that his knuckles shone white. " We had been to the Lake, my father and I, where the King's Men are rebuilding the old fortress. We went to seek news of the King; my father rode with Aragorn long ago, when he was only a Ranger. So we went to see, but as soon as we got home he took to his bed. He was the first to die, and then I took sick, but my mother nursed me through it. Then we thought it was over, but a couple of weeks later old Sorra got it – she was the only woman in the village who was ever kind to my mother – and she died, and some others, and my mother –"

"And the village blames your family for bringing the pestilence."

Nano shrugged. "They already hated us. See, our men take their wives from Olorra, off to the west." He pointed. "And their men marry from Beechie – you can take what bride you like, only from the proper village. But my father was traveling with Aragorn, and on the far side of the mountains he met my mother and loved her. So he wed her and brought her back with him, but the village would not accept her as his true wife. They could not stop him from becoming headman, though, when my grandfather died, and they cannot stop me!"

Frodo sipped his tea, observing the lad. A true child of Men – proud as the Old Took and jealous for his prerogatives. But not all Men were like that, he reminded himself. Aragorn had accepted his high destiny, but he had not grasped for the crown as this child was grasping for the headship of a tiny village. And Nano's father had ridden with Aragorn! He wondered if the father had been of like temper to the son.

It was different in the Shire. Pippin would be Thain, when the time came, but he would be glad to get out of it if he could. No sane hobbit desired that burden, to be the guardian and Chief Justice of the Shire. There was some competition to be Mayor, but that dignitary was mainly occupied with opening festivals and attending banquets; it was seldom the Mayor had any heavier duty than naming the Shirriffs and Bounders who patrolled the Shire, and even that was largely a matter of confirming hobbits whose fathers and grandfathers had served in the same capacity.

"How will you govern them, if they hate you so?" he asked quietly.

"Let them hate! I do not care what they think of me, so they do what I say!"

Frodo shook his head. He did not envy anyone who came under this lad's rule.

"How old are you, Nano?" asked Radagast.

"Twelve. Oh, I know you will say I am too young – it is what they all say – but the truth is they do not want me because of my mother!"

"Perhaps, but twelve is very young to be headman, even of a small village. If you had older kinsmen to advise you – but you say you do not."

Nano gave a bitter laugh. "My father's brother advises me! 'Run back to your mother, little boy, and be thankful we do not drive you both naked into the forest to starve!' – that's what he told me! He thinks he can take my inheritance because I am too young – but it is my blood that matters, not my age!"

"Is there anyone who supports your claim?"

"Sorra did –"

"But she is dead. Your mother is dead. Is there anyone now living who will accept your headship?"

The child scowled and did not answer, and Radagast got to his feet with a groan. "I fear it will be blood that decides, indeed," he said. "Your blood, Nano, spilled in the dust. You cannot force your will on a whole village that does not want you, however much you may be in the right."

Someone had brought them bread and a round of cheese wrapped in a damp cloth, and he set them out on the table. "Come and eat. I am too weary to cook tonight; this will do for supper."

"Are you ill, Radagast?" Frodo said in alarm. He had never known the wizard to admit fatigue. Would Radagast catch the sickness now, at the very end, or was he immune to such things? I am not skilled enough to play the healer yet! he thought in panic.

"Just tired, Donkey. Come and eat, you and Nano, while I lie down. I have missed too much sleep, these last weeks, and we must be going soon. Now that you are on the mend, I will sleep while I may."

Nano sliced the bread and they cut off pieces of cheese to eat with it. Neither of them had much appetite. They watched Radagast as he stretched out on the bed and pulled up a blanket. When he began to snore, Nano said, "Where are you going? Where do you live?"

Frodo smiled. "Nowhere – and everywhere. We will follow the birds south, is what he told me."

"Is that all? You really don't know where you're going?" Disbelief mingled with envy in the boy's voice.

Frodo smothered a laugh, not to wake Radagast, and suddenly it seemed the most delightful thing in the world to live everywhere and nowhere, following the wizard into each new day, south or east or wherever he decided to go.

Mordor, said a little whisper in his mind. Will you follow him to Mordor? He shivered, his eyes turning inward for a moment, but his resolve held. Yes, even there, if that is where he leads me. Even to Mordor – but that will not be for a while yet, after all –

He shook himself and turned back to Nano. "Would you like to come along?" he asked. "Your father rode with Aragorn; will you ride with us?"

Nano stared from him to Radagast, plainly taken with the idea. "But I am headman," he said, like one who puts aside a great temptation. "I should not leave –"

"Nano," Frodo began. He was afraid the village would murder this child, if he tried to force his claim to be headman. But to use that argument would only make him more determined – he was a bold lad, not to be put off by fear.

"You are your mother's son also, not only your father's," he said finally. "Would it not be good to try and find her people, Nano, before you take on the headship? If once they accept you, they may not let you go."

He let that sink in while he wrapped up the food and banked their fire for the night.

"Good night, Nano. Think on it. I for one would be glad of your company." He lay down on his own bed and closed his eyes, but Nano sat motionless at the table.

It was good they had talked that night, Frodo thought later, for the storm broke the next day. He was sitting outside again, reading this time, for at his impatience with his enforced idleness Radagast had pulled a book out of his sack and tossed it to him.

"There, Donkey, you've been without books all summer and not complained – you deserve some reward! Let that keep you from boredom while you recover your strength."

It turned out to be an herbal, with beautifully detailed pictures of the plants and a full description of their uses – not Frodo's usual choice of reading material, but he was grateful for any book after being so long without. He was poring over it, trying to decide which simples would have been best to use in the recent pestilence, when a little knot of people approached the house.

"Where is the wizard?" their leader demanded. He was tall and dark, not only in his coloring but also in his facial expression. He glared down at Frodo as if he thought him almost beneath notice, but Frodo remembered him raving in fever and vomiting into a basin, and was not impressed.

"He is within. If you will wait, I will tell him you are here."

He went in, closing the door firmly. Radagast patted his shoulder. "Nicely done, Donkey," he said. "This is your uncle, is it, Nano?"

"My father's brother – he is no kin to me!"

Radagast nodded and stepped outside. They could hear him clearly through the closed door. "Good day to you, friends. How can I serve you?"

"We have come for the child, Nano. It is time he returned to his family."

"Ah. And who may that be?"

"We are his kinsmen."

"Indeed? You were at his side, the day he buried his mother."

There was a confusion of sound from outside the door, and a voice rang out, "That she-wolf! She brought ill-fortune, she brought death – glad the day she left this world!"

Nano sprang for the door with a cry of rage, and Frodo threw himself on the lad to hold him back. They crashed to the floor together.

"Stay, lad, stay!" he whispered. "You knew already that they hated her! Let Radagast deal with them."

Nano went limp, weeping silently in Frodo's arms, and Frodo held him, patting his back and listening.

"We will have him in spite of you, old man," said the voice of Nano's uncle.

"Will you?" Radagast sounded amused. "You desire a contest with me, do you? Who led you out of the shadows, by the way, when you wandered at the edge of death?" Frodo heard a musical whistle, and he laid Nano gently down and rushed to the window. He was in time to see a bird in swift flight away from the house, back to the encircling forest.

Cuina? He had not seen her since they entered the village, and had thought she must have flown South with the wild birds. Had she been waiting for them, back among the trees?
And now – what? Radagast must have known she was there and called her, and sent her now on some errand. But to whom?

"Go home, Hardart," the wizard said outside the door. "You are meddling with something too strong for you. And you others – make him your headman, if that is your will, but do not follow him again to my door!"

"They are not worth my trouble," Nano said furiously.  "I will go with you. Let my father's brother be head, and may the pestilence return and finish them all!"

Frodo had worried in case the lad would refuse to go with him and Radagast, but this savage judgment chilled him.  Truly, Men were a merciless breed,  implacable in their hatred!  He glanced at Radagast, wondering how he would respond to Nano's outburst, but the wizard said nothing. Only the thin line of his lips betrayed his thoughts.

"How will we get away?" Frodo asked at length.  "Won't they try to stop us, maybe even lame the horses?  Where are the horses, anyway?"  He realized suddenly that he had not seen Strider or Smoky since he fell sick.

"They are in the forest – Smoky can fend for himself in the wild, and Strider has the sense to stay with him.  Hardart might be fool enough to try and hold us, but I have sent for a friend to help.  Go back to your book, Donkey; Nano and I will cook supper."

The friend came soon after dark.  There was a scratching at the door and Nano went to open it, but Radagast was before him.  "Stand back, lad, over by the fireplace.  This guest will be for me."

He opened the door a crack, and a black nose pushed in, followed by a shaggy grey body.  Nano gasped, but the wolf did not look at him, only padded across the room to Frodo. 

"Greyling," Frodo murmured.  He stroked the massive head, and felt with his hand along the beast's shoulder.  "All healed, I see, and the hair is growing back."  He kissed the soft fur above the wolf's eyes.  "Well met, Greyling!"

The wolf ignored Nano, standing stiffly as if he'd lost all power of movement, and went to Radagast.  He stared up at the wizard, his eyes seeming to catch sparks from the fire, and Radagast laid a hand on his head.

"You brought them all?  Keep watch for us, my friend.  The second rising of the sun, we will leave – we will need you then."

Greyling licked his hand and slipped away into the night, leaving the door standing open.  In the dark clearing they thought they could see more wolves moving in the dim light cast by the windows of the other houses. 

"We could leave this morning, Radagast.   I am well enough to travel," Frodo said.

The wizard touched a hand to his forehead and peered into his eyes.  "Perhaps, perhaps.  But another day of rest will do you good, Donkey, and me as well.  We will stay within doors and let Greyling patrol the village.  It will be good for them, too, to see that Radagast is not defenseless.  They have grown hard, indeed, that they repay us with threats, who risked our lives caring for them!"

So they rested; in fact, most of the day Frodo slept – he was not as strong yet as he wanted to believe.  Nano woke him once, pulling him to the window to see Radagast out by the well drawing water to fill the animal trough, and a dozen big wolves pushing for their turn to drink.  And even that was not all of them; there were still others pacing in between the houses, watched by pale faces at the windows.

"Would they kill anyone who went out – besides Radagast, I mean?"  Nano spoke in a whisper, as if the wolves might hear him.

"I think they would obey Radagast, and he would not tell them to kill.  But I suspect anyone who went out there, would need a healer before he got away." 

"Except you, Donkey.  That wolf acted like he was your friend."

Frodo grinned.  "Greyling is my friend, I think, but I don't know the others.  I will stay inside until Radagast tells me to go out – and you had better do the same!"

He got himself some bread and cheese, as long as he was up, but before long he went back to lie on his bed, and soon was fast asleep again.

When Radagast woke him, there was only a faint light showing at the windows.  "Come have breakfast, Donkey; we will travel far today.  I wish to put many miles behind us before we stop for the night."

Frodo stretched, pulling on his clothes.  "You don't expect anyone to follow us, surely?  Guarded by great wolves out of the forest?"

"Men will hunt wolves, sometimes," said Radagast.  "I do not like the temper of this village, and if they take Nano's uncle as headman, they may be capable of anything.  We spent ourselves in saving their lives; I would be sorry to have them fall to Greyling and his pack."

"Or have Greyling take another arrow," said Frodo.  He crossed the room to wake Nano.  "Come, lad, up you get, or I'll eat your breakfast and mine as well!"  He stripped the blankets off Nano's bed and chuckled at the boy's owlish expression, blinking and rubbing his eyes. 

"Are we leaving now?"

"At sunrise," said Radagast.  "Is there anything you wish to take from your own house?"

Nano shook his head.  "I took what I wanted the last time I left that house; someone would have stolen it."  He fastened his belt and pulled a hunting knife from the sheath that hung from it.  The blade was fine steel, and the bone handle beautifully shaped.  He held it out so they could see the stag's head engraved on the handle.  "My father's," he said.  "And this was my mother's."  He touched a choker of rough-cut amber around his neck.

Radagast nodded.  "Good – you have your treasures, then.  Let us eat and be on our way."

They stepped outside into a wall of mist, the morning light a strange golden color.  There was neither sign nor sound from any of the houses they passed, but the grey shapes of the wolves were all around them, and Greyling stalked stiff-legged between Frodo and Radagast.  Frodo rested his left hand on the animal's back, caressing the rough fur, but Nano held his right hand in a painful grip.  He could measure the lad's fear by the tingling in his fingers, but no one looking on would have known Nano was afraid.    He held his head high and walked with a firm step at Frodo's side.

At the top of the hill, where the trees began, the mist thinned and drifted away.  Heaps of leaves rustled around their ankles as they followed a narrow path away from the village.  There was a piercing whistle, and a blur of wings dived at Frodo, coming to rest on top of his head.

"Cuina!"  He laughed and reached up his hand, and she settled on his finger.  "Oh, Cuina!"  He held her to his face, rubbing his cheek against the smooth feathers, and she pecked gently at his nose.  "Have you waited all this time for us?  You are a faithful friend, indeed!"

"Did I not tell you, Donkey?" Radagast said.  "And it was not purely for my sake, that Greyling brought his wolves to our aid."

Nano was staring at the bird in wonder.  "Is that your pet?" he asked.

Frodo considered.  "No, not a pet.  She was my first patient, was she not, Radagast?  And now she is my friend."

"She will be your friend as long as she lives.  A pity that Men sometimes lack the gratitude of wild things," said Radagast, and Frodo nodded.

"Will they pursue us, do you think, Nano?"

"Those cowards?" the lad scoffed.  "They will hardly dare to draw water from the well, till sometime tomorrow!  How long will the wolves stay with us?"

"A day or two at most – then they must hunt to stay their hunger," said Radagast.  "But by then we will be mounted and go faster." 

They pushed on through the day, and when they stopped at nightfall, the wizard drew meat for the wolves from his sack along with their own food, laying it on the ground some distance from their camp.  The following day they set off again, walking, but halfway through the morning they came to a little clearing in the woods, the grass well grazed, and there were Smoky and Strider, whinnying a welcome.

There were a few excited yips from the wolves, and Greyling growled.  Horse and pony pushed close to Radagast, watching the wolves warily and stamping their feet.

The wizard went to one knee by Greyling.  "Thank you, friend," he said.  "You have well repaid your debt to us, and we will not forget.  Take your people now and go hunting, and we will follow our own path.  May you eat well and den warm, this winter!" 

The wolf laid his chin for a moment on the wizard's shoulder, then turned and nosed Frodo's hand until the hobbit stroked his head.

"Farewell to you, Greyling, and thank you!" he said.  Greyling backed away and melted into the surrounding forest, and within moments there was not a wolf to be seen anywhere.  Radagast lifted Nano onto Smoky's back, swinging up behind him, and Frodo mounted Strider.

"Now for the Southlands, before the winter catches us!" the wizard cried, digging in his heels so Smoky sprang away.  Frodo laughed aloud and tightened his knees.

"Come on, Strider – show him your heels!"

7.  Ruins  

They ran ahead of winter, picking up the North-South Road twenty or so miles south of the old city of Fornost.  They passed Bree the second night, without a stop, the horses' hooves loud in the quiet.  The town's gates were shut and barred -- even now, it seemed, its citizens had not forgotten the Troubles of a few years previous -- but no watchman challenged them.  The Barrow Downs reared up on the right side of the Road, and Frodo pulled his hood over his head and held his cloak snug around his body, feeling as if something cold and sullen might reach out from those black heights to snatch him away.  But there was only the night, and swift clouds scudding across the moon, and by morning they were past the Downs and riding down the Greenway through a tumble of low, tawny hills, watching the sun rise.

"Time for a rest," said Radagast, and he halted them by a narrow stream, bridged with a few blocks of hewn stone, that ran across the road.  "We have ridden through the night, and now we will sleep the day away."

"Why?" Nano demanded.  "Why did we not stop and sleep in that town?  Are they evil folk, who live there?"

Frodo looked at him in surprise, but it was Radagast who answered.  "Not evil, Nano, only curious."  He led them away from the road, down behind a little rise in the land, where they could lie unseen. "They are good folk, for the most part," he added,  "but they would have many questions, and plenty of counsel to offer, all unasked-for.  It is more comfortable to pass by unnoticed."  Frodo nodded slightly, meeting the wizard's eyes and smiling. 

They traveled by night and slept by day for a week longer, passing the fork in the Road that led to Sarn Ford, across the Brandywine into the Shire.  There were a few isolated farmsteads along that stretch, but the houses were dark, the inhabitants all sleeping.  The dwellings were low, with round windows, and Frodo looked at them longingly.  He had not seen one of his own kind since spring, and who knew when he would have another chance -- but no, it was better not to stop.  He could not return to the Shire.

He was very quiet the next day, but the following morning they came in sight of the marshes of the Hoarwell.  It was the resting-place of many hundreds of wild swans, and the great birds rose out of the water at their approach, their cries of warning echoing to the four points of the compass.  Frodo followed their flight with his eyes, open-mouthed in wonder, and the sun flashed on their white wings and glinted on the water of the marsh, and a thousand thousand dewdrops glittered on the tall grass that divided the marsh into random patterns of green and silver.  His heart lifted and he laughed for the very joy of being alive to see it.  "Look, Nano, look!" he cried.  "Did you ever see anything so glorious?"

The child was nearly falling off his horse in his eagerness to see every part of earth and sky all at once, and Radagast reined in and lifted him down.  Frodo dismounted and took Nano's hand, and together they went to where the marsh began and stood staring, then turned and started walking along the edge of the water, one or the other slipping from time to time and going in up to the knees, and the other helping him up.

They came back half an hour later to find that Radagast had breakfast ready, fried bannock with bacon and hot, strong tea.  He laughed in his turn at the state they were in, mud past the knees and elbows, and not a little of it smeared on their faces as well. 

"You'd better take a turn in the river and get clean before you eat," he said.  "It's shallow enough to bathe, there by the bridge."

Frodo looked where he pointed and saw what he had not noticed before, a river flowing out of the marshes, spanned by an ancient stone bridge.  "Where are we?" he asked, puzzled.

"The bridge, and I suppose some broken ruins on the farther shore, are all that remains of Tharbad," said Radagast.  "It was destroyed by floods, after the terrible winter of 2911."

"2911 -- that's, let me see, 1311 in Shire Reckoning. The Fell Winter, when White Wolves invaded the Shire  -- Bilbo used to tell stories of it; it was a terrible time!"  Frodo shaded his eyes, looking across the river.  "And there was a city here?  I never even heard of it!  A few days travel outside the Bounds, that's all it is, and I've never heard of it.  I knew we were insular in the Shire, but this passes anything!"

"Well, it was a city of Men, you know," said Radagast.  "I don't imagine hobbits would have had much to do with it, and it was abandoned before you were born."

"That's true, but even so --" Frodo shrugged.  "Come on, Nano; we'd better have a wash -- I'm ready for breakfast and some sleep."

The next day he insisted on exploring the ruined city, picking his way through the toppled houses, trying to feel what it would have been like, when it was full of people.  "The bridge is old," he said to Radagast.  "You can see how old it is.  Tharbad must have been here a long time."

"A very long time, Donkey.  When the North Kingdom and Gondor shared the rule of this middle country, Tharbad stood where Road and River meet. It was never a large city, but it was an important crossroads -- the Greyflood runs south from here, to the Sea.  Ships came upriver to Tharbad --"

Nano ran up then, tripping over himself in his excitement.  "Look, Donkey!  See what I found!"  He extended his palm to display a thin disk of corroded metal, and Frodo examined it carefully.

"It's an old coin," he said.  "See, it seems to have had an inscription, Elvish letters I think, around the rim, and,"  he turned it over, "a figure of some sort on the other side."  He squinted, but he couldn't make out what the figure was meant to be, not even if it was male or female.

"You can have it, Donkey," Nano said, but Frodo shook his head. 

"No, you keep it, Nano.  Keep it as a reminder; it was part of someone's treasure once, I suppose, but there's nowhere in Middle Earth you could spend it now."  He bent and picked up a small stone from the ground.  "And I'll keep this.  The city stood through one age of the world and into the next, but it is gone now.  Only stones remain."

"You've taken a bleak lesson from Tharbad, Donkey," said Radagast.  He sounded worried, and Frodo smiled, laying his hand for a moment on the wizard's arm.

"Not really," he said.  "The city is no more, but swans dwell in the marsh even so, and Greyflood runs to the Sea.  The works of Men pass away, but the land remains, and life renews itself.  There is comfort in that, I think." 

They followed the Road until it began to bend to the east, toward the Fords of Isen.  Then they turned west instead, pushing into the unpopulated regions north of the river.  There were scattered copses of second-growth trees on the uplands, but the valleys were thickets of greenbrier and blackberry, leafless now.  Occasionally they found a heap of tumbled stones, remains of an ancient dwelling, to show that people had lived here once..

When they came to a shallow place in the river, they crossed it  and continued south.  "Have you ever seen the Sea?" Radagast asked Nano, and the lad shook his head. 

"Is it like Lake Evendim?" he asked.  "From Annuminas you cannot see the far side of the lake."

The wizard chuckled.  "Well, you cannot see the far side of the Sea either, but there the similarity ends, I think.  I will take you to the utmost tip of Middle Earth, Nano, where the Sea is all around and snow never comes."

For many days they rode straight into the sunset and the land smoothed out before them; they had left the hills behind. They came at last to a place where solid ground dropped away in a tall cliff, and there was the Sea.  It frothed and churned on the rocks far below and spread out in the distance until it faded into sky, and they stood watching as the sky turned to scarlet flame and the water also. The sun was a disk of hot gold that dropped into the water -- Frodo almost expected to hear it hiss -- and there was a flash of green on the horizon.

They did not turn away until the sky was dark enough to show the first star.  They made camp and ate, banked the fire and lay down to sleep, without speaking: Frodo was glad of the silence, as if words would have been sacrilege after such glory.  But in the morning Nano had recovered his usual spirits; he was in a fever to get down the cliff and bathe in that shining water.

"Not today, lad," Radagast told him, laughing.  "We will keep the Sea to our right side for a few days, and the cliff will get lower.  By the time we reach the land's end at Andrast, you will be able to reach the water."

And even as he said, the land dropped day after day as they followed the shoreline west, until they were riding across a pebbly beach and the little waves washed up and wet their horses' hooves.  Nano shouted with glee and struggled to get down.

Frodo reined in and dropped lightly to the ground.  "Wait, lad; hold on a minute!"  He helped Nano down from Radagast's mount, and the wizard rode away from the water to where brush and stunted trees rimmed the beach, Frodo's pony following rider-less behind him.  But Frodo held tight to Nano's hand, for the lad would have run headlong into the Sea.

"Wait, Nano! Do you know how to swim?"

The lad stopped pulling on his arm, looking up in surprise.  "I waded in the Lake, back home.  It's only water, Donkey!"

"Livelier water than you found in your lake, or than I knew in the Brandywine," Frodo said.  "Look at the waves out there, how they build up and crash, and run up on the land.  Water can kill you, Nano, if you don't watch out for it.  Keep a grip on my hand, now, and we won't let the waves knock us down."

The water was warmer than Frodo expected, and he laughed when Nano got a mouthful by accident and shouted incredulously, "It's salty!  Donkey, taste!" 

He tried to teach Nano to swim, but the waves slapped the lad in the face and he couldn't master the knack of holding his breath and putting his head in the water. Finally Nano settled for jumping up as each wave rolled in, letting it carry him back a few yards, but Frodo remembered his boyhood – he had swum like a fish in the old days – and threw himself backward into the waves as they broke, sinking under the water and swimming for shore, feeling the pull of  the undertow but not afraid of it, and bursting out of the water with a shout when the wave receded.  He was no more ready that Nano to get out, when Radagast called them to come and eat, but he caught the lad's hand and pulled him toward the beach.

"Come on, Nano – he cooked the meal; the least we can do is eat it!  The Sea will still be here tomorrow."

And it was, of course.  Frodo woke with the sun in his eyes; it had risen only a little above the trees that rimmed the beach, and Radagast was still asleep, on his back with his mouth open, snoring gustily.  And Nano was – gone?  Frodo started up in alarm. 

"Nano?"  The lad's blanket lay in a tumbled heap, and on top of it, his clothes.  It took Frodo a moment to take in the significance of the little pile of clothes, a moment before he was racing across the beach, his eyes straining to see out over the water.  "Nano!"  The sea breeze caught his shout and wafted it away, futile.

There was a dark speck on the water – no, he'd only imagined it – yes!  There it was again!  He ran into the waves, not stopping to strip, launching his body in a shallow dive as soon as the water was deep enough.

Nano was far out.  It took all Frodo's skill to buck the waves, swimming underwater until he had to breathe, searching for another sight of the lad when he broke the surface.  When his fingers closed at last on Nano's wrist, he thought for a moment the child's terror would drown them both.

"Stop!"  He meant it for a shout, but it came out more of a hiss, fortunately next to Nano's ear. He pinched the underside of the lad's upper arm, hard, wanting it to hurt.  "Feel that, Nano?  I've got you!  Just go limp now, and let me carry you!"

He wrapped his arm around Nano's chest, trying to swim one-handed with his face out of the water.  It was too much; he was weary already, and the tide was running fast.  "Nano! We'll ride the waves, lad – hold your breath till I catch you again!"  A wave lifted them and he threw the child ahead of him as far as he could, then ducked under and swam forward to catch him beneath the arms and lift his head out of the water.  He gulped a breath and shouted in Nano's ear, "Fun?  Here we go again!" as he threw him forward once more.

His eyes stung from the salt; he tried to see how far they were from shore, but it was all a blur.  "Hold on, Nano!" he gasped, and threw him forward.  He hoped desperately that the lad was holding his breath on command; he could not stop to find out.  If he could get him to shore it would be as much as he could do; Nano would have to see to his own breathing.

At last he stumbled and fell, his face in the water.  An instant later his arm was jerked nearly out of its socket and he felt himself scraping over   stones.  "Donkey, get up!  Donkey!"

Frodo raised his head, realization coming slowly that he was lying on the beach, half out of the water, and Nano was beside him, trying to drag him all the way out.

"Frodo! Lad!"  Radagast's voice, and the wizard was lifting him --

"I can walk," he mumbled, wondering if it was true.  "Put me down, Radagast; I can walk."

The wizard steadied him on his feet, and he blinked and pushed his wet hair out of his eyes.  His vision cleared and he saw Nano standing close by, looking frightened even now that the danger was past.

"Couldn't wait for me to wake up this morning?"  he said, forcing a laugh he didn't feel.  "Next time call me and we'll go in together!"

The child threw his arms around Frodo, hiding his face against the hobbit's shoulder.  They were of a height and slightly built, both of them, but Frodo's hair was touched with grey.

"It's all right, lad; you're all right.  But the next river we come to, I'm teaching you to swim, no matter if it's cold or not!"

Nano was afraid of the water after that, and Frodo had to coax him even to go wading, the little waves slapping their rolled-up pants as they searched for shells and bits of curiously-shaped driftwood.  Radagast went up and down the beach and into the thin woodland behind, and what birds or beasts he found and tended to, Frodo never knew.  For now, Nano was his concern, and he left the wildlings to the wizard.

Then one day they found a gull, hopping erratically along the water line, one wing dragging half-open.  They followed her, but could not catch up, and finally Frodo sent Nano to fetch Radagast.  "I'll keep her in sight, so we don't lose her -- go on, lad, she'll come to Radagast, if you can find him."

He sat down after Nano was gone, feeling the gull must be tired and might be glad to rest, if no one was chasing her.  The bird hunkered down against the stones with fluffed-up feathers, a portrait of misery, and Frodo watched her pityingly.  There was a sudden flutter by his ear and something settled on his head, pulling his hair.

"Cuina!"  His voice was louder than he intended, and the gull startled, moving away a few inches before settling down again.  "Cuina," he said softly, "where have you been?  Back there in the trees?"  She hopped on his upraised hand, and he held her to his cheek, closing his eyes.  "You don't like this windy beach, do you?  You're happier in the woods."  She cheeped and nibbled at his eyelashes, and he chuckled.

"Did you come to help me?" he asked.  "Go tell that gull I won't hurt her; you speak her language, don't you?"  He was playing, never thinking the bird might understand.  He sat amazed as she left his finger and flew to the gull, circling her and returning to his head.  She gave his hair a tug and took off again, flying a low circle around the gull before coming back to Frodo, landing this time on his shoulder.  The gull watched her every move.

There was no sign of Radagast, or Nano either.  Frodo scooted forward a few feet without standing up; maybe if he didn't look so tall, the gull would be less afraid.  She didn't move.  Slowly, with Cuina perched on his shoulder, he inched his way toward the wild bird, till he was within arm's reach of her.  He put out his hand and she lurched away; he didn't move, and Cuina walked deliberately down his arm to his out-stretched hand, and back up to his shoulder.

"Come on, Gull," he murmured.  "Come let me help you."  The wild bird moved again, but toward him this time, and he slid his hand under her and slowly, so slowly, he brought her to where he could look closely at her. 

Her heart was hammering wildly; he could feel it against his fingers.  "Don't be afraid," he whispered.  "I won't hurt you -- what's the matter with your wing?"  His fingers felt carefully among the feathers till they touched something hard, something that didn't belong there...

It was a stick, a little twig, caught in her feathers somehow and holding the wing in its unnatural position.  He tried to remove it, but it was stuck tight, and she made a low sound of pain and struggled to escape.  "Wait," he said,  "we'll have to get it out, you know.  Softly, now --"  He opened the wing a little more and with the other hand eased the stick out. There was a drop of blood where it had dug into the bird's skin.  She fluttered to the ground, her wing still held half open.

"Now what is it?" Frodo wondered aloud.  "Why can't you close your wing?"  He lifted her gently again, getting to his feet.  "Radagast will have to see to you, White-wings.  I don't know what else to do for you."  

He walked as smoothly as he could manage on the stony beach, hoping the gull wouldn't take alarm and flutter away from him again, but she seemed content now to ride in his hands, and Cuina rode on his head, giving a little cheep now and then, as if in encouragement.  At last he saw Radagast approaching, Nano  beside him.  The wizard put out a hand to stop the lad from running ahead, and together they came to meet him, Nano staring in awe at the gull in his hands.

"How did you catch it?" the lad demanded as they came up. 

"Shh, don't scare her. Cuina brought her to me.  Radagast, you'll have to take a look at her."

"She only needed to exercise that wing a bit," the wizard said later.  He had opened and closed the wing gently a dozen times or more, murmuring to the gull and delicately massaging the stiffened joints.  Finally he had held her in his open hand and swung his arm in a wide movement, swooping up toward the sky, and the gull had lifted off his hand and flown, flapping her wings frantically for a moment, then, seeming to remember how it was done, catching the air and soaring out over the water.  They had watched in delight as she dipped and rose above the waves, then with a strong downbeat of her wings, flew over their heads and inland away from them.

"You took the stick out, but the wing was stiff, that's all.  You are shaping into a good healer, Donkey."

The praise warmed Frodo's heart even as it embarrassed him.  They had finished supper, and Nano was down the beach skipping stones over the water.  Frodo fumbled for his pipe, something to busy his hands until the awkward moment passed.

"I found something today that reminded me of you, Donkey."

"What's that?" Frodo asked.  He got his pipe lit and looked up.  Radagast was holding something out to him, and he took it.

It was the skeleton of a shell, the outer portion broken away to reveal the intricate spiral of its heart.  Ruined, and yet somehow beautiful, smoothed by the waves to a soft patina, the narrow remains of the outer shell worn to a diamond pattern that reminded Frodo of an old quilt his mother had made, years ago -- creamy white and tan.  He held his pipe stem between his teeth and turned the shell in his hands, marveling.

"Why does it remind you of me?" he asked.

The wizard smiled.  "Broken just enough to show what it's really made of, to reveal the beauty within.  Worn and shaped by suffering, but not destroyed, only made more lovely.  Keep it, Donkey.  It is a precious thing  -- and so are you."

They stayed most of the winter near the Sea, exploring the coastal plain of Andrast and bathing in the warm current that washed around the peninsula.  Some days Radagast himself cast off his brown robe and took to the water; he was a stronger swimmer even than Frodo, and together they were able to cajole Nano into putting his face in the water and paddling a little. When Radagast came in with them, the smaller fish swarmed around them like butterflies around a flowering bush, bumping against them softly under the water.

The coastal plain was narrow, however, and mountains ran down the middle of the peninsula.  Nano would have explored those also; he was a born climber and the heights drew him like a lodestone, but Radagast called him back, when he gravitated to the mountains' feet.  One day the child slipped away and climbed to a ledge some forty feet up, shouting down at them in triumph, and the wizard went up the slope at a speed that seemed unbelievable in one so old, dragging the lad back none too gently.

"You will stay down from there, imp!"

Nano cringed at the wizard's tone, and Frodo looked on in astonishment; he had never seen Radagast angry.  Even when Nano's uncle had threatened them, the wizard had seemed more rueful and amused than anything, so how could the child's innocent mischief so rouse his ire?  But Nano was not easily daunted; a few days later he was gone again and they could not find him.

Radagast paced along the base of the mountain, biting his fingernails, with Frodo trotting at his heels.  "We'll follow him, then," Frodo said reasonably.  "He can't have got far, Radagast.  My little cousins used to run off sometimes, when they were scolded, and I would find them, out in the woods.  Come on, we'll search him out and dunk him in the Sea for disobeying!"  He smiled, but the wizard turned back toward the beach.

"It is not that simple, Donkey.  Help me now -- we need firewood, a lot of it, and quickly!  Pile it on the beach, as much as you can gather."

Frodo stared at him for an instant, then hurried to obey.  Together they built a tower of wood and piled kindling inside.  "Light it," the wizard said tersely, and turned toward the waterline.  He brought back armfuls of seaweed that had been washed up on the shore in long windrows; once the fire was well alight, he draped the damp stuff over the logs.  The fire blazed up higher than Frodo's head, and a column of smoke ascended  into the sky.

"Get more wood," Radagast commanded.  "We must keep it going.  If only someone sees the signal --"  Frodo started back into the woods, wondering who it was the wizard meant to signal.  They had seen no other person since they reached the Sea, months ago.   He was searching for more firewood when he heard a cry and spun around to see Nano being carried past him by the strangest figure he had ever beheld.

"Donkey!  Donkey, help me!"

Frodo ran toward him, loosening his sword in its sheath, but before he had taken more than a few steps, an arm came around him from behind and pinned him.

"Stand, little man," said a voice above him.  "Wild Men take child to Brown One.  Not hurt him."

Frodo stopped struggling.  The arm that held him shifted and a hand gripped the back of his neck, propelling him forward, but the other hand closed on his wrist, holding his sword arm tight against his chest.  Pushed from behind, he came out on the beach and up to the fire.  Radagast stood there with Nano sprawled on the ground at his feet, confronting a short, squat man with fat arms and stumpy legs.  He wore the skin of some animal like a skirt around his waist, but no other garment.

"One more," said Frodo's captor.  "With weapon."  He yanked Sting from its sheath before he thrust Frodo forward to fall on the ground by Nano.

"They are no danger to you," said Radagast. "The child is obstinate but not ill-willed.  The halfling is gentle-hearted, but with courage to defend his friends."

"This is Druwaith Iaur, Brown One."  The Wild Man's voice rumbled deep in his chest. "Small place for Druedain now in world, but these mountains remain to us."

Radagast sighed.  "You are in the right, Dwann-guri.  I should not have brought them here, perhaps; I wanted a winter refuge by the Sea, where no people were.  We would have been no trouble to you, if the lad had stayed out of the mountains."   

Nano had squirmed over to Frodo, pressing against him, and Frodo put an arm around him, patting his back. 

"Child stay out of mountains now."  Dwann-guri's voice was grim. "Come in again, go out never."

Radagast nodded.  "Do you hear that, Nano?  These mountains are the home of the Druedain.  They will not bring you back to us next time."

"I understand."  Nano's voice was muffled against Frodo's shirt, and Frodo sat up, pulling the child with him. 

"Mind your manners, lad," he whispered.  He stood, forcing Nano to stand also.  "Now your promise," he said softly.  "And your apology -- you trespassed where you had no right."

Nano looked up at the Wild Man.  "Forgive me. I will not bother you again."

"Good.  You come once more, we find wife for you; you stay, be Wild Man too."

Frodo bit back a laugh at the expression on Nano's face, but Dwann-guri turned to him next. "You, with weapon.  Whose blood on it?"

Frodo shook his head, bewildered.  "There is no blood on it; the blade is clean."

"Blood has been on it; not now.  Whose blood?"  The Wild Man's eyes bored into him, inexorable, and Frodo lifted his hands helplessly.

"Orcs' blood. And -- Shelob's, I think.  The Spider of Cirith Ungol."  Even the name stuck in his throat, but Dwann-guri smiled.

"Good," he said.  He motioned to his companion, and the other Wild Man handed Sting back to Frodo, hilt first.  "Kill more gorgun when you find them.  Stay out of mountains."

A moment later they were gone, fading silently back into the woods.  Frodo slid his sword back in its sheath and turned to Nano.  "You have given your promise," he said.

"And I'll keep it!  I don't want a wife of that sort!"

Frodo kept a straight face, though he laughed with Radagast later, when Nano was asleep.  "I think he'll keep that promise," he said.

"Oh yes," said Radagast.  "Even without the threat, I think he would have kept it.  He is not a bad child, only willful and untaught.  He may grow up to be a credit to us, if he survives."

"He is quick to run into danger, isn't he?  Would they have killed him, Radagast?  The Wild Men?"

"They do not suffer outsiders to come into their mountains, Donkey.  I doubted there were any Druedain still living here, or I had not brought you to Andrast, but still, it is wiser not to take chances with them."  He puffed on his pipe, thoughtful.  "We must find a home for Nano, you know.  Can you bear to go in settled lands for a while?"

Frodo smiled faintly.  "I am not an invalid.  Where shall we go?"

"To find his mother's people?  She might have come from any one of a score of tribes, from here to the Anduin and northward.  Elessar might remember, but that would mean bringing Nano to Court, and he is not ready for that.  He is wild enough, the Valar know, and daring -- he might do well in Rohan."   

"Best teach him to ride, then.  He needs a pony of his own."

Radagast laughed.  "A horse, lad, not a pony!  He's growing fast; he'll soon be too big for any pony."

A Question of Truth

Nano had given his promise, but Radagast would not put it to the test.  The lad was wild, as he said -- better to have him away from Druwaith Iaur before there was more trouble.  They left two mornings later, following the coastline east.  When their way was blocked by a wide river, they turned until they came to a fordable place, and there they crossed over. 

"This looks almost like home!" Frodo exclaimed. 

They were riding through a region of rolling hills with little villages dotted here and there, anchored by grand old trees.  The drooping strands of weeping willow were turning yellow; soon they would be putting out new leaves.  Now and then they saw a farmer out ploughing his fields, a yoke of oxen ahead and a flock of sparrows following behind, dropping to the ground and flying up again.  Frodo watched, enthralled; it was so like the Shire that his eyes filled, and he turned his head so Radagast would not see. 

The villages themselves were quaint and pretty, but they did not touch his heart.  No earth-built smials here, with round windows -- the houses were white-washed stone with thatch roofs, and they were of a size for Men, not hobbits.  Each village had its inn, however, with good ale and a few bedrooms for travelers; they slept there instead of camping out, and Frodo found it a strange and pleasant sensation to sleep between sheets again, with a pillow instead of his saddlebags tucked under his head.

Nano found playmates every place they stopped; he was eager and friendly, no longer the sullen lad he had been when they first met him.  He had grown, too, over the winter; he was taller than Frodo now, and stretching out of all his clothes.  Radagast made inquiries as they journeyed, for a horse for the lad, and eventually they found themselves in a farmyard examining a beast that was offered to them.

"No more'n three year old, gentle-broke and fit for t'lad," said the farmer.  "Come on then, laddie, up ye go and try 'er out!"  Nano put a foot in the man's clasped hands and swung onto the horse's back.

"Ride her round the yard, lad; let's see how she goes," said Radagast.  Nano was bareback; the wizard had firmly refused the offer of a saddle, but he'd permitted bridle and bit, though he and Frodo rode with no more than rope harnesses.  Frodo worried a little, watching the child, if he would be able to keep his seat.

Nano circled the farmyard sedately, looking happy and at ease on the animal's back.  As he came opposite the gate the second time, he bent and whispered in the horse's ear, then he turned the beast and with a burst of speed, rode straight at the gate.

"Nano!"  Frodo shouted, starting after him, but the horse cleared the gate with a soaring leap and disappeared down the road with Nano still clinging to her back.

Radagast stood shaking his head.  "We'll take her," he said to the farmer, "assuming she brings him back in one piece."  The man grinned.

"Assuming t'lad can hang on, he'll be all right.  Jenny's a sweet goer, she'll never pitch 'im off if he holds on.  Lad rides like 'e were born in the saddle, though; ah think he'll be all right."

Frodo had draped himself over the fence, watching the road; when horse and rider reappeared, he jumped to unfasten the gate and swing it wide.  Nano rode in with the air of a returning hero, eyes shining, and swung himself down to stand beside the horse, stroking her satiny shoulder.

"You never told us you could ride, Nano," Radagast said, smiling down at him.  He held out a gold piece to the farmer.  "Will this do?"

"Aye, that'll do fine, and I'll throw in a suit of clothes for t'lad, besides.  Not new, mind you; me own lad's been out-growing his britches, and so has yours, by the looks of 'im."

So Nano left the farm in fine fettle, on his own horse and dressed in the out-grown clothes of the farmer's son.  They were a good fit, but to Frodo's surprise, shirt and breeches, jacket and hat, were all a deep, woodsy green!  He thought Nano might complain about the color, but the lad was greatly pleased. 

"The boys at the inn told me -- it's the color Hirluin the Fair wore, and all his men, when they rode to battle at Minas Tirith.  This is the Green Hills Country, you see, and they clad themselves all in green to go to war."

"Indeed they did, and they fought bravely against the Dark," said Radagast.  "Well, now that you're mounted and suitably arrayed, Nano, I believe we'll take you to Rohan.  They appreciate good riding there."

The folk of the Green Hills were kindly, but curious; their stares followed the hobbit, although his companions drew little attention.  Once or twice, at an inn, someone questioned Frodo; a few of the men had fought before the gates of Minas Tirith, and they had heard of Halflings.  He learned to keep his maimed hand out of sight; serving maids were inclined to wince at it, but his greater concern was that someone would connect him with "Frodo of the Nine Fingers".   In the Shire, no one had cared to inquire about his deeds while he was gone from home, but this was Gondor, if a far-flung part of it.  Some tale of the Ring might be known here, and he dreaded being recognized.

Radagast sensed his disquiet, perhaps; in any event, they stayed only long enough to furnish Nano with what he needed.  Then they turned north, and with Nano on his own horse, they traveled faster -- the lad would have galloped whenever the terrain allowed, and had to be reminded to set a pace that Frodo's pony could keep up with.  They left the settled lands behind, stopping each day near sunset to find a camping place; Frodo began teaching Nano to cook over the campfire.  They lay down to sleep as soon as it grew dark, and rose with the dawn.

Rolled in a blanket on the ground, his saddlebags for pillow once more, Frodo lay watching the stars.  His companions slept; he would sleep soon himself, but for now he lay enfolded in quiet and peace.  Frogs were croaking somewhere near-by, and a night bird called in the distance.  The stars were bright and close; he tried to count them, then gave it up and closed his eyes.  It was good, here in the wilds with only Nano and the wizard for company. The tangles in his mind began to sort themselves out.

They came at last to the river that marked the western boundary of Rohan.  After they had ridden most of one day along its bank without finding a place shallow enough to ford, Frodo turned Strider's head toward the stream and waded in.  Radagast called to him, but he waved without looking back and kept on.  The current was not swift; when the pony began to swim, Frodo slipped from his back and swam too, till they were both climbing out on the other side.   

Nano had followed him into the water, and came up the bank a few minutes later; he had stayed on his mount all the way across, and the horse had been strong enough to carry him while it swam.  Radagast had taken time to kilt up his robe, and was still in the middle of the river when a group of horsemen cantered up to them.

"Hold, strangers, and give account of yourselves!"  The leader looked intently at Frodo and Nano.  "Two lads?  Nay, you have no child's face.  A holbytla?  And who is that in the water?"  But Radagast was climbing out by then.

"I am Radagast the Brown, of Gandalf's Order," he said.  "Is there trouble in Rohan, Captain, that you patrol the border so closely?"

"No trouble that we will not be quick to settle, Radagast the Brown!  We have not seen you in Rohan before, but I have heard of you.  I thought you dwelt far to the north, between the Mountains and the forest of evil name."

"I did, for years uncounted.  I left Rhosgobel when the Nine were abroad, and since then I have been a wanderer.  I come now seeking your King; I have a lad in my care, who might do well in his service."

The man turned his attention to Nano. "You are the lad, eh?  Let me see you ride!"  

Nano needed no second invitation.  He took off across the plain at full gallop, and the man who had spoken spurred his horse in pursuit.  They rode till they were no more than specks on the horizon before they turned in a wide circle and returned, neck and neck, stopping a few paces away from Radagast.  Nano hauled back on the reins, and his horse reared up, pawing the air; the lad kept his seat, laughing.

"He may do well enough, Wizard.  So, I know who you are, and the lad – what of the holbytla?"  said the leader, and Radagast hesitated.

"I am camp cook," Frodo said, meeting the man's gaze with disarming simplicity.  The patrol leader regarded him doubtfully, and Radagast smiled. 

"A hobbit is a fine companion for travel, Captain, hardy and cheerful, and his people are well known for their way with food.  He has a thirst to see new places -- it is a good bargain for both of us."

"Hmph. There was one of his race rode with Theoden King at the end, but I never heard that he could cook!  He returned to his homeland after the War; perhaps you know him, holbytla?  Holdwine, Knight of the Mark?"

"I have seen him riding past in his mail and helmet, with his silver horn at his belt. He is called Meriadoc the Magnificent in the Shire."

The man nodded.  "He was a great warrior, despite his size.  And you are a cook, you say. What is your name?"

"Donkey!" said Nano, and the Riders laughed.

"My name is Baggins," said Frodo, laughing with the rest.  "Hobbits are not warlike folk, Captain; Meriadoc and Peregrin are exceptions to the rule."

"Indeed?  And what of the other -- hobbit, do you call yourself?  The one the bards sing about, who destroyed the Ring of Doom," the man said.  "Have you ever met him?"

Frodo's smile vanished.  "No.  Him I do not know."

Finally the Riders let them go, apparently satisfied that three such travelers posed no danger to Rohan.  They journeyed another hour before they camped, putting the Rohirrim well behind them, and Nano chattered without cease about the beauty of their horses, their noble faces and long, golden hair.

"I'm going to let my hair grow long like that.  Do you think it will have time to grow, before we meet the King?"  He turned suddenly to Frodo.  "Why did you never tell me your true name, Baggins?  I thought you really were called Donkey!"

Frodo grinned up at the lad on his tall horse.  "As I recall, Nano, you never asked me. You told me you already knew my name -- a lesson for you, not to jump to conclusions."

But that night when Nano was asleep, the wizard took Frodo to task.  "You were not quite honest with the Riders, Donkey." He raised his hand, forestalling Frodo's protest. "Very well, lad, I understand your reasons.  You are a hero to them, a figure out of legend, and you do not want the adulation they would have heaped on you.  But you are not being honest with this child, and that is another matter altogether.  He will learn the truth at some point, and how will you explain your lie?"

"I did not lie!  My name is Frodo Baggins.  Nano has not asked me the story of my life, and if he did, I would not tell him."

"And when he hears it, in your despite?  For he will hear it; the lay of Nine-fingered Frodo is well-known in every land where Gondor holds sway; it is certainly known in Rohan.  Nano will tell his children's children, one day, how he traveled with the Ring-bearer.  Will he say you were a liar?"

Frodo stared into the fire, biting his lip.

"Your Quest is a tale of high courage and endurance, Donkey, and of mercy as well, to challenge a man to like deeds."

"For others it may be that.  For me it was exile and terror and pain, and at the end, defeat.  I am only a little donkey, Radagast, and glad to be rid of my burden."  He stretched out on the ground, burying his face in his arms, and Radagast moved to sit beside him, rubbing his back.

"I know, lad.  But Nano is not a fool; he will hear the tale sooner or later, and put two and two together.  How many nine-fingered halflings are roaming the wide world, do you think?  It will be better, if he hears the truth from you."

Frodo's voice was muffled.  "I am ashamed to tell him the truth."

"You should be more ashamed to let him believe a lie," Radagast said sternly.

Some days passed before Frodo could bring himself to tell Nano, and then it was while they were cooking breakfast.  They were nearing the Fords of Isen, and they had passed several isolated homesteads; plainly they were coming into more populated country.

"Pull the pan away from the fire now and cover it; the eggs will finish cooking while you brew the tea."  Frodo took a deep breath. "Nano, my full name is Frodo Baggins."

The boy shot him a look, then went back to measuring tea leaves into the kettle.  "You are Nine-Fingered Frodo," he said when he finished.  "I thought you were."  Frodo was speechless. 

"Why did you tell the border patrol you did not know the hobbit who destroyed the Ring?  I did not think you would lie!"

"I did not destroy it," Frodo said.  He cleared his throat. "I was there when it went into the Fire; I did not throw it in."

"Then who threw it in?"  Nano asked.

"No one did.  Smeagol – the one who had the Ring for hundreds of years – he took it from me, and then he fell. No, I did not push him!"

Nano was watching Frodo's face as if he weighed the truth of every word.  "So how did you lose your finger?"

"I was wearing the Ring.   I -- I claimed it, for my own. Smeagol bit it off."  Frodo's voice cracked and Radagast laid a hand on his shoulder, but the hobbit shook him off.  "I am not a hero, Nano. Donkey is the right name for me; I carried the Ring to the Mountain, and that is all."

"The song makes you sound like a hero," said Nano. "Why didn't you throw it in, when you got to the Mountain?"

Frodo stared at the ground without speaking, and Radagast answered for him.  "He couldn't, lad. The Ring had a will of its own, and it was too strong for him.  But he was a hero all the same, to get it there."

Nano thought about that, biting at his knuckle.  At last he said, "If you hadn't taken it to the Mountain, they would all have been killed at the Black Gate.  Aragorn would never have become King."  He stepped up to Frodo and put his arms around him.  "You are a hero, Donkey."  He was nearly a head taller than the hobbit now, but it was a child's hug and Frodo returned it, blinking back tears.

11.  The Lord of the Glittering Caves

Once they had passed the Fords of Isen, they kept to the road; it was the shortest route to Edoras, where Radagast hoped to find the King. Frodo quailed inwardly at the thought of Eomer's welcome; he had met the King before, of course, and there could be no thought of hiding his identity. I'm glad I told Nano, he thought. I would hate to have him find out in the banquet hall at Meduseld, when someone stood up to toast the Ring-bearer! He sighed, wishing he could disappear into the wilderness permanently.

There was a sound of heavy tramping behind them, and Frodo turned to look over his shoulder. A little way back was a confusion of bright colors, steel helmets flashing in the sun; without discussion he and his companions left the road and waited on the grassy verge for the travelers to pass them by.

It was a party of Dwarves, twenty or more, marching along the road and singing as they went. They were followed by a string of donkeys, heavily laden. Frodo felt suddenly warmed in spirit; the Dwarves in their cloaks of scarlet and emerald green seemed so stout-hearted and filled with strong joy, as if it had been heady, full-bodied ale. He remembered Gimli, not the grim, militant Gimli of the Quest, but after the War, at Cormallen: his eyes alight with good humor, his voice like a glad, deep gong as he ordered Pippin off to bed.

He thought they were unobserved, off to the side as they were, but suddenly one of the Dwarves broke ranks and came running, hailing them. "Hammer and tongs, it is Frodo Baggins! Now then, small one, what are you doing so far from home? Not Questing again, I hope, on some desperate mission I shall feel compelled to join, for life and honor?"

He lifted Frodo from the pony and hugged him with exaggerated care before he set him on the ground. "I thought it ill-fortune that we took so long upon our road, but I see there is some blessing in it, else I would have missed you! What are you doing here, Frodo?" he asked again.

Frodo laughed and straightened his rumpled clothes. "How if I answer, waiting for you, Gimli son of Gloin? What are you doing here yourself -- I thought you far away in Erebor, fashioning a casket for Galadriel's hair!"

"As to that, it is finished long since, my friend. See here." The Dwarf fumbled at his throat and drew out a narrow chain of hammered gold which had been concealed under his tunic; from the chain hung a gleaming crystal teardrop. He held it up and Frodo took it in his fingers: the crystal caught the light and flashed in his eyes, and it was a moment before he could see the braided golden hairs twined in an intricate knot inside the jewel.

"Her hair is brighter even than the crystal that contains it. You have crafted a masterpiece, Gimli," he said in awe.

"It took me a year," the Dwarf said. "A year to think how to do it justice, and bring it to reality -- but it was a year well-spent. My eyes will not look again on the Lady of the Golden Wood, but some part of her remains in Middle Earth, and is with me."

"You are fortunate among mortals," said Radagast, and Gimli noticed him for the first time.

"Are you this wanderer's companion, sir? I fancy I know who you are, though we have not met until now. The Brown Wizard of Rhosgobel, is it not? You had your dwelling north of the Old Ford, where the Forest Road climbs into the mountains and so to Rivendell; I remember my sire told me of you, when we journeyed thither. You also are far from home."

Radagast smiled. "You are well-informed, son of Gloin. I knew your father aforetimes, before you were born, I guess. I have taken to the road since those days, and it is some years since I saw Rhosgobel." He nodded to where the Dwarf company still stood in the road, awaiting Gimli. "Can you persuade your folk to break their journey for a little, while you visit with Frodo? I can provide some small refreshment, if you will permit --"

Gimli raised bushy eyebrows at him. "Refreshment, is it, for a score of stout fellows? But never ask a Wizard how he performs his wonders! We would be churls to refuse your kindness, so we will not do so. And we may hope to repay your hospitality, if you will come with us another day's journey to the Glittering Caves, for that is where we are bound."

The Dwarves gathered around them in the field next to the road, letting their heavy packs fall to the ground and sitting on them, while the drovers among them staked out their donkeys to feed on the rough grass. Radagast reached into his sack, and soon Nano and Frodo were busy passing around mugs of beer and platters of cold meat, and small, crusty loaves of bread to go with them. The guests fell to with good appetite, and it was some time before the small servers had leisure themselves to sit down and eat.

"Come here, Ring-bearer!" Gimli said at last, setting down his mug and wiping his moustache with his sleeve. "What am I about, letting you run your legs off serving all this crowd, when it is we who should be waiting upon you! Sit now, and Gimli shall see to your needs." He would not be dissuaded, and Frodo, hardly knowing where to look for embarrassment, found himself enthroned on Gimli's pack while the Dwarf piled meat on a loaf for him.

"Quiet, Durin's Sons!" Gimli shouted, and all eyes turned to him. "It is my pleasure to present to you our host, Radagast of Rhosgobel, the Brown Wizard of whom you may have heard, and Frodo Baggins--"

"Gimli, no!" Frodo said in anguished tones, and the Dwarf stopped mid-sentence to stare at him. "I am Radagast's companion, that is all! If you bear any love for me, say no more than that!"

Gimli's face was a study, his eyebrows drawn down nearly to his nose, but he nodded and lifted his voice again. "Frodo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire, who travels with him. Let us hear it, Longbeards -- thanks for this fine luncheon in the wilderness, and a welcome to these generous friends!"

There was a roar of voices shouting thanks and booted feet stamping on the ground. Then the Dwarves rose and shouldered their packs, and the donkeys were rounded up and led back to the road; Nano held open Radagast's sack, and the guests dropped mugs and platters into it as they passed him.

"Will you come with us, Frodo? You were not here during the War, to see these caverns; they are well worth seeing, I promise you! And you are welcome, as well." Gimli bowed to Radagast. "Wherever you are bound, Sir Wizard, you will not be sorry to have seen the Glittering Caves."

"These are the caves you made Legolas promise to return to?" said Frodo. "Assuredly we will come -- won't we, Radagast? A cavern that can tempt an Elf underground to see it, must be worth a visit!"

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The caves, indeed, were all that Gimli had said of them. The Dwarf led them through one narrow passage after another, opening on vaulted rooms where the upper region was lost in darkness until torches were lit all around: then the crystaline walls and ceiling caught the torchlight and threw it back again, till it was like being imprisoned inside a diamond. There were countless chambers of like glory strung like beads along a chain, some that cast a clear light and some glowing in hues of sapphire or ruby. Frodo was dazzled, his heart leaping at the unimaginable beauty of this underground realm; time and again he caught his breath, amazed, as the torches were lit and a new cavern blazed to life around him.

But Nano became more silent, the deeper they penetrated under the mountain. His eyes were round and his mouth half-open; he looked dumb with wonder, running his hands over the shining towers that rose from the stone floor, and tracing with his fingers the veins of gold and gemstone in the rocky walls. After a time Frodo took him by the hand, as the child lagged behind them, but he seemed hardly to notice. At last they turned back, and Gimli ushered them into a workroom, peopled with many Dwarves, each at his own table, bent over his work. Windows had been cut into the ceiling here, and the room was flooded with daylight; these were not metalworkers, but gem-cutters.

"Go ahead, lad, have a look around," Gimli said to Nano. "I'll call you when it's time to go on." Nano drifted away to stand first by one workbench and then by another, silent as a shadow, utterly engrossed in what the craftsmen were doing.

"What are you intending for this lad?" Gimli asked Radagast in a low voice. "You are his guardian, I take it? Do you mean to place him with a master, to learn a trade, or what?"

"I had meant to take him to the King of Rohan. He is high-hearted and rides as one born to it -- he should do well in the King's service. Have you other counsel to offer me, son of Gloin?"

"Look at him." Gimli's glance flicked over Nano, leaning against a table and following every move of the worker with his eyes; unconsciously, the lad's hands were mimicking the movements of the Dwarf whose labor he observed. "He's gem-struck, Bird-Tamer. He may ride like the Horselords of old, but now he's seen the birthplace of jewels, his heart will hunger for a workbench of his own. If you will entrust him to me, I'll find a master for him, who will teach him to cut rubies and emeralds, till they are jewels fit for the brow of a queen. I trow this is the work he was born to."

Radagast nodded thoughtfully, and Frodo went to stand beside Nano, putting a hand on his shoulder. Nano cast him a half-smile, acknowledging his presence, but hardly taking his eyes from the craftsman before them.

"Show him how to make a cut, Dali," said Gimli; he had come behind them unnoticed. The Dwarf workman raised his head for the first time, looking Nano over, his eyes lingering on the lad's hands.

"Come here," he said gruffly. Nano moved to stand beside him, and the Dwarf rummaged in a box on the side of the workbench until he found a rock the size of Frodo's fist. It was dull and rough; nothing to suggest beauty hidden within. He held it out to Nano on the palm of his hand. "Where would you make your first cut?" he asked.

Nano took it, turning it this way and that, feeling it as if there were eyes in his fingertips. "Here," he said at last.

The craftsman gave the ghost of a smile; he held out a small, sharp tool and a wooden mallet. Nano took them and braced the rock against the bench, striking it sharply. "Not like that, lad, or you'll be missing a finger!" The Dwarf put his own hands around Nano's, guiding them. Together they struck twice, thrice, and the rock began to split; another sharp blow and a large chip fell away.

"Look at it now," said the craftsman, and Nano examined the facet he had exposed, running his finger over it, then touching the smooth surface with his tongue and polishing it with his finger. He looked up at his mentor with shining eyes.

"It's red!" he exclaimed, and they smiled at one another with perfect understanding, the master gem-cutter and the gem-struck lad.

Radagast spoke in Gimli's ear. "I will leave him with you, son of Gloin. Indeed, I am not certain I could drag him away!"

Nano was ecstatic next day when they asked if he wished to stay at the Caves and learn gem-cutting.  "I can see the King later on – Dali is making a necklace for the Queen, and when it's finished he'll deliver it to Edoras himself.  He already told me, if I were here I could go with him.  Will he be my teacher?"

"I see he has taken a liking to you," said Gimli.  "Dali is one of the best; if he consents to be your master, you are fortunate indeed!  But you will have to obey him absolutely, lad.  We are building a new colony here in the Glittering Caves: there is work for every pair of hands, and no time for foolishness.  Radagast tells me you are somewhat wild."  He glowered down at Nano, and there was no mistaking his meaning.

"I will not be wild!"  Nano's voice was eager.  "I will do whatever Dali tells me, if he will only teach me.  I promise, Lord Gimli!"

Gimli's lips twitched.  "That title sounds well, but I have not earned it yet.  Wait fifty years, till we have made these caverns the wonder they are going to be!  For now, see you do as you are bid, and I will ask Dali to take you as apprentice."

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"Thank you, Gimli."   Frodo set down his mug, covering it with his hand to prevent the Dwarf from filling it again.  "I've had enough; you make a heady brew here in the Caves -- any more and you will have to roll me to my bed!  Thank you for giving Nano a home and a future."  He grinned.  "The lad barely has time to speak to me when I meet him in a passage, he is so caught up in his work with Dali.  I hope he will do well for you."

"He'll do well, I have no doubt of it.  I'll be watching him; if he seems restless, I'll send him riding off on some errand, and in any event, he will have to exercise that horse of his every day.  That should use up the high spirits, I think, when he grows weary of standing by his workbench.  Nano does not worry me."  Gimli stared broodingly at Frodo, and the hobbit's heart sank.

"You have not told me, Frodo, what you do so far from home."

Frodo's hand sought the jewel at his throat, playing with it as he considered how to answer.  Gimli reached out to cup the glittering star in his hand, and leaned over to examine it.  "Elven make, this is.  Where did you get it?"

"Arwen gave it to me.  She said it would be a comfort…"  Frodo wished he had kept the jewel inside his shirt; he disliked having anyone touch it, even a friend.  He forced himself not to draw back.

Gimli held the jewel up to catch the light.  "Will you take it off a moment, let me have a closer look?  No?"  His gaze sharpened on Frodo, but then he smiled, letting the Elven star drop from his hand.  Frodo quickly tucked it out of sight.

"Well, I do not blame you.  You and I both know what became of the Silmaril, in Thingol's treasury."*  Frodo's eyes widened in horror; he opened his mouth to protest, but Gimli waved him to silence.  "No, it is a lovely thing, but not so precious as that was – and I am no thief.  But I think, Frodo, that you are not as well as you pretend to be."

Frodo looked down.  "I am well enough.  I am much better than I was when I met Radagast, a year ago.  I was hardly sick at all this spring."

Gimli refilled his tankard and took a long drink.  "Were you expecting to be ill?" he asked.

"Well, I had been, every spring and every autumn, ever since the Quest.  Last spring was the worst, and then I met Radagast and followed him.  I am better now, Gimli, if not as well as I pretend to be!"  His smile was rueful.

"Hmph.  Well, that is good news, at any rate.  So where do you and the wizard go from here?  Although you are welcome to stay, Frodo, as long as you desire; all your life, if that would please you."

"Thank you," Frodo said, reaching out to grasp the Dwarf's hand.  "You are a staunch friend, Gimli, and truly, I did not fear that you would steal my trinket!  I cling to it; Arwen was right, it does comfort me.  But it is not enough, and Radagast is a good physician.  If there is any hope of healing for me, real healing, I am sure it lies with him.  I will follow wherever he takes me."

They stayed a month, as it fell out.  Time enough for Nano to be well-settled in his new home, time for new clothes to be sewn for Frodo in hidden workrooms deep inside the Caves. 

"You look a ragamuffin, my Hobbit," Gimli told him.  "Some of my comrades have wives here; they are deft seamstresses, and they shall make garments for you to withstand your travels in rough country.  It is not fitting that the Ring-bearer goes about looking like a beggar."

Frodo made a face.  "I am only Frodo Baggins, Gimli; I carry the Ring no more!  But if your goodwives will make a suit of clothes for me, I'll receive the gift gladly."

He never saw the seamstresses, but the clothes were brought to him a few weeks later, a good fit and the most comfortable he had ever worn.  His Elven cloak, too, was returned to him clean and fresh as the day he had received it in Lothlorien.

"Ready to go on?" Radagast asked him a few mornings after.  "Summer is coming in, and we have errands to the North."

"In these garments, I feel ready for anything!" Frodo said.  "I think they must have put a measure of daring and love of adventure in their stitches, Radagast; I am ready to go out and fight dragons!"

The wizard gave a shout of laughter.  "Now I believe you're Bilbo's cousin!  Very well, my bold one, let us go adventuring!"

Nano shed a few tears at their departure, and Frodo held him close.  "Be good, laddie, and give Dali cause to be proud of his apprentice."

"I will.  I'll make you proud of me, Donkey!"  Nano's hug was fierce, and Frodo held him off, tipped the lad's head down so he could kiss his forehead. 

"I am already proud of you.  Perhaps I will see Queen Arwen again one day, and I shall look, mind you, to see if she wears a gem of your cutting!"

Nano giggled through his tears.  "How would you know if it was mine?"

"Why, I'll ask her, of course!  You will be a famous gem-smith, and queens will be proud to wear jewels of your making!"  So he left Nano grinning and looking to a bright future, but he and Radagast left the Caves and rode into the East, where the sun was just climbing above the trees.

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*Thingol called for Dwarves of the Blue Mountains to set the Silmaril in the necklace Nauglamir, but the Dwarves were enamored by their own work; they slew Thingol in his own Treasury.

from The Encyclopedia of Arda

12. Rhosgobel

They did not go back to the Shire this spring. "Won't your bird with one leg be waiting for you?" Frodo asked, but Radagast shook his head.

"She will not be there this year, Donkey.  They do not live so long, the little songbirds."

"She is dead?" Frodo asked, stricken.  He touched his shoulder, where Cuina perched, and she nipped at his thumb.  "How do you know, Radagast?"  The wizard shrugged and did not reply.  Frodo ran one finger down the soft feathers of Cuina's breast; she was only a year old, but still--

"Cuina should find a mate," he said, and Radagast nodded. 

"Are you ready to let her go, if she does?"  

"Of course!"  Frodo was indignant.  "Did you think I would keep her captive, because I saved her life?"  He would miss the bird, if she left him, but the wizard had reminded him that her lifespan was far less than his own.  He wanted her to have a full life, whatever that meant for a bird...

They were riding through second-growth forest, the trees young and close together, and after supper he wandered away from camp by himself.  When he was out of sight, he whistled and Cuina dropped to his head.  He took her on his hand and held her up to his face.  "You must find a mate,' he told her.  He kissed the top of her head gently.  "Go, now.  Raise a family, Cuina.  Perhaps you will find us again, when we go south in the fall."  The bird stretched forward to nibble at his nose, then she sprang into the air, mounting quickly to the sky, her song trailing behind her.

The next day she came one time to him, riding on his shoulder for half a mile.  Then she flew away and did not return.

On Mid-summer's Day they crested a grassy hill to find a dark forest standing out from the horizon like a wall of black.  Frodo swallowed nervously. He liked woodland in general, but this place filled him with dread; it reminded him of the Old Forest, on the borders of Buckland, full of secret malice .

"Mirkwood," said Radagast.  "It is better than it was, but not good.  We will go around it." 

They turned away from the forest, but for days it seemed to follow ominously at their right hand.  Frodo kept looking over his shoulder, ashamed of his fear but unable to banish it.

It was worse at night. In the dark he could not see the trees, only the way the starry sky was cut off sharply by the black treeline.  He turned his back on it, but then he could feel it behind him.  Finally he sat so he faced the forest, but with the fire between him and it; he lit his pipe and smoked defiantly, staring at the blackness, daring it to frighten him.

He slept fitfully, with Mirkwood haunting his dreams, but the fourth night he thought his nightmares had come to waking life.  Something moved at the edge of his sight, and he leaped up and whirled to confront it, dragging Sting from its sheath.  The wizard was bent over his sack, putting away the cooking pots, and a Shadow loomed over him, monstrous, inhuman.

"Radagast!"  Frodo flung himself at the thing, clutching his sword in both hands.  He would kill it or be slain in the attempt; it would not fall upon the wizard without warning!   Radagast spun around at Frodo's cry, gave a shout of his own and threw himself upon the hobbit, bringing him to the ground, sending the sword spinning away into the darkness.

"Stay, lad!"  he gasped.  Frodo lay stunned beneath him, and Radagast sat up, drawing the hobbit onto his lap, feeling him for broken bones, murmuring comfort.  "Hush, it's all right.  You are a brave defender, but there is no danger.  Easy, lad."

Frodo shut his eyes and breathed deep.  When he opened them, when he could see clearly, the Shadow had become a shaggy creature sitting placidly by the fire, still enormous, but not the monster it had seemed. 

"A bear," he muttered, looking up at Radagast.  "Another of your patients?"

Radagast chuckled.  "At the moment he's a bear.  Not a patient, but a friend.  This is Grimbeorn, Master of the Vales of Anduin.  You've heard of skin-changers?"

"Skin-changers?  Bilbo met one on his journey: Beorn the Bee-tamer."

"This is his son," Radagast said. His attention moved to the figure by the fire.  "Forgive him, Grimbeorn.  You took us by surprise."  He went back to his sack, withdrawing a honeycomb the size of his two hands, and carrying it to the bear.  "You are most welcome at our fire."  Grimbeorn took the honeycomb and devoured it in one bite.

"Go to sleep, Donkey. You need have no fear, with both of us to guard you."  Frodo nodded dumbly and went to roll up in his blanket, and indeed, he had no dreams that night.

When he woke at dawn, Radagast was already cooking breakfast, and a man was pacing around the fire talking.  He was tall and broad, with a full beard and shoulder-length grey hair, frizzy and wild.

"Most of the goblins have gone into the North; there are only a few dens of them left in these parts.  My son took his family back into the Mountains a year ago, but I am used to the Carrock, even if I had not promised you to watch over these lands."

"My thanks to you for that," said Radagast.  "I will not be staying long; for the summer only, probably.  I would be grateful if you would continue your watch." 

"I will do that.  Get up, small one; I see your eyes are open!  You will not come at me now with drawn sword?"  Frodo started and got slowly to his feet; the gaze that suddenly met his own was full of lively intelligence.

"I beg you to forgive my rashness," he said with grave formality.  "I did not know you for a friend, and I feared a threat to Radagast."

Grimbeorn gave a laugh that shook his enormous shoulders.  "You know the wizard only a little, if you fear any harm to him," he said when his mirth abated, but Frodo stood straight and unsmiling.

"I saw Gandalf fall in Moria," he said.  "Even a wizard is not above all danger."

Radagast  looked up from his cooking.  "Don't tell me  you blame yourself for that as well, Donkey!  Do you imagine you could have saved Gandalf from a balrog?"

Frodo flushed. "I might have caught his wrist, stopped him from falling, if I had been quick enough, if I had not stood rooted to the ground while he struggled to hold on!"

Radagast came to where Frodo stood, going down on one knee to look into his face.  "Brave heart in a small body, is my Donkey.  I do not doubt you would have tried to hold him, but you have not the strength, you know; you would have been dragged with him into the abyss. Do not be afraid on my account, Frodo.  The balrog is gone, and I do not think there will be any need for you to defend me, though I thank you for your willingness to do so."  He shook Frodo's shoulder gently.

Grimbeorn was looking the hobbit up and down with an amused expression.  "My father told me of a little fellow like you who traveled with a passel of Dwarves; hardly bigger than a mouse, he said, but he backed down for nothing.  Was he a relation of yours?"

"My uncle Bilbo," Frodo said. "He told tales of Beorn, and his bees four times as big as any normal bee.  Do you still keep them?" 

"Indeed I do!  There is no finer food than their honey; I will bring you some this summer, perhaps.  Radagast, are you going into Mirkwood?"

"Not unless there is need.  Is the Road safe for travelers?"

"Safe enough; there seems traffic enough on it, Elves mainly, now and then a party of Dwarves from the Blue Mountains.  They stay on the Road; I would not call Mirkwood safe, away from it."

Radagast grimaced.  "It will be long before the depths of Mirkwood are safe, if they ever are.  Well, I have no business there; if there is passage through for those who desire it, I will not go in."

"Are the spiders still there?" Frodo asked.

"The spiders, and other things just as bad," Grimbeorn said.  "Not all the evil creatures were driven out when the Enemy fell, though they are less bold than they were."

"You will keep watch, and send me word if there is need," said Radagast, and Grimbeorn nodded.  He traveled with them that day, loping along next to their horses with no sign of weariness.  He ate with them that evening and was sitting by the fire when Frodo went to sleep.  Sometime during the night the hobbit was wakened by a snuffling grunt, and something furry brushed against him.  He looked up into beastly eyes that held more than animal understanding, and then the creature moved away into the darkness.  He lay awake for a time, but the bear did not return, and finally he fell asleep again.

A day later they crossed the Old Road, and that afternoon they came to a place where the ground dipped into a mossy dell shaded by grand old trees. They were still close to Mirkwood, but there was a wholesome atmosphere to this little grove that cheered Frodo; the air was scented with some spicy herb that they trod underfoot, and he breathed it in delightedly. 

"Rhosgobel," said the wizard.  He pointed, and then Frodo noticed the house: it encircled the largest of the trees, a sprawling place of stone and wood, crowded about with tall ferns and half-covered with flowering vines.

"Is this your home?  It seems as if it must have grown right out of the ground, Radagast!" He smiled, looking at the wizard from the corner of his eye.  "Did you plant magic seeds around that tree and wait for your house to grow?"

Radagast chuckled.  "I wonder what you would say, Donkey, if I told you yes?  Would you believe me?  But no, I built it with my own hands, little by little. I came here the year Amon Sul was thrown down; it was an evil time, and it comforted me to build when others were destroying."

Frodo stared at him dumbfounded, and Radagast grinned. "Yes, Frodo, I am that old!  Come, you knew I was of Gandalf's Order; how old did you think he was?"  He swung down from his horse and slipped the rope halter off Smoky's head.  "Let your pony roam free while we're here, lad.  Smoky will look after him."  Frodo obeyed, his mind whirling with questions he did not quite dare ask, and followed the wizard through an arched doorway into the house.
 
It was hardly dimmer inside than it had been under the trees.  The wall opposite the door was a line of windows nearly to the stone floor, inviting the outside in. Radagast led the hobbit through a series of rooms till they came to one where the great tree grew up through the middle of the house, making a circular core to the room.  The other walls were curved as well, paneled in dark wood except for one section which was another row of windows opening out on the woodsy grove.

Frodo looked out and saw hundreds of birds, large and small, some drab and some as bright-colored as flowers.  They were flying about, perching on trees and bushes, and a few were even flying at the windows and pecking at the glass.

Radagast laughed and clapped his hands. "Forgive me, Donkey; I must greet my neighbors!  I will find something for us to eat when I return."  He went out, and a moment later Frodo saw him outside the windows, the birds alighting on his arms and shoulders, flying around his head, gathering on the ground about his feet.  He revolved slowly in place, smiling and nodding, his lips moving as if he were talking to them. More and more birds flitted into the grove; it was green and dim, but radiance seemed to emanate from the wizard himself, and the birds were a many-colored whirlwind fluttering about him. 

Frodo stood transfixed at the window. He had journeyed far with Radagast, had grown familiar and comfortable with him, but here at Rhosgobel the wizard was revealed in another light, mysterious and compelling, as if he had stepped out of some otherwhere beyond mortal comprehension.

Dusk fell and the cloud of birds began to thin; soon there were only a few sitting on the wizard's arms and shoulders, and then these, too, flew away; the radiance faded.  Radagast came back inside, and Frodo stared at him in silence.

"Still in the dark, Donkey?  Wait till I light a lantern." 

There was nothing different in his voice or manner, but Frodo was not deceived.  Gandalf had been impressive, even a little frightening at times, for all his kindness and his evident affection for hobbits.  But Radagast – he had said himself that Gandalf was greater than he was, and Frodo had accepted him at his own valuation.  Radagast was funny and playful, sometimes even a trifle ridiculous, but Frodo's eyes were opened now.  The power of the Brown Wizard was of a different kind, perhaps, from what had resided in Gandalf or Saruman, but it was no less; he was of the same Order, indeed!

Rhosgobel was a labyrinth of many rooms, opening one from another without benefit of passages or doors.  Stone-flagged or floored with narrow boards, many of the rooms lined with bookshelves – Frodo had never seen so many books; the well-stocked library at Bag End shrank to nothing by comparison.  Doors to the outside opened from nearly every chamber, and there were windows everywhere, walls of windows that seemed to draw the forest right inside the house.  Besides this there were dozens of  little round and diamond-shaped portholes of colored or crazed glass, that afforded no view but threw wandering jewels of light around the rooms.  Even in some of the ceilings these small windows were set; there was one in Frodo's bedchamber that cast a halo of light on the floor next to his bed, when he woke of a morning.

And he woke gladly.  For a day or two he had been a bit shy around the wizard, but Radagast was the same as he had ever been; there were no more hints of something beyond everyday reality, and soon Frodo put what he had seen out of his mind.

Almost at once he fell in love with the meandering old house: cheerfulness seemed to reside in its very walls; the green light filtering through the trees soothed him, and the rows of books drew him irresistibly.  And always in the background there were birds, flashing past the windows and caroling in the trees.  Some tightness in him began to loosen.

"I have a number of things to see to, before we leave here," Radagast told him soon after they arrived. "I shall be busy, I'm afraid.  Can you amuse yourself?  There is nothing here you may not treat as your own, and no creature that will harm you.  Do not be alarmed if I am gone for a few days now and then."

Frodo sat smoking in a deep, cushioned chair fashioned of bent twigs; he ran his eyes along the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace.  "I'll be content exploring your library, Radagast," he said with a grin.  "It's the only thing I've missed, this past year: a book in my hands."   

He spent a quiet summer, for the wizard was gone more than he was at home.  Frodo sat up late and slept till the sun was high, raiding the larder when he got hungry, exploring outside (but not into Mirkwood) when he tired of reading. 

The books spanned every subject he could think of, from poetry to medicine, in a myriad of languages.  He even found a small volume that seemed to be written in the Black Speech of Mordor; he could not read it, but when he sounded out the Elven letters, the result was horribly similar to the inscription on the Ring.  He gasped and returned the book to its place, then went and washed his hands.  Fool, he berated himself, whatever is written there cannot penetrate your skin!  But he dug into the crock of soft soap and scrubbed his hands until they were raw.

Radagast returned a day later, and hesitantly Frodo asked him about the book.  "Show me," he said, and Frodo got it down, handling it with the tips of his fingers only.  But the wizard took it in both hands as if he caressed it, and his face was sad.

"It troubles you, because it is in the Black Speech," he said, and Frodo nodded.  Radagast opened it and read a passage aloud; the sound was harsh and full of grief.

"Deep, deep I lie, and pain my only friend, by which I know I live.  And only darkness covers me, pity of darkness, that I shall not see, what I've become.  And one dim star remind me, what I was," the wizard translated softly.  "It is a lament, written long ago by one of the Firstborn who was captured by Morgoth.  The Black Speech was the only tongue left to him, but he would not be silent.  He is gone now to the Halls of Mandos, and out of all his suffering."

Frodo gazed at him in astonishment. "How did you come by it, Radagast?"

"He was a friend," said the wizard. He put the book back on the shelf and would say no more about it.  "Don't be afraid of anything in this house, Donkey," he said again. "There is nothing here to harm you."

By the time the summer ended, Frodo felt as if his feet had grown roots into the floors of Rhosgobel.  It no longer surprised him that Radagast had remained here year after year, as the centuries slipped by; the wonder was that the wizard had ever left at all!  I would stay here gladly, he thought, to the end of my days. Soon afterward Radagast came back again.

"I have an errand upriver tomorrow, and I am taking my boat," he said.  "Would you like to come along?"

The boat turned out to be a long, narrow craft barely wide enough for a single person, but long enough for Frodo to lie full length, trailing his hands over the sides in the water and watching the changing shapes of the clouds, while  Radagast paddled.

"How would you like to spend the winter in the northland this year?" Radagast asked.

Frodo sat up in surprise. "Here, at Rhosgobel?" His voice betrayed his delight, and the wizard smiled.

"I have been a long while from home, and my work in Mordor will keep me away for years.  I would be glad to stay here for a time, if you have no objection to the idea."

Frodo laughed.  "No objection in the world!"

Rhosgobel in winter was white and gold. The snow piled up against the walls until the house looked like a giant snowdrift around the tree, except for the windows:  they kept the windows shoveled clear, and the sun struck down through the naked branches and filled the house with clear light. The small portholes of colored glass glowed like fiery jewels and threw rainbows around the rooms; fire blazed on the hearth, and they read Elvish poetry to each other until it rang in their ears. When they tired of that, Frodo told Radagast stories of the Shire, all the small and funny doings of the Four Farthings, and Radagast brought a tall harp out of a corner and played until it was time for sleep. Frodo thought  that was the best of all.

All too soon it was spring; the snow was melting and small flowers were blooming in the grove. One day Radagast sighed and said, "It is time to be going, Donkey.  There is work for me to do out there."

Frodo had been copying an old map on a piece of parchment; Rhosgobel had hundreds of maps, and he had come to like them as much as Bilbo himself; finally he had determined to make one for his own, and mark all the places he had been.  He looked up, pen in hand. "Where are we going this year?"

Radagast got up to fetch his pipe from the mantel; he sat filling it and tamping it down, his eyes on the fire.  Finally he took a coal from the hearth with a pair of tongs and lit the pipe. Only then did he look at Frodo.

"You may stay here, Donkey, if that is your wish. Indeed, that is why I brought you to Rhosgobel, to give you a home if you do not choose to go farther with me.  I am going to Mordor."

The pen slipped from Frodo's hand, a splash of ink falling on his careful lettering, spoiling his work. "Now?  This spring?" he whispered.

"I had hoped to wait longer, another year or two. But Mordor grows on my mind; I am needed there and I must not tarry longer."  Radagast smiled down at the hobbit, his face tender.  "You are nearly healed, Frodo. You can finish your recovery here in this house, all on your own, and then go wherever your heart desires. Or you may stay and make this your home; you have learned enough to tend the hurts of the wild creatures when they come here for aid.  Would you like to be the new Bird-tamer of Rhosgobel?" 

"I –"  Frodo stared across the table at Radagast. "I had rather be the Wizard's Donkey," he said at last. "How long before I have to decide?"

Radagast considered. “Spring is here, and I will not take a horse into Mordor.  I will take my boat as far down Anduin as I may, but much of the journey will have to be afoot."  He smoked thoughtfully. "I can give you a week to think about it, Donkey. Then I must go." 

They said no more, and Frodo went back to his map, but he was too disturbed to concentrate on it. He rolled it up and went outside. A squirrel he had been taming chittered from a high branch, and he held out a nut; he had gotten in the habit of keeping a few small treats in his pockets for their ”neighbors”. The squirrel raced down the tree-trunk and ran up his leg; it sat on his shoulder while it ate the nut, its fluffy tail tickling his ear.

I could do it, he mused. I could be the new Bird-tamer; I could stay here all the rest of my life and be happy. Happy? said another part of his mind, and he answered firmly, Yes, I am happy. I do not have to go to Mordor.

But then Radagast would go alone. Could even the wizard want to go to Mordor?  What if I had had to go alone?  He shuddered. I would have died, without Sam, but even if I hadn't --

To be alone in Mordor didn't bear thinking about.

In truth, his decision was made at that moment, but he waited out the full week to be sure. He lay in bed at night deliberately passing scenes of Mordor before his mind's eye. He had shied away from the thought of that cursed land ever since he awoke in Ithilien to find himself, unbelievably, alive; now he invited the memories in. Can you endure Mordor again, Frodo Baggins?  Even with Radagast for companion, can you  bear to go back there? But if you do not, Radagast will go alone.

At week's end Frodo came to breakfast carrying his traveling pack. He filled a leather pouch with pipeweed from the jar on the mantel, wrapped up his pipe, and tucked pouch and pipe into the top of his pack, lacing it shut.

“Ready to go,” he said. 

Radagast set down the fork he was using to turn sausages in the pan and came to bend over him, holding him by the shoulders and looking into his eyes. “Are you sure, Donkey? You do not have to do this; I do not need protection, you know.”  He smiled, but his eyes were suspiciously bright.

“You may not need protection, but you do need a companion. No one should go alone to Mordor, Radagast, not even you! 

“I would be very glad not to go alone, and I could ask no better companion.”  The wizard smiled down on him, but his eyes were troubled. ”I have one stop to make on the way, however; you had better hear what it is before you commit yourself.”

“I have already --” Frodo began, but Radagast held up a hand and he fell silent.

“You imagine, perhaps, that I will stop in Gondor, speak with the King before I go on to Mordor.  It would be courteous if I did so, and it would be hard for you, being at court, but you would bear it. It might even be good for you.”  He paused, and was silent so long that Frodo wondered.

 At last he sighed. "No, Donkey, not to Gondor. My business is not with Elessar and his kingdom – he has prepared long to reign, and he needs no help from me.  My task is to bring what healing I may to the land, and also to a certain hobbit, and a brown wanderer who himself needs to face his phantoms and be whole."

"A brown wanderer," Frodo repeated. "You? You are whole already, more than anyone I ever knew!"

"And yet I ran witless and afraid, when the Nine left Minas Morgul to seek the Ring.  You stood against them, wounded though you were, and a maiden and another halfling brought down the King of Angmar. I failed of my calling, Donkey, more than you ever did."

Frodo had no answer for that, other than to reach out and clasp Radagast's hand for a moment. He understood too little of the wizard's "calling" to say, No, you did not fail.

"Where are you going, then?" he asked.

"To face my fear at last. Will you go with me to Minas Morgul? The Wraiths are gone now, but I can think of no other way to deal with them."

A chill ran through Frodo and he felt goosebumps rising on his arms, but his voice was steady. "I will go with you wherever, Radagast. You gave me back my life."

"Ah, well, you have repaid me for that; you have given me back my courage."  He cupped his hands on Frodo's head, and his touch was  benediction. “Whatever I have done for you, Donkey, you have done as much for me. If you are certain you want to come with me now, I will be glad and honored to have your company.”

They left that same day. Radagast was intent as Frodo had not seen him before; there was no casual drifting along on this journey. Mordor was the goal, by way of Minas Morgul, and they would reach it as promptly as might be.

They were not able to take the boat as far down the river as Radagast had hoped.  Anduin was filled with snow melt from the mountains, a roiling, rushing flood, and their narrow boat rode it like a stick cast in the water. Frodo ricocheted between terror and exhilaration as they bounded downstream, the boat spinning like a top when Radagast was not quick enough with his paddle.  The wild ride came to a sudden stop when they swept round a sharp bend onto a logjam that spanned the river, running into the jumble of fallen trees and branches  before the wizard was able to swerve into the bank. 

Radagast was thrown into the water, the paddle flying from his hands. Frodo had been clinging to the  gunwales and the impact knocked him on his back, banging his head painfully against the bottom of the boat. He bounced up at once, crying the wizard’s name, but Radagast was already climbing up onto the logs, drenched but apparently unharmed.

“Time to walk,” he said. “Hand me my sack, Donkey, and your pack; we'll leave the boat where it is.” They picked a precarious way across the logjam to the near shore, holding on with both hands and placing each footstep with care. When they reached solid ground, Frodo at once began gathering wood for a fire. Radagast regarded him with amusement.

“Is everything that happens occasion for a meal to a hobbit, even being dumped in the river?” he asked.

Frodo rolled his eyes. “Only when one of the party is soaked and shivering, Radagast! Then a hot meal seems a sensible idea for anyone, hobbit or not. Does nothing  that happens ever shake your composure?”

The wizard gave a hoot of laughter. “You have turned healer indeed, if you are  going to take me for your patient! Very well, Master Physician, I will find myself dry garments while you get that fire going.” 

They had come out on the western shore of Anduin, not where Radagast wanted to be, but the river was too turbulent to get across, even if they had not lost the boat. 

“Never mind, by the time we get far enough south, the water should be calmer,” he said. They ate and rested for a while; then they went on afoot. A few days later they came out from among the trees to rolling grassland, where new growth was already pushing its way through the dry stalks of the previous year. 

The spring sky was high and pale blue. Now and then a startled bird erupted from the prairie a little way ahead of them, squawking complaint as it flew off.  Radagast would whistle after it, and Frodo laughed to see the bird swerve in mid-air, changing course to swoop around them in a wide circle. Sometimes it actually landed on the wizard's outstretched arm before it returned to its hidden nest somewhere in the grass. 

They walked for many days, and the landscape changed little. The air seemed clear enough to drink, heady as fine wine, and far to the west they could see a hazy line of mountains. The awakening earth found an echo in Frodo himself: he felt strong and well, full of good cheer and ready for adventure. And then it came to an end, suddenly, like falling off a cliff.

It was a glorious afternoon, unseasonably warm, the sunlight pouring down like thin honey. Frodo had taken off his shirt to let the warmth strike his bare skin; it felt heavenly, like bathing in light. The grass was nearly thigh-high on him, bowing and rippling in the soft breeze. 

He was happy. There was a cry overhead, and he looked up to see a great eagle soaring against the blue as if it were the very spirit of life and freedom. It was so beautiful it brought tears to his eyes, and he did an awkward little dance step, somewhat hampered by the tall grass. He stepped on something, something that writhed under his foot, and it bit him.

It was like fire burning through his leg, cold fire that tore through his veins and ate its way toward his heart. Last time it was my neck, he thought as he fell. He knew the sensation of poison flooding his veins.

Radagast's face was above him, and he clung like a drowning man to the peace in the wizard's eyes. Even now, peace. "You said I would catch up to death at last," he whispered.

"Do you still wish it, Frodo?" The wizard's voice was gentle.

Frodo shook his head slightly, his body responding only sluggishly to his will. His eyes held to Radagast's face, the one fixed point in a world that lurched and spun dizzyingly around him.

"Then let us send Death about his business, for today at least." The wizard spoke with authority, and he bent and lifted him in one smooth motion. Frodo lost his fixed point and fell away to darkness.

When he opened his eyes again he could see nothing, and for a horrified moment he thought he had gone blind. Then he felt something lying across his face, and he reached up and pulled at it. It came away in his hand – only a scarf that had been bound over his eyes. The darkness was thinner without it; there were shapes and shadows, and he turned his head and saw a little fire, and the wizard sitting beside it.

"Radagast? Why the blindfold?" He had to push to make his voice loud enough to hear; there seemed to be no energy behind it.  But the wizard heard, and came over to him at once, touching his forehead and down along the sides of his neck.

"How do you feel, Donkey? The blindfold was to keep you sleeping while I worked on you. Can you sit up?"

He could, with help, with propping. Between them, they got him leaning against a rock, a blanket folded behind him for padding and another wrapped around him for warmth. Radagast brought a mug of some warm, pungent broth and fed it to him, mouthful by mouthful.

He slept again, and when he woke it was morning. He smelled something cooking and his insides curled with hunger. He tried cautiously to move his limbs, and found that he could get to his knees, but not put weight on the injured foot. 

"Wait a minute, lad, and I'll help you." The wizard got him up, brought him to the fire, put a bowl of porridge in his hands. He made short work of it and looked up with a smile.

"More, please?" he said.

Radagast chuckled as he refilled the bowl. "When you lose your appetite, I'll know you're beyond curing," he said "How's the foot, Donkey?"

"Sore. Achy."

"We'll stay here a few days and let you mend."

"Radagast?" Frodo hesitated. He was afraid the question would earn him a rebuke, but he had to know. "Did you – kill the snake?"

The wizard gave him a long look. "Why would I kill her?" he asked.

"Because she – it – bit me. It nearly killed me."

"You came into her home, not watching where you were going, and did a dance on her back. Wouldn't you bite, under the circumstances?"

Frodo lowered his head, his hand kneading a place on the back of his neck that throbbed with remembered pain. Radagast came to sit by him, pushing his hand away and massaging the old wound with gentle firmness.

"This was no monster of evil will like Shelob, Donkey – only a wild thing that felt itself threatened. Look where you're going, another time."

"So my life is of no more value than a snake's?" Not to a wizard, he thought. A hobbit is just another bit of wildlife that he looks after until it dies at last.

"Ah, no, Frodo." Radagast's hands turned Frodo's head gently till he was staring deep into the wizard’s eyes. "Your life is of great value, though you did not think so yourself, a while back. You are of great value, to me and to all who love you.  

"You caught up with death yesterday, indeed, and you might have gone with him.  I am glad you did not wish to go! I would grieve to have lost you, Donkey, perhaps as much as your little gardener back in the Shire."

He gathered the hobbit to him, and Frodo yielded to the embrace, wrapping his arms around the wizard and rubbing his cheek against the soft brown robe.  He had grown very fond of Radagast, he realized, as he had been of Gandalf years before. It was good to love someone, and to be loved.
 

 City of the Wraiths

It was more than a few days before Frodo could walk without pain, and they camped there in the open, waiting for his foot to heal.  Even so, his heart was light, and he lay with the injured foot propped up on his pack, watching the clouds and the flight of birds. He was himself again; for the second time he'd had the chance to let go of life, and instead he had held on with all his strength.  Not this time because someone was calling him back, but because he wanted to live.

“I'm healed, Radagast,” he said softly, marveling, and the wizard smiled.

“You are indeed, my Donkey.” Radagast sat with his pipe, sending rings of smoke dancing off across the prairie. “Now you must find your purpose. What is it you wish to do with your life?”

Frodo grinned. “Follow you - and make sure you eat properly,” he said, and Radagast laughed so hard he brought on a coughing fit and had to lay the pipe aside.

They went on at last, moving into hilly country, climbing slopes that grew steadily higher as they pushed south. One day they came to the top of a hill higher than any they had yet climbed, and Frodo gasped and stood still. He had never expected to see it again, but he knew this place.  The marble pavement, the tall stone chair on its pedestal… His knees buckled beneath him and he sat down hard on the ground.

"Amon Hen, the Hill of Seeing," said Radagast. "Have you been here before?"

Frodo bowed his head. "When I fled from Boromir – I had the Ring on, and I sat there –"  He was shaken by a tremor so violent that it rattled his teeth. "He nearly had me," he whispered, seeing again in memory a terrible Shadow that seemed to reach out from Mordor to seize him.  He sprang to his feet. "Come, Radagast, let us leave this place. It is accursed!"

The wizard put a comforting arm around him. "Not accursed, Donkey, but you need not stay here. Go on down to the river and start making camp. I wish to look where we are going, here where I can see far and clear, but I will join you soon."

Frodo went, more shaken than he wanted Radagast to see. He wasn't looking where he was going and fell headlong over a tree root within the first ten paces.  After that he went more carefully, and came out at last on the green lawn of Parth Galen. By the time Radagast appeared, the campfire was going and Frodo was splashing in the river, dunking his head in the water as if it could wash away evil memories.

"Before it gets dark I want to look for something; come and help me, Donkey," Radagast called. Frodo waded out and dried off, and the wizard led the way back under the trees. "Look for piles of brush; poke around and see if there's anything inside," he said.

Frodo stared at him for a moment before he understood. "You're looking for the other boat?  Of course; Aragorn hid it here, didn't he, before he went after Merry and Pippin."

Aragorn had been in a hurry, that long ago day, and it didn't take them long to find the abandoned boat.  It was covered over with branches hastily lopped from nearby trees, and buried under the leaf-fall of the passing years. 

Radagast turned it upright and dragged it down to the water, and Frodo followed with the one paddle that remained; the others had rotted away from lying on the ground. The boat was still sound however;  the next morning they crossed the river in it, and the Elven craft hardly leaked at all. They upended it above the high-water mark, but didn't trouble to hide it before they left the riverbank and started up the steep hill.

The rough slopes of Emyn Muil were as pitiless and unforgiving as they had been when Frodo and Sam had struggled to find a way through them, but they were not lost this time – Radagast had a bump of direction that never failed. Frodo was bone tired by day's end, but it was physical tiredness only, not the sinking, hopeless weariness of the last weeks of the Quest.

They stood at last looking out over the Marshes. The sun was westering behind them, casting out long rays of golden light, but to the East it was already dark.  Deep, purple darkness; no angry red glow on the horizon this time. The Mountain was sleeping.

"Will it sleep forever now?" Frodo asked. His voice broke the silence, and he looked back as if something might be behind him.

"Forever is a long time, Donkey. But I think the Mountain will rest for many years now, perhaps for an age of the world.  Your finger bought us a long spell of peace when it went into the fire. Costly for you, but I think it was well spent."

"And it would not have been better if the rest of me had gone with it." Frodo could smile as he said it, and it proved how far he had come, not only in miles, since he traveled with the wizard.

"No, indeed! The rest of you has other work to do. Come, we will find a place to camp."

"Will we have to go through the Dead Marshes?"

"Not a passage you would relish, eh, Donkey? Nor would I. We'll find a way around them – we can travel openly, you and I, not hunted and in fear of our lives, as you did before."

The Dead Marshes were the least of it, but Frodo could not make himself speak of his true dread. They were traveling openly, as the wizard said, and the Ringwraiths were no more. They could walk boldly into the Morgul Vale, up the road and across the bridge to the very gates. There would be no need to take the Straight Stair, the Winding Stair, the lightless, airless tunnel…

He stumbled and nearly fell, and Radagast caught him by the elbow. "Stop here, lad, this is as good a place as any to spend the night." Frodo was shaking as if with ague and sweat shone on his forehead, but he made no sound. Radagast eased him to the ground, a blanket under him and another around his shoulders, before he turned to make a fire.

"Drink this, Donkey." A mug of some fragrant herbal brew was held to his lips, and he drank.  After a few swallows he took the mug himself, warming his hands on it gratefully and inhaling the steam between sips.

Radagast busied himself at the fire, humming tunelessly, bringing out a pot and various foodstuffs from his bag and putting supper on to cook. All the while he watched Frodo without seeming to. Finally he put a lid on the pot and came to refill Frodo's mug.

"You are braver than you are wise sometimes, Donkey. Why do you not tell me when something troubles you?"

Frodo shrugged. "It was as you said, a phantom."  He drank a long swallow of his tisane.  "We will not have to pass the – the Spider –"  He drained his mug in one gulp. Radagast filled it a third time and gave it back to him.

"Ah." Now the wizard understood. "Ungoliant's child. That is a phantom to be reckoned with, indeed. I had forgot that she lairs in the Morgul Valley."  He sat down by Frodo, slipping his hand under the blanket at his neck to massage the old scar.  Frodo felt the icy pain ease and disappear.

"I could leave you in Ithilien, Donkey, while I go to Minas Morgul."

Yes, Frodo thought, please yes!  Leave me in Ithilien!  I fear the Spider as you feared the Nazgul, and she is still there, perhaps – she would not fade away when Sauron fell.  But how will we enter Mordor, if not through the Morgul Pass?

He sat up straighter. "I am going with you," he said.

***************

They had no difficulty in avoiding the Dead Marshes.They came down from Emyn Muil onto the old Orc road, stone-paved for the speed of the Dark Lord's servants. They passed between the Marshes to the north and the Wetwang on the south without setting foot in either wetland, and came out at last in North Ithilien.  Frodo inhaled the remembered fragrance with delight, and it brought back other memories.

"We could stop and see Faramir," he said, "if we knew where to find him."

Radagast looked at him in surprise; in all their time together, it was the first time Frodo had expressed a desire to visit anyone. "I can probably find him for you, Donkey, if you would like to see him."

"I would. He was a good friend when I sorely needed one. And also he might send word to Sam…" His voice trailed off.

"Homesick, Donkey?" the wizard asked, but Frodo smiled.

"Not homesick, no. Don't send me away, Radagast! Only I am healed now; Sam would like to know that."

“He would.” The wizard's dark face split in a wide smile. “He would indeed!”

Ithilien was not deserted now, as it had been when Frodo saw it before. They passed many villages, pleasant enough places with neat houses and flourishing gardens, but every one of  them was walled. The larger ones were protected by walls of stone; the smaller hamlets might have only a palisade of logs, their tips filed into points, but there was no village without a protective barricade. Frodo and Radagast saw no sign of any enemy, but plainly the returned settlers of Ithilien were on their guard.

The people greeted them kindly, however, inviting them inside for a hot meal and a place to spend the night. When Radagast asked if the land was really so unsafe, even now, so many years after the War, someone always had a story of an attack away off  somewhere, on another, unnamed village. One man said he had seen an orc in the woods the previous autumn; later Radagast told Frodo privately that it sounded more like a dead tree seen in the twilight and transformed by fear into a monster.

They reached the Crossroads at last, and found that a stone fort had been built there, garrisoned by soldiers of Gondor. A little town had grown up around the fort, walled like all the others. The place even had an inn, presumably for the King's officials who had business in Ithilien, and Frodo found ale in the common room almost as good as that of the Green Dragon back home.

When they came down for breakfast the next morning, a soldier was waiting for them. “Your pardon, sirs,” he said, “I have orders to bring you to the Commander's quarters, to take breakfast with him.”

Radagast raised his brows. “Do you? Well, that is a kindly thought. Very well, my friend, lead us to the place.” He smiled, but the man was sober-faced, stiff and correct.

They followed him through streets that were already busy at this early hour, into the fortress and up a narrow stairway that turned a sharp corner every fourth step.  “For defense,” Radagast said quietly to Frodo; “two men could hold this staircase against a horde of enemies.” It was another reminder of the watchfulness of Ithilien.

The Commander's quarters were spacious and comfortable.  Tapestries hung from the walls and a thick wool carpet warmed the cold stone floor; a massive table was set for four persons, but there was no one in the room.  Their guide opened the door for them and saluted smartly, then retreated back down the stairs.

“Well,” said Radagast. “Come on in, Donkey; I suppose our host will join us soon.  A fine room this is, for a fortress, even if the view is somewhat straitened.”

There was a single window in each wall, taller than a man but so narrow that even Frodo could not have squeezed through. A branched candeladrum on the table held a score of lighted candles, the flames dancing in the drafty room.  Suddenly a door opened and two men came in. One was plainly the Commander, stern-visaged with grey hair and beard. The other --

“Faramir!” cried Frodo joyfully, and the man laughed and came forward with outstretched hands.

“It is you, Frodo!  We had word from Gimli months ago, that you had been in Rohan -- when I heard that a halfling had entered the town in company with a man in brown robes, I hoped it might be you.”  Faramir bent to kiss Frodo's forehead, his hands on the hobbit's shoulders.  “Commander, I would have you welcome Frodo, son of Drogo, who carried the Ring to Mordor.”

The officer stared at Frodo in open wonder before bowing deeply, and Frodo blushed but bowed in return.  “And this is my friend and teacher, Radagast of Rhosgobel, of the same Order as Mithrandir,” he said.

The men greeted Radagast with respect, and Faramir led them to the table.  “If my memory serves me, Frodo, your people are renowned trenchermen.  I hope you are in good appetite, for I had the cook prepare a breakfast for six strong men, or four halflings.”

Frodo laughed. “You invited Sam and me to supper when we had been half-starving in the wilderness, Faramir, but I will not deny that I am ready for breakfast! I think I can uphold the honor of the Shire this morning.”

Servants brought in platters and covered ramekins till there was hardly any bare space on the large table, and if breakfast stretched on toward lunchtime, there was plenty for them to talk about during the meal.  The Commander ate silently, casting curious glances at Frodo and the wizard, but Faramir was full of questions.

“When did you leave the Shire, Frodo? Two years ago - and you are exploring Middle Earth, are you, in the company of this brown wanderer?”  He smiled at the wizard. “I have heard of you, sir, from Mithrandir, but he gave me to understand that you seldom left your home west of Mirkwood.”

“I have been traveling in recent years,” Radagast said placidly, “and I have found some good friends I would not have met, had I stayed at home -- this hobbit being the best of the lot.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed with a smile, “he is a gem, in truth, and I also am proud to call him friend.  So where are you going now, the two of you? To Minas Tirith, I hope; King Elessar will be eager to see you.”

Frodo took another slice of beef without answering; he did not feel equal to explaing to Faramir where they were going now. “No,” said Radagast. “We are not going into Gondor, I'm afraid. I have work to do in Mordor.”

Faramir lost his smile, staring from the wizard to Frodo. “Mordor! And do you go with him, Frodo, back to that accursed place?”

“Yes, I do. Radagast's work is mine as well.”

“What is there to do in Mordor, for either of you?” Faramir demanded. ”Only hunting down and destroying the last of the Enemy's servants, and that is a mission for armed soldiers. There are no birds for you to tame in that land, Radagast the Brown.”

“That is my task, to bring back the birds -- to bring healing to a land that has lain under a curse since the Second Age.” 

Faramir shook his head. “I think that is beyond the scope even of a wizard. The Valar themselves would be hard put to restore that land to life - and it is no place for Frodo! He has suffered enough; if you are his friend in truth, you will not drag him again to Mordor!”

“He is not dragging me, Faramir. I go of my own will.”

“Do you know clearly what you go to?”  Faramir had risen and was pacing around the room as if he could not sit still. “It is a dead land, Frodo; if anything it is worse than when you went before, for the Mountain has spread its noxious waste for furlongs all around.  There is no water, and any living thing you find there will be vile or poisonous - or worse.  We still send in patrols to hunt down bands of orcs!  You are not armed?” he asked the wizard.

“I have my staff; that is all the protection we need.”  Radagast looked at him kindly. “There are more deadly perils than orcs in this world, my friend.  One of the worst is to have no purpose  in  living. Frodo has come through a fierce battle for his life, and he is well and strong, ready for the challenge. I will watch over him, be sure of it!”

Faramir regarded him doubtfully, then turned to Frodo. “There is plenty to be done in Ithilien, Frodo. I would be glad to have you by my side as I work to restore this land; you need not go to Mordor to find labor worthy of your efforts.”

Frodo went to him, drawing him over to a chair. “Sit down, Faramir; you are too tall for me!”  He met the man's eyes, speaking earnestly. “I would stay with you gladly if I could; you are a true friend and I wanted to see you again. I told Radagast so.”  The wizard nodded. “But I will not let Radagast go alone to Mordor, and he is bound to go there. He saved my life and I would be an ingrate to abandon him.”

The wizard frowned. “You must not come with me out of gratitude, Donkey,” he said, but Frodo grinned.

“Out of gratitude, out of friendship, what does it matter? I am going, Radagast, and you will have to send me home tied in a sack to get rid of me, as my cousin told the Master of Imladris!  But Faramir,” he turned serious again, “there is a favor I would ask of  you, if you are willing.”

“Anything that is in my power, Frodo.” He smiled faintly. “Out of friendship -- and gratitude.”

“Can you find a way to send word to Samwise, in the Shire? I was -- unwell, when he saw me last. I would like for him to know that  I am well now.”

“I would send a rider for that purpose alone, Frodo, but there is no need. We have regular couriers  going throughout the Kingdom now; one of them will take your message. Would you like to write a letter?”

A letter, he hadn't thought of a letter!  “Yes, please.  May I borrow paper and ink?”

Faramir gave him what he needed and they left him alone to compose his message.  He worked an hour on it  and it was a thick missive when he was done, but only he and Sam ever knew what he had written, unless perhaps Sam showed it to Rose.  He sealed it and gave it into Faramir's hand.

“It will go tomorrow,” the man promised. “Is there anything else you need, Frodo?  If I cannot persuade you against this venture, at least I would have you as well-supplied as I can make you.”

Frodo smiled up at him. “There is nothing we need; only your goodwill. Thank you for sending my letter.” He took Faramir's hand in both of his, but Faramir went to one knee and embraced him.

“Go with my blessing, Frodo, and may the Powers protect you both! Walk cautiously in that land, for there is still danger there.”

“We will be watchful,” Radagast assured him. 

They left at sunrise the following morning, Faramir walking them to the town gate, for they would not linger in spite of his exhortations to stay a few days and rest.  They bade him farewell and took the road into the East. When they entered Morgul Vale it was still  deep in shadow, but as they walked the sun climbed above the mountains and the valley filled with light.

It was mid-morning  when they came to a place where the road split, the left fork continuing farther into the gorge and running more steeply uphill. But the right-hand fork ended abruptly at the edge of a shallow drop, the pavement broken off as if it had been hacked away by giants. 

Frodo looked from the broken road out across the valley. A narrow stream ran along the bottom and on the opposite side was a bare, stony ledge in a cleft of the mountains. There was nothing more, and yet –

"This is the place," he said.

The city he remembered had seemed to grow out of the very rock, its towers and battlements gleaming with fell light in the mountain's embrace, its iron gates a maw with jagged teeth. It was all gone. Even the pale flowers whose reek had clouded his mind that dreadful night, had vanished. There was nothing left but the broken road and the stream, and the empty shelf of rock partway up the cliff.

"Elessar has been very thorough," said Radagast. He sounded relieved.

"I had forgot that he said he would have it destroyed,” said Frodo. “He said the evil would linger here for a long time, even so."

"No doubt!" said Radagast. "I would not make a home here!" 

Frodo crossed over to the other side of the road. The old stone wall was still there; it seemed to be the only man-made thing left standing. He followed it till he came to the gap in the wall, and stood looking through it at a narrow path that wound up the side of the mountain.

"You are certain this is the place?" Radagast asked quietly behind him, and  Frodo started.The wizard laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. 

"Yes. That's the path we took to Cirith Ungol – it looks the same as it did then."  His eyes traced the path unwillingly, but he could not see the fortress that had guarded the high pass, not from here. He hoped Aragorn had destroyed that tower as well.

"We are not going that way, Donkey. Come, we have walked all morning. It is time for a rest."  Radagast went and sat down on the road's edge, his legs hanging over the broken part, and reached into his bag. He brought forth his pipe and a pouch of leaf; Frodo smiled and drew out his own pipe.

"I didn't know we had any pipeweed left," he said.

"Faramir gave it to me; he said it is some of the best." The wizard filled his pipe and passed the pouch to Frodo. "I've been told that Saruman was inclined to mock Gandalf for his love of this leaf your people grow. Perhaps he would have been less precipitous in his actions, had he taken time out for a pipe now and again."

"He came to like it later," Frodo said dryly. "It caused enough trouble, Saruman's taste for our leaf, but it did not seem to make him any wiser." 

"No, perhaps not. That is a sad commentary on pride, Donkey. When pride comes in the door, wisdom flies out the window.  Remind me of that, if it seems needful."  He puffed at his pipe, staring across at the empty space where the City of the Moon had been, and Frodo sat smoking and swinging his legs, reflecting that he doubted he'd ever need to warn Radagast against pride.

At last the wizard stirred, knocking out his pipe and tucking it into his belt.  "There is nothing left here but water and stone. If I failed to do my part in defeating this evil, it is defeated all the same. Come, Donkey! Let us put Morgul Vale behind us.  If we make long legs, we can reach the pass before the day is spent."

They turned away from the site of the old city and followed the left fork of the road up the valley.  Before long the road curved around the side of the mountain, and the hollow of the razed city was lost to sight.  Radagast brought out a skin of some mild, sweet drink, and they passed it back and forth between them. He handed Frodo a little bundle wrapped in leaves.

"Lembas?" Frodo said in surprise, and the wizard smiled. "Do you like them? We'll eat while we walk."

When they reached the top of the pass, the sky behind them was a splendor of gold and crimson. They sat there for a while, watching the display of light and color, eating more of the lembas, until the red sun sank below the horizon.  Then they turned their backs on the West and started down the mountain into Mordor, where the shadows lie.

There were thorn bushes in the Morgai; Frodo remembered those! He  had forgotten  how big they were, ferocious-looking monsters with  foot-long thorns. He gave  them a wide berth, but Radagast examined  them carefully, feeling the leaves and  flexing the branches.

"They  may not be things of beauty, Donkey, but they are healthy. There  must have been some moisture for them to get so  big."

They  passed through the Morgai and came out on Gorgoroth plain. "I  want  to see the worst we have to deal with; then we can go back and work  where  it is not so bad," the wizard said. Frodo nodded. Even Gorgoroth  wasn't too bad,  in his opinion.

Not the way he remembered  it; anything would be better  than that! The sky was clear and  high, the spring sunshine warm on his back. If  the land was barren,  it looked clean, at least. Now and then they found a narrow  stream  feeling its way among the rocks, and along the line of moisture  the thorn  bushes were taking root. Not big like the ones in the  Morgai, but green and  hopeful looking.

They were following  the old road south, staying well  away from the Mountain and the  blackened pit which had been Barad-dur. There  were water holes  at intervals, and at longer intervals, ruined towers which had  been  outposts of the Dark Lord's realm. They approached the first one  they came  to cautiously, going up to it under cover of night.  It was utterly deserted, a  few rusted bits of armor lying in the  courtyard and nothing more. The stone  walls were tumbling down.

"A  good place for snakes," said Radagast, "so  we will leave it for  them. More wholesome inhabitants than lived here before,  and less  dangerous." After that they avoided the abandoned outposts and camped  on the road.  At first they were watchful, remembering Faramir's warnings, but the land seemed empty.  

"I think Faramir can stop sending patrols now," Frodo remarked when they had been there a month, and Radagast nodded.  The paved road ran arrow-straight through a landscape of baked yellow dirt and grey rocks. There was more movement above than on the earth, puffs of cloud drifting across the sky.

They followed the road, but they didn't stay on it. The  water holes were fed by little streams coming down  from the heights – the Ephel  Duath, Mountains of Shadow, loomed  to the west, looking nearly black at this  distance. They followed  each spring as they came to it, looking for life – the  thorn  bushes were what they mostly found, but sometimes there were other  plants  along the watercourse, spiny, starved looking things, but  alive. And Frodo  nearly stepped on a toad one day, its mottled,  warty skin blending with the  yellow soil. He startled himself  as badly as the toad, and Radagast laughed at  them both. Radagast  brought out the seeds that Goldberry had given him, for  plants  with a healing virtue for ruined soil. They planted them in any  spot that  seemed damp enough to bring them to life.

"Give  it a few years, Donkey,  and we'll come by here again, see what's  growing then. When these plants come  up, they'll prepare the ground  for other things."

"What things? How will  they get here,  where nothing has grown in a thousand years?"

Radagast  chuckled.  "Not that long, Frodo. We're a long way from Barad-dur. Sauron's  hand  was not so heavy here, not until the last few years. I think  there are still  seeds in the ground which will sprout, when they  have a little shade to keep  them moist. And other seeds will drift  in, on the wind, on the feet of birds.  There will be green things  here again, where now is rock and barren  dirt."

Then  one morning they found life they had not expected or wanted to  find. Radagast was following one of the little springs, a hundred  yards away from their sleeping place, and Frodo was frying ham  over a small fire  for their breakfast. There was a sudden harsh  voice behind him, and he dropped  the fork and spun around, still  crouched over, feeling for his  sword.

Orcs!

Three  orcs, the small kind, not much more  than a head taller than he  was himself, but barrel-chested and heavily muscled.  They surrounded  him and his little fire with drawn bows, three arrows pointed at  his heart. He let his hand fall away from Sting's hilt. A sword was no use  against archers – he'd have an arrow in his heart before he got it out of the  scabbard. He wondered how far off  Radagast was, hoped he was out of sight.  Wondered why the orcs were standing around him with nocked arrows, why they hadn't already slain him.

His thoughts seemed strangely slowed and dulled, and then Radagast's voice cut through his fear like a brisk  wind.

"Hungry,  lads? We have food enough to share. Sit down, make  yourselves comfortable.  Is that ham about done, Donkey?"

He sounded the same as always, cheerful, unexcited, as if there were nothing out of place in a  party of orcs, armed and hostile, showing up for breakfast.  Frodo ran his tongue over his dry lips and tried to match the calm of the wizard's  voice.

"Yes, it's done."

"Very well, give the first serving to our guests and put some more on  to cook. I'll see what other food we  have."

Our guests.  Just a few more wild things to feed – birds, wolves, bears – now it was orcs. Frodo cut the ham in three portions and piled them on his own wooden trencher. He stood up slowly, expecting any  moment to hear a  bowstring twang and feel an arrow smash into  his chest, and carried it over to  the largest of the orcs.

To  his surprise, the creature jerked its head at  the smallest of  the three, motioning it to take the food. The big one continued  to cover Frodo with his arrow while the others wolfed down their  meat. When they  finished, they nocked their arrows again and the leader  ate the portion they had left  for him.

Frodo backed away and squatted by the fire, put  another piece of ham in the pan, trying to ignore the arrows,  trying  to understand the behavior of these orcs. They had shared the meat,  none  of them trying to snatch it from the others. More, they had  covered each other,  protected each other from danger. His lips  twitched involuntarily at the idea  that he was any danger to these  three, but apparently they thought so.

The glove is quite  on the other hand, lads, he told them  silently.

His experience  of orcs was not wide, but he'd seen enough of  them on the Quest.  More than enough, and he'd never seen any that behaved like  this.  They acted like – friends. He wouldn't have said orcs were capable of friendship.

Radagast came up with his cloak bundled  around something, and  one of the orcs trained an arrow on him.  He chuckled and set the bundle on the  ground, opening it to reveal  a heap of round, crusty loaves of  bread.

"Help yourselves, lads. You can put those bows aside, you know. We  never kill anyone  before breakfast."

Frodo felt a rather hysterical  laughter  rising in him, and bit down hard on his lip. The second piece of  ham  was done, and he cut it up and carried it to the orcs as before.  Radagast put  another piece in the pan and picked up the fork,  ready to turn it  over.

"You'd best get us some water, Donkey."  He looked at the largest of  the orcs. "You can go to the spring with him, if that makes you feel safer."

Frodo picked  up the little water pail. The orc leader glared at him.  "Take  off the sword," it growled. The wizard nodded.

"Yes, of course.  That's what's making them so jumpy. Just unfasten the belt and  let it drop,  Donkey."

Frodo obeyed, hating to do it. To let Sting fall to the ground like that – he had never treated it so. Forged by the Eldar in ages past, given  to him by Bilbo  when he set out on the Quest – the sword was his greatest  treasure,  along with Arwen's jewel, which hung at his throat, hidden beneath his  shirt. But he would not disobey Radagast, and he could see  the sense in the  command. He let belt and sword fall to the ground,  and the orc relaxed a little,  lowered his bow, though he still  held the arrow nocked and ready.

"Go, and do not try to run! I am following you."

He walked to the spring, returned to camp and hung the pail over the fire, shadowed by the orc at  every  step. Radagast had set a portion of ham aside for him. The  wizard sat placidly  eating his own meal, the smaller orcs watching  him warily while they tore at  pieces of bread. They had put down  their their bows in order to eat, but their  free hands held unpleasant-looking  hooked knives. The leader said something  sharp to them in their  own language, and one of them shrugged and tucked the  bread inside his leather tunic, picking up his bow and aiming at Frodo  again.

"Sit.  There, by your master. Eat." The big orc glowered at Frodo,  and  he took his breakfast and went to sit by Radagast.

"We have not come to do you harm," the wizard said, looking up at the leader.  "You'd better sit  down and eat, and we will talk things over,  you and I."

The orc grunted,  going over to help himself  to bread, a loaf in each hand. "What did you come  for, old man?  Men still come from Gondor, hunting orcs, but they come in force.  Not an old man and a–" he looked at Frodo and shook his head,  as if he couldn't  think what to call him. He stood before them  tense and suspicious, ready to  defend himself from any attack,  tearing at the bread with blackened teeth.

"I am a healer,  for wild things and for the land. This halfling is my  friend  and companion. We do not come from Gondor."

"A healer, eh?  For  wild things. Is an orc a wild thing?"

Frodo bit off  a great chunk of  bread to stop himself from laughing. He knew  these orcs might turn on them at  any second, but the wizard's  relaxed composure was heartening, and the orc's  question struck  him as hilarious. I hope I never see anything wilder, he  thought.

"Are  you in need of a healer?" said Radagast.

The orc  said something  in his own tongue to the other two, and they came and stood on  either  side of Frodo and the wizard, arrows at the ready. The leader crammed  the  last piece of bread in his mouth and unfastened his dirty  leather tunic, peeling  it back from his right shoulder and turning  around. There was a suppurating  wound above his shoulder blade,  as if an arrowhead had been torn out of it and  infection had set  in.

"Do you heal orcs, old man?"

Radagast got up and came over to him, examining the wound, running his hands over the grey, warty skin around it.

"How long since you got this?"

"A  moon ago.  Maybe more. Do you heal orcs?" he asked again.

"I  heal any creature that  needs my help," Radagast said quietly.  "Donkey, get my packet of herbs, and look  in my sack for some  bandages." He drew the orc over near the fire. "Sit down so  I  can work on you. What is your name?"

The orc snarled, but  he sat. "You  heal wild things, you said. Do they tell you their  names?"

Radagast was  tossing herbs into the water that  hung steaming over the fire, and folding a  length of bandage into  a poultice. He smiled. "Sometimes they do, if they can  speak.  Otherwise I give them a name of my own choosing. Shall I give you  a  name?"

The orc made a harsh, guttural noise that sounded,  unbelievably,  like laughter. "What would you name me, old man?"

The  wizard soaked his  poultice in the fragrant herb broth, lifted  it out with a peeled stick and laid  it, steaming, on one of the  empty trenchers. "Let it cool a bit," he said. "What  would I name  you?" He sat back on his heels, considering. "I know very little  of  the Orkish dialects," he said apologetically. "But Quenya might  be more  suitable, considering…"

The orc growled, lowering  his brows, but Radagast  took no notice. "Canohando, I will call  you. 'Wise Commander'. You showed good  judgment, waiting to see  if we were enemies. Many would have killed without  finding out."

"It  was good for you, old man, and for your  slave."

Radagast  eased the orc's tunic down around his waist, revealing a  mass  of healed scars all over his back, what looked like old burns. He  held the  poultice against the wound, and Canohando shuddered,  but made no sound.

"He is not my slave. He is my companion,  and I doubt you will meet  anyone else of like stature, in your  lifetime."

The orc swung his head  around to stare at Frodo,  sitting on the ground feeding the fire with dry thorn  canes. One archer still guarded him; the other was watching Radagast  as though he feared some treachery.

"His stature is small  enough, if that is what you mean."

"That is not what I  mean. Donkey, come  here."

Frodo came to stand by them,  and Radagast reached out and pulled  his shirt open, exposing his  left shoulder. "How did you come by that  scar?"

A chill  ran down Frodo's spine, but he answered steadily, "The  Witch King's  knife."

The orcs started violently and the smaller ones  took a step back, but Canohando leaned forward, staring into Frodo's  face as if  he wanted to pry into his mind.

Radagast took  Frodo's hand, held it up so  the orcs could see. "Where is your  finger, Donkey?"

He swallowed hard  before he spoke. This  is when they will slay me. "It fell into the  Mountain, with  the Ring."

There was a furious roar behind him, and an  arrow  sailed past his head. He felt frozen in the moment, unable to move,  watching it fall to the ground many yards away, waiting for the  next one, which  would not miss. His muscles tensed, anticipating  the impact, the slam of an iron  point into his back. Canohando  shouted a command, and the other orcs snarled in protest but obeyed,  throwing their bows down on the ground.

"Explain!" he  demanded.

Radagast  made a long story of it, with heavy emphasis  on the corrupting  nature of the Ring. The way he told it, it was inevitable that  Frodo  would have claimed the thing; the only wonder was that he had resisted  right to the very Crack of Doom. The way he told it, it was Frodo's  own mercy,  his mercy for Gollum, that saved him in the end.

The  orcs followed the  tale with frightening intensity. At the mention  of Shelob, Canohando stiffened.  When he heard that Frodo had been  bitten by the Spider and captured by orcs of  the high pass, he  silenced Radagast with a gesture and jerked Frodo to the  ground  beside him, yanking his shirt roughly away from his neck. He fingered  the old scar, his claws sharp against the hobbit's skin, his hands  hot as if he  burned with fever.

"Orcs saved you that time,"  he growled.

"Yes."  Frodo had never thought of it that way,  but it was true. It was the orcs who had  known he was not dead,  when Sam had been blinded by grief. Apart from Shagrat's  patrol,  he would have been left for dead in the pass, until Shelob returned…  Of  course, what the orcs were saving him for – that might  be better left  unsaid, with this one gripping his shoulder like  a vise.

The orcs laughed  uproariously at the idea of the  hobbits trying to keep up on a forced march, and  Canohando spat  disgustedly.

"Stupid Uruks, not to see you were no orcs!  Bone between their ears. You wouldn't have got by me, if I'd been  there!" And  Frodo could believe it. There was nothing stupid about this orc.

The tale wound to its end, and there  was silence. At last Canohando  spoke, and his voice was heavy.  Wrath, or something else?

"Mordor was  full of orcs. Full.  All races, all kindreds. Thousands." He stood up, shaking  off  Radagast, who was still holding the compress to his wound. He looked  off in  the distance, turning around to stare in all directions,  then glared down at  Frodo.

"All gone now, all dead. I ought to kill you, little rat! Because of you –" Frodo met his gaze  without flinching, and the orc looked away. "Only  us left now, three of us. We met another, westward by the mountains, a moon ago.  He followed behind us, unseen, and put an arrow in my back." He  nodded to the  smaller of his companions. "Yarga killed him. So  – I will not kill you. I am  sick of death, and the healer makes  a good poultice."

He sat down, his head between his knees, and Radagast returned to working on his back, pressing  on the  sides of the wound and wiping it clean. "There's another compress  soaking there, Donkey – lift it out to cool, and get me some  dry bandages, there's a  good lad."

He bound the fresh compress  over the wound, and helped the orc  pull his garment back over  the bandages. "How is it that you travel together,  you three –  and Yarga kills to protect you?"

The orc exhaled noisily. "I was a messenger, sent out from Lugburz. The Mountain belched  fire and the earth  twisted under my feet.The road broke open and there was fire everywhere, and fumes that burned my breath."  He shivered at the memory. "I ran, not seeing, not knowing, and  pain ran with me. I fainted, and when I came to myself again, I was  in one of the small outposts, and these two were putting wet  cloths on my skin." He looked at the other orcs, and his eyes  kindled. "They are my right hand and  my left. Yarga. Lash. I would  kill for them."

Like the Fellowship, Frodo thought. Like Sam and me. I would kill, even now, to save Sam.

Yarga spoke for the first time. "We were stationed in one of the forts along  the road,  and when the Mountain roared, the earth opened and the  fort –" He shook his head  as if he still didn't believe it. "There was a hole in the ground, huge, gaping open, and the fort tipped to one side and just – slid into it, orcs, weapons,  everything. They were screaming… We were coming in the gate from outside and  I  fell, I was sliding into the pit, and Lash grabbed my arm and  dragged me back, and we ran."

"Until you came to the outpost,"  Radagast said.

Yarga  nodded. "It was deserted; I don't know where they all went. We ran a long way. And a day later he came, out of his head, burned… He fell down senseless right in  front of us."

"I thought he was dead," said Lash. "Everyone was gone, it was just Yarga and me, and this one comes along and dies at our feet.Then I saw he was breathing, so we cared for him. Three is better than two."

"What do you do now? How do you live?"

Canohando shrugged. "We go from one outpost to another, hunting. Not near the Mountain; not by Lugburz. The earth is burned black there, and around the Mountain is grey ash up  to my hips."

"And what do you hunt?"

"Rats. Snakes. There are enough to keep us fed. And other orcs, to not be so  alone, but those we do not  find. Only corpses, sometimes, near the western border. The Men of  Gondor…"

"Only one orc we found alive," Yarga said, "and him I killed."

Radagast put away his packet of herbs, and Frodo went to the spring for more water. The orcs made no protest, and he boiled the water and  made tea. He carried the first mug to Canohando, and the orc glowered at him.

"What is this?"

"Give it to me, Donkey,"  said the wizard. He swallowed it down, showing his pleasure in  the drink. Finally he said, "It warms the heart and brightens  the spirits. Also it aids healing."

The orc looked over  at Frodo, who was warming his hands in the steam of his own mug, between sips. Radagast passed his mug to the orc, and Frodo got  up and refilled it. Canohando drank slowly, watching their faces. Finally he handed the empty  mug back to Frodo and jerked his head toward the other orcs. Frodo filled the mugs once more and carried them to Lash and Yarga.

"That shoulder will need tending for many days," said Radagast. "You are welcome to travel with us until it is healed."

"Where are you going, old man? What are you doing in  Mordor?"

"I told you I am a healer. The very earth needs a healer here."

Canohando grunted.

"In past years, before the Dark Lord returned, there was good hunting in Mordor." It was Lash, his voice filled with regret. "Not just rats and snakes, those days. Conies, foxes. There were fish in the streams, and in the mountains there were bears. All gone now."

"What keeps you here, in this ruined land?" asked Radagast.

Lash looked surprised at the question. "Mordor is our home. Where would we go?"

"To the West are the Men of Gondor," Canohando said heatedly. "South is Harad – we would find no welcome there…"

His voice died away, and Radagast said softly, "You would find no welcome anywhere, even among your own kind."

Canohando stood up and went to Lash, pulling open his tunic and turning him to face the wizard. The orc's bare chest was scarred all over, a crisscross of white lines on the rough grey skin. "His back is the same, and so is Yarga's. So was mine, before the fire. Big orcs beat small orcs. Now the whips are all burned up, and we do not seek to find them again."

"So Mordor is your  land, and you do not wish to leave. Will you help to heal  it?"

That was how it happened, and even years later it was a wonder to Frodo when he remembered it. The orcs stayed with him and Radagast, and every day the wizard poulticed and pressed the infected wound, until the infection subsided and it healed to just another scar on the horribly scarred back.The orcs hunted as they went along, rats and snakes as they had said, and even  offered to share their  meat.

Radagast refused the rats, courteously, but the day Yarga brought in a slender red snake, he accepted a share, to Frodo's horror.

"Now, Donkey, would you have them think us ungrateful? This, at least, of everything they have offered  us, I know how to cook so we can eat it!  Wait and see."

The orcs ate theirs raw, as they ate most things, but they gathered  around the fire to watch the wizard at his cooking, and they willingly tasted the meat when it was done. Frodo choked his piece down by sheer willpower, trying not to show his disgust, but the orcs  smacked their lips and came back for more, sitting around the fire as the evening darkened and the stars came out, and it reminded  Frodo of nothing so much as long-ago camping trips with his cousins, in the far-off Shire.

Then he looked across the campfire and saw Yarga staring at him, his eyes like black holes in his face, picking his teeth with his knife.

16.  Friends and Enemies

They traveled together for many weeks. Radagast  set the orcs to  work that he and Frodo could not do alone, clearing  blocked springs so they  flowed again, watering the parched ground.

"You may hunt conies here  again someday," he told them.  "Will you slay them all, when that time comes, or  leave enough  to replenish themselves?"

Canohando snorted. "We are not  such fools, old man, to destroy our own land! That was done for  us by  others."

They passed ruined forts along the road,  and the orcs went into  each one, but cautiously, their bows drawn,  apparently remembering the surprise  attack by the mountains. One  day they came back carrying an extra bow they had  found in the  abandoned guardhouse. Canohando brought it to where Frodo lay on  his back with his hands behind his head, tired from his day's  labor, watching  the sun go down.

"Get up, runt," he growled.  "Let me see if this is the  size for you."

Frodo had no  wish for a bow, least of all one from an orkish armory, but he  thought best not to argue. He stood and let the orc  measure it  against him.

"It will do. Tomorrow you come with me and learn  to hunt."

"I have my work to do with Radagast," Frodo began,  but to his  dismay the wizard chuckled and said, "No, go and let  him teach you. Lash and  Yarga can help me, Donkey."

There  were many days of teaching.  Frodo had not shot a bow since he  was a lad, and that one had been a toy carved  by his father. Canohando  grumbled as he stood behind him, pushing him into  proper shooting  position.

"How have you lived so long, runtling? Without  the old man's magic bag, you would starve to death. How old are  you?"

But  when Frodo told him, he stared. "Is that all?  You are a child, then! How did a  child carry – that? The Power  of the Lord of Mordor?"

Frodo laughed.  "Among my own kind,  I am not a child; I am not even young. We do not live so  long  as dwarves, or orcs either, it would seem. Do your kind live while  Middle  Earth endures, like the elves?"

"We live until we  are slain." The orc  chuckled grimly. "If there are no enemies  at hand to perform the service, we  slay one another. But I can  remember when the Witch King came to Mordor. I was  in the horde  that marched with him to take Minas Morgul away from the Men of  Gondor."

"A thousand years ago!" Frodo marveled. "If no one kills you, I  believe you will live till the unmaking of Arda,  like the  elves."

Canohando bared his teeth unpleasantly.  "Orcs are not elves,  little rat, and we have no love for them.  I will live till I am slain, but already I have lived longer than  you. Your kind is like summer lightning, one  flash and you are  gone. But you may live a little longer if you can shoot. Sight along  your arm and put the arrow through that window."

The lessons  were  held in whichever old fort was handiest, and when he tired  of teaching Frodo,  Canohando hunted in earnest. Frodo would have  sat outside in the sun, waiting  for him, but the orc would not  permit it.

"Follow me, runt. There's more  to hunting than  shooting straight - and if a stone rolls under my foot and throws  me down there," he nodded to a deep hole in the interior of the  fortress, around  which they were prowling in search of something  to kill, "then you can pull me  out again. A fool hunts alone in  a ruin like this."

And Frodo found  himself oddly moved  that the orc relied on him to come to his help.

As  summer  came in, the heat of Gorgoroth became unbearable for Frodo and Radagast,  and they drew nearer to the mountains, working their way into the foothills where it was cooler. The orcs grew more nervous day by day, but when the wizard  suggested that they return to  the interior on their own, Canohando refused.

"Who will  protect you, old man, if you meet another band of  orcs? Most will  not wait to find out if you are enemies! Even the Men of Gondor  might slay you, before they see you are their own."

Frodo thought Lash  and Yarga would have gone. The orcs held long discussions  in their own language,  at night while he and Radagast lay rolled in their blankets in the dark,  supposedly asleep.

"Why don't they go?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure, Donkey. Canohando, I think, feels a debt to me that I healed his wound –  the infection  was very deep and might well have killed him in time. His reaction  is strange, all the same – to find gratitude in an orc almost defies belief. And Lash and Yarga will not leave him, although  they walk in fear of their lives.  Their loyalty amazes me as much as his gratitude. I wonder…"

"Is it  because they think they are the only ones left, of all the orcs in  Mordor?

"That  is part of it, certainly. The horror of seeing Sauron's realm  destroyed, all in a moment – that might explain their loyalty  to each  other, but not why they remain with us. I think there  is something else at work  here, some unraveling of evil design…"

He  was silent for a while, and  Frodo nearly fell asleep. He was roused  by the wizard's next words, startled  into wakefulness. "I think  they follow you, Donkey. You carried the Ring, and something of  its aura still lingers on you. The imprint of the dark power you wrestled with and overcame – I think it draws them, and Canohando  especially,  because he is the most aware of the three."

Frodo  shivered. "No,  Radagast! I don't want to believe that – mark  – is still on me! And I didn't  overcome it; I was nearly destroyed by it!"

"Ah, Donkey, but you were not destroyed, that is  precisely the point. You were overpowered for a moment, but  as  soon as the Ring went into the Fire, you returned to the fight.  It has been a  long struggle for you, but I think you can safely  say, now, that you have won the battle. All that remains is a  sort of scar, like the scars you bear on your  body. And these  orcs are fighting their own battle against what was done to their  kind in the far past. I think they follow you for the hope you give them."

"What battle are they fighting? What does it have to do with  me?"

The wizard shifted in the darkness, and Frodo felt hands on his  shoulders. "Roll over, Donkey, and I'll  rub your back. You have cast off the  Shadow, never fear." The  strong, supple fingers dug into his tight muscles, and he began  to relax. "You know where orcs came from, elves tormented and twisted by an evil power in another age. Much of that evil was bound up in the Ring, and now it is destroyed. That alone will not unmake  the orcs, I'm afraid, but for these three, it may be enough. Because  of their shock and terror when Sauron  fell, and their loneliness,  with only each other to turn to – they made certain  choices.  To be loyal to one another, defend one another. To accept help from me  and not try to kill us."

"Try to kill us?"

Radagast  chuckled. "They would have found me hard to kill, Donkey, had  they tried, and I would have protected you. Yarga was much surprised  when his shot went wide – he  is not accustomed to miss, and  you were a big target for one who has been  hunting rats."

"I  should have known!" Frodo stifled laughter against his  arm. "So will they become elves again?"

"No. They were born orcs;  there are generations of orcs between them and those poor, mangled elves. But they may  become something new under the sun: orcs who by their own will have turned away  from evil. You fought that  battle when you carried the Ring, and for long  afterward you fought the hold it had on you. I think Canohando begins to  understand  why he wants to be near you, and the others feel it without  understanding.  You blazed a trail for them."

Frodo was silent. It was as  if he had been looking at a star reflected in a cup of water,  and someone had  directed his attention to the sky. He had thought  it purely his own struggle, resisting the power of the Ring, and  it humbled him to think he was a source of  hope to these unlikely  strivers against the Dark.

In the morning,  Radagast spoke  to the orcs.

"You are not easy at being so near the  mountains,  and I begin to think you are right. We are not safe here; yet the  heat of Gorgoroth in summer is too much for anyone who is not  an orc! I think we  should find some place of concealment and stay  hidden until it cools enough to  leave the hills."

"A cave,"  Frodo said. "If we could find a cave, and  water nearby –"

“A  cave may be a trap, if your enemy finds it when you  are inside.  Do you have rope in that bag of yours, old man?” Canohando  asked.

Radagast  reached into the bag lying by him on the ground, and  pulled out  a coil of rope, thin but strong looking, like the rope of Lothlorien.  The orc took it gingerly, wrinkling his nose, and tugged a length of it between  his hands, testing its strength.

“It stinks  of elves, but it will do,” he  growled at last. He motioned to  Lash and Yarga, and they spread out, each taking  hold of the rope.  While Frodo watched, fascinated, they moved back and forth,  passing  the rope from hand to hand among them, weaving and knotting it with  practiced skill. Inside a quarter of an hour they had fashioned a web longer  than Frodo was tall, and wide enough that he could  have wrapped it around  himself two or three times.

“If  you have more rope – and if we can find a tree somewhere in  this wasteland – we can spend the daylight hours out of sight  in hammocks,” said Canohando.

“I named you well,”  Radagast said. “You  have a quick mind.” He brought out more  coils of rope. “Come, Donkey, while the orcs make our hammocks,  we will fill our water bottles and make sure we have  left no trace  of our presence here. I begin to be as uneasy as they are.”

Another  hammock was finished by the time they were satisfied that  they  had left no sign behind them. Radagast walked to the top of the  hill and  looked searchingly in all directions. Frodo followed  him, but the orcs hung  back, careful not to show themselves against the horizon.

“Not many trees,” the wizard observed,  “And none large enough for our purpose. In one of  the deep valleys where some watercourse still flows, we may find some. Down there,”  he pointed.

They hiked all day through stunted bushes and  patches of starved-looking weeds. Now and then they found a young  tree, no  thicker than the wizard's staff, struggling for life  in the dry soil.

“At least there are some trees,” Frodo  said. “Look how young they are  – they must have all taken  root since the Dark Lord fell.”

“There were  trees once,  but they were all cut down,” Lash said. “For engines of war,  and to feed the furnaces, forging weapons. There were gangs of  orcs, thousands of them,  sent into the hills to cut trees, drag  them back to Gorgoroth.” He ran his hand  down the trunk of one of the saplings they had found. “I like the feel of it,  wood that lives.”

Yarga snorted but Canohando nodded, his face thoughtful.

They moved on, into the shadow of a deep cleft  between the  hills. The ground became rougher, broken and rocky,  and they came to a narrow  stream rushing between high banks. They  followed along it, climbing awkwardly  over the rocks, and then  the land fell away before them and the stream dropped suddenly over a sharp  ledge. When they looked down, they saw that the waterfall  splashed  into a pool a good forty feet below before the water ran away again  in  a narrow brook.  There were trees down there, a dozen or  so, with dense,  leafy crowns.

“They could not get at these,” Radagast said with  satisfaction. “The drop-off was too sudden, and it’s so deep, maybe they didn’t  even know  these trees were here. Will these do for your hammocks,  Canohando?”

The  orcs were already looking for a way down into the little  gorge.  They picked their way among the boulders that littered the steep slope,  and Frodo and the wizard followed. When they reached the bottom, the air was as  cool and woodsy-scented as the Shire itself.  After the parched desert of  Gorgoroth, it felt like heaven.

Frodo  threw himself down on the mossy  ground and closed his eyes. "Now we've found this, you may never get me back to  Mordor!"

Lash was stretched out on the rocks, his hands trailing in the  water.  His matted hair was dripping; he had put his head right into the  pool to  drink.

“This is Mordor,” he said, sitting  up. “This is Mordor the  way I remember it, wild and full of  game for the killing. Back before the  Uruk-hai came, and the Dark  Lord with his wars and marching back and forth on stone roads, with a whip on your back and never enough to eat.”

“Did  you  live in the hills before Sauron returned?” the wizard asked.

“In  the  mountains, with trees all around and the streams full of fish.”  Lash got up and  waded into the water, following it downstream.  As they watched, he bent and slid  his arms into the stream, smoothly,  without a splash, and straightened up with a  fish squirming between  his hands. “Get a fire going, Halfling! We will eat fish  tonight!"  He threw the fish out on the bank, and Canohando picked it up.

"We  used to pull the fins off, like this," he said. He grabbed one of  the side fins and twisted it till it came off in his hand. The  gaping fish  jerked and struggled, and Frodo turned away, sickened.  Canohando looked from him to the fish still writhing in his hands.  "It was a stupid game," he muttered,  pulling out his knife. He  killed the fish with one clean stroke.

"Here,  runt," he  said roughly. "It's dead now – can you gut it? We'll catch enough  for all of us, if you and the old man will cook."

Frodo  took it from him and  went to build a fire, and the orc waded in  to join Lash and Yarga, moving slowly  downstream catching fish  after fish in their bare hands and throwing them out on the bank.  Radagast walked along next to the water, gathering the fish and killing them quickly.

The following weeks were like a strange  holiday.  They hung the hammocks deep inside the treetops, as near one another as they could manage, so they could talk quietly back  and forth. But most of the  daylight hours they slept – Frodo  found it surprisingly easy to sleep the day away; the leaves surrounded them in deep shade, and it seemed as if all of them were tired, even the orcs.

They climbed down at dusk to kindle a little fire  and make a meal  from the supplies in the wizard's sack.

"Leave  the fish in peace," he  told the orcs when they wanted to catch  more. "There's little enough life in  Mordor – you had your sport  when we arrived; now let them live and multiply."

When  they had eaten and it grew dark, they went exploring.  They followed the stream for many miles, till it flowed into a river, and there  they turned back.

"If we followed it far enough, I think  we would come  to the Sea of Nurnen. Have any of you been there?"  Radagast asked the  orcs.

They shook their heads. "We come  from the Ephel Duath," said  Canohando, "but we did not know one  another in those days. There were many orc  bands living in the  mountains, skirmishing over hunting grounds, until the Witch  King  came and gathered us to fight the Men of Gondor. These hills are  our home country, old man, but they are not safe for us anymore."

"You  carried war  to Gondor, and they have brought it back to you,"  the wizard said soberly, and  the orc growled and walked away.

All  summer they remained there, spending the days in their hammocks and ranging across the hills at night. They found  several  more deep  valleys where the trees had not been cut, and sometimes they  surprised  a rabbit feeding in the gray light before dawn, on their way back  to their refuge. And then, when summer was over, a few nights before they planned to start back to Gorgoroth, they ran into a patrol from Ithilien.

For  months they had seen no sign of anyone but themselves, and perhaps they had  grown careless.  However it was, Canohando himself walked right into a group of  men  standing in the shadow of a large rock, and the other orcs were  close behind  him. They had no time to draw bow before they were  surrounded and disarmed.

"Is there no end to these vermin  in Mordor?" a voice exclaimed  in the darkness. "Every time I think  we've cleaned out the last of them, we find  another nest! Hi, you! are there more of your kind about?" There was a sound  like  a heavy blow.

A light blazed suddenly, and Frodo stepped  forward,  holding up the starglass like a torch. The men drew back,  shielding their eyes,  and the orcs, their hands already bound  behind them, twisted their heads away,  blinking.

"Good evening to you, Captain," Frodo said, looking from face  to face  for the leader of the patrol. There were twenty men at least.  Radagast stepped into the light and stood behind him, his staff  in his hand.

"Good evening? It may be, halfling, and then  again it may not. Who are  you, and by whose leave are you prowling  these hills in the dark? This is the  King's land now."

"Mordor!"  Canohando said harshly, and spat. "This is  Mordor. My land!  Orcs' land!"

The man who had spoken turned and  with casual  brutality aimed a blow at the orc's throat, using the side of his  hand. Canohando doubled over, choking, gagging, and would have  fallen but for  his captor who stood holding him by the arms. The  other orcs struggled against  the men who held them, snarling furiously.

"I  am the King's friend,"  Frodo said firmly. He moved to stand by  Canohando, his free hand on the orc's  shoulder. "And these are my friends. The Shadow is defeated, Captain, and even  an orc may  be a friend."

The man glowered at him. "'King's friend' is  easily said, small one, but you had best be able to prove it.  That you are a friend to orcs is easily seen, and may be your undoing.  And who is the old  man?"

"I am Radagast the Brown, and the King's friend is my friend also - as are these three orcs.  I am of Gandalf's Order. Mithrandir," he added, seeing  blank incomprehension  on the man's face.

There were murmurs from the  other men.  "Mithrandir! Denethor had little love for him!"

"He was close  in the counsels of the King, though."

"That was years ago.  He's not been  seen in Gondor since –"

"Not since he went  over the Sea with Elrond, the father of your Queen. Nevertheless,  I am of his Order, and this halfling is in truth the  King's friend,  and high in his favor. You would do well to treat him with  honor."

The  captain regarded Frodo curiously. "Very well, halfling. Who  are  you, that I should honor you?"

Frodo felt the blood rise  to his face.  "I am Frodo, the Ring-bearer," he said. He held out  his maimed hand to the  light, with its missing finger. "Frodo  of the Nine Fingers. You need not honor  me, but I ask that you  release my friends."

"The Ring-bearer." The  captain looked  doubtful. "You have nine fingers, but that is not proof.  And I do not like your choice of friends! My mother was a healer  in Minas  Tirith, and she told stories… Tell me then, Ring-bearer,  what gift did the Queen  give to you? For my mother told me, but  that was a thing not widely  known."

"Queen Arwen gave me  a jewel from around her own neck, to comfort  me from evil memory."  Frodo reached inside his shirt and drew out the white  jewel on  its chain. The captain dropped to one knee and took it in his fingers,  turning it this way and that to catch the light, and there was  awe in his face.

"Forgive my discourtesy, master," he said  at last, rising to his  feet. "You are the King's friend indeed,  and no one could be higher in his  favor. But I do not understand  why you and your companion wander our hills in  the darkness, and  in such company." He looked balefully at the  orcs.

Frodo  turned to Canohando and pulled out his knife, cutting the  ropes  that bound the orc's wrists, unhooking his own water bottle from  his belt  and handing it to him. He glanced at Yarga and Lash,  but Radagast was caring for  them, and he turned back to the man.

"Will  you have one of your men make  a fire, Captain? A hot drink would  go down well for all of us, I think, and then  I will tell you  why I travel in such company."

The patrol had no tea, to  Frodo's disappointment, but they carried a powder that, when mixed  with water, made a very palatable broth. He and Radagast sat  down with the captain  over mugs of the stuff and tried to explain  why they were in Mordor. The man  couldn't seem to see the point.

"To  heal the land, you say? Why take the  trouble? Mordor is a wasteland,  has been for a thousand years and more. The  Black Land, that's  its name in the Common Speech – fit for nothing but spawning  vermin."  He jerked his head at the orcs, sitting close behind Frodo and the  wizard. Frodo realized suddenly that they had not been given any  of the broth,  and he passed his own mug back to Canohando.

"You  treat that monster as  if it were human," the man grumbled.

Frodo  looked him in the eye. "I was  a prisoner of orcs," he said. "They  stripped me, they beat me – but they also  fed me. And Canohando  is my friend." Canohando drank a few swallows from the  mug, then passed it to Yarga. The captain watched him, then got up and fetched  three more mugs, which he filled and gave to Frodo and the orcs.

He  let them go at last, when he couldn't persuade them to return  with him to Ithilien.

"I'll have to report this to my  commander, that I found you here, and  he'll report to the King.  It will look very ill that I left you wandering in the  wilderness  instead of bringing you back in honor to visit him."

"Strider  will understand – he was a wanderer himself for many years.  Tell the King – and  the Queen, too! – that Frodo travels with  the Brown Wizard for his own healing,  and the land's. They will  be glad of that news, I think."

"Glad indeed,"  said Radagast  with a smile. "Tell the King exactly that, Captain, and say  further that the Ring-bearer carries healing with him, even as he seeks  it for himself."

The captain looked puzzled at these messages,  but promised to  deliver them. He got up then and ordered his men, and they prepared to leave.

"You would do well to take  your – friends – deeper into the interior,"  he warned them.  "Gondor patrols these hills now, and will continue to do so. We  will not let our defenses fail a second time! And Gondor is no  friend to  orcs."

Frodo bowed. "I thank you for your counsel,  Captain, and for your  hospitality. We will start back tomorrow,  when we have slept. And I would ask  you further, of your courtesy, to give my greeting to the Lord Faramir. He also was a friend to me, when my need was great."

They reached  their refuge shortly after dawn and climbed wearily to their hammocks.  Frodo was  almost asleep when Canohando called to him. "Runt? Why  did you not stay hidden,  you and the old man? They did not know  you were with us."

Frodo yawned.  "You told us from the  beginning, the men of Gondor kill any orcs they find.  Would you  have left Yarga and Lash, if you had not been caught  yourself?"

"I  would have shot from ambush, killed as many as I could. I  would  not have walked into the middle of them!"

"I am not an orc  – and I  am the King's friend. I would not shoot his men from  ambush, even if I  could."

"What if they had not believed  you? They might have slain you  along with us."

"They might.  I did not think they would."

"And if  they would kill us  anyway, even though they spared you? Would you have killed to  save  us?"

Frodo was struck silent. For Sam he would kill, if he  had to.  But for the orcs? "I don't know," he said at last. "I'm  glad it didn't come to  that." It was long before he slept.

They  made haste to leave  the hills, traveling by day for greater speed.

"They  may not be the only  men patrolling here, and some might be outlaws  who would not respect the King's  name. We will be cautious, but  we had best see where we are going," said  Radagast.

He  went ahead with Lash and Yarga, their bows strung and ready, but  Canohando walked behind with Frodo.

"Does it seem strange  to you, King's friend, to travel with orcs and flee from the Men  of  Gondor?"

Frodo grinned ruefully. "It is not the first time I have fled  from a man of Gondor. I think the Ents would  say they are a hasty  people."

The orc frowned. "Ents? What do you know of Ents, runt? The old man said nothing of them, when he told your tale."

"They do not come into  my tale. Two  of my companions encountered Ents, when they escaped from orcs who were dragging them to Isengard. All I know of the tree herders  is what they told  me."

"Your companions also escaped from orcs? Were they of like kind to  you?"

"Hobbits, yes. We  are hobbits."

"And three – no, four, you  had a companion  in the Tower, hadn't you? Four of you little things, helpless as  rabbits, escaped from battle-hardened orcs." He shook his head.  "And the others  went to the Ents, you say? And lived to tell of  it!"

"Lived, and grew tall from drinking Ent-draughts.  Almost as tall as you, Canohando, though not as muscular."

"And  you – you survived the Witch King's knife and the Spider's bite,  and stood in the Mountain's mouth when it vomited fire… You are  hard to kill, runt. I wonder if I could do it."

Without  warning he threw  an arm around Frodo's neck, dragging the hobbit  against himself. Almost in the  same movement he whipped out a  knife with a cruel, hooked blade, pressing it  against Frodo's belly. Frodo hung half choked in the orc's grasp, stupefied by the suddenness of the attack.

"I  could kill  you, runt. I could gut you like a fish."

He  dropped the hobbit, shoving  him away so that he stumbled and nearly  fell. Frodo caught his balance and stood  for a moment, massaging  his throat and taking deep, merciful gulps of air.  Finally he  swallowed a few times and straightened his clothes before he turned  to face the orc.

"What is it about you, King's friend?  I could slay you in a heartbeat, but – I do not wish to."

"Why  should you wish to?" Frodo was shivering in reaction; he pulled  his cloak about him, although the day was  warm.

Canohando  looked bewildered. "You are an enemy. It is your doing  that Mordor is empty of orcs, and the King claims it for his own. Your  companions  went to the Ents and got food – I would not live a night in Fangorn,  if I entered there! But you called me friend, though I doubt you  would kill for  me – and you saved my life from the Men of Gondor,  without killing."

"I  am slow to kill," Frodo admitted.

"Have you ever  killed?"

Frodo nodded. There had been an orc,  or maybe two, in Moria. He  had not killed Smeagol! Smeagol had fallen, overcome by his lust for the Ring….

"I do not wish to kill," he said.

The orc reached out and touched  his neck "You will have a bruise," he said, and sighed. "I do not  wish  to kill you, runtling – but I am glad to know I could."

They  walked on in  silence, catching up to Radagast and the others.

Autumn came to Gorgoroth.  The thorn bushes turned a dull, mottled purple and the sky was slate grey.  Flocks of birds passed overhead, flying south.  Even at night they flew over, and Frodo listened to the rush of their wings and their keening cries as he lay sleepless in the moonlight.

He was often sleepless now.  Canohando's attack had shaken him, though he tried not to let the orc see it.  "If I hadn't mentioned the Ents–" he said to Radagast, but the wizard shook his head.

"It would have made no difference, I think, Donkey.  Canohando's heart is a battlefield right now.  He sees something in you that he wants for himself and he struggles to grasp it, but at the same time he is repelled by it.  What else can you expect from an orc?  The wonder – the miracle, even! – is that some part of him wants what you have.  Wants it enough that he did not kill you, he even regretted hurting you.  I saw him when you did not notice, staring at your bruises…"

"I'm afraid, Radagast."  Frodo was ashamed.  It had been better, in some ways, when he desired death; at least he'd had no fear then.

The night air felt heavy; it seemed to crush him against the ground, and he sat, pulling up his legs and wrapping his arms around them. The wizard moved behind him and began massaging his shoulders, until the tension in his muscles eased and he rested his forehead on his knees.  "I do not think you need to fear Canohando, Donkey.  In truth, I believe he would step between you and any threat!  The danger lies in another direction.  Try not to be alone with Yarga."

"Yarga?"  He had never given a thought to Yarga, the quietest of the orcs.  So quiet you might call him sullen, now he considered the matter.

"I could wish to know more about Yarga," said Radagast.  "He is angry, more so than either of the others, and I think he resents Canohando's friendliness to you.  I would like to know where he was, in the years before Sauron's fall." 

"In an outpost, he said –"

"At the end, yes.  But before that?  He it was who loosed an arrow at you, the moment you spoke of the Ring.  He may have been in Barad-dur itself at some time, and deep in Sauron's service."

Frodo shuddered. 

"It is perilous work we do, Donkey.  The land will heal in time, sooner if we tend to it.  But the orcs – they have each a choice to make.  I believe I see how Canohando and Lash will choose in the end, but Yarga is a tumult of bitter anger, and there is no predicting which way he will jump."

"He's jealous because Canohando seems friendly to me – when he's not threatening to kill me!"

"There you have it, I'm afraid.  I am sorry, Donkey.  I had not anticipated such complications when I brought you to Mordor, or I would have heeded Faramir and left you behind.  I can protect you when I am present, but do not be alone with him."

"Radagast – I am not seeking death, not anymore –"

The hands massaging his shoulders didn't slacken.  "You do not have to stay in Mordor, Donkey.  I may be wrong even about Lash and Canohando, and Yarga is a danger beyond any doubt.  You wager your life on the possibility of their healing, every day you walk with them." He paused.  "You have a sword, remember.  Would you defend yourself?"

"I doubt I would have the chance, they're so fast!  But no –"  He sighed. "Look at them, Radagast.  The last three, of how many myriads – and they are so lonely!  I could not slay them, even to save my life."  As much as he feared them, he pitied them more.  "If I leave, cannot you heal them?"

"Neither you nor I can heal them, Donkey.  This is a path which they must walk, if they will – but see, you are a beacon to them.  You wrestled with the Dark that lives in them – it invaded you, and you thrust it out again!  Canohando, at least, yearns to do as you did; that is why he shadows your steps, drawing hope from you, and strength for his battle."

"And if I leave?"

"I think they would all three go back to hunting rats in the ruined outposts.  They would not stay with me, were you not here."

"There would be no hope for them."

Radagast sighed and stretched, flexing his fingers.  "There is always hope, Donkey.  They were no ordinary orcs when first we met them; they were friends! That is a wonder in itself.  But there are many brutal men who are bound to one another in friendship, the while they wreak death and terror on everyone outside their fellowship.  I do not think these orcs will move beyond that, without help."

Frodo lay back on his blanket, looking up at the stars.  When he had staggered through this land under the weight of the Ring, he had seen no stars.  The sky had been empty, shrouded in smoke and fog, and the fiery Ring itself had blinded him. But the land had been teeming with orcs. 

 Now the air was clear and the night sky blazed with stars, thousands of them, dazzling against the black. There was the Hunter, striding across the horizon, and the Bear with her cub – he remembered Gandalf teaching him their names long years ago, on one of his visits to Bilbo.

So many stars that the sky was bright with them, but the land was empty now – three orcs left, of all the hordes that had gathered here.  And that was mercy, he thought, remembering the malice and cruelty of those hordes.  But these three –

"I will stay," he said in a low voice.

It was still hot, but not unbearably so,  and they  returned to their labors, clearing blocked watercourses  and planting Goldberry's  seeds in every damp hollow they could  find. And then the rains  came.

Thunder startled them out  of sleep one early dawn, and Lash sprang  up with a shout. "Hurry!  I have not heard thunder like that since before the  Dark Lord's  War – if it rains now as it used to, we will not be dry again  until  the next moon! We must find shelter."

They caught  up their few belongings  and hurried. A mile before they stopped  for the night they had passed one of the  ruined fortresses, and  they made for it now, the thunder rumbling on all sides  like boulders  rolling together. The skies opened just before they reached the  gate and dumped a flood of cold water on their heads, and they ran in, bumping  into each other in their haste, soaked and laughing.

Laughing,  even the  orcs. Frodo remembered orc laughter when he was prisoner  in the Tower room; then  it had been terrifying, cruel – the  unholy glee of armored warriors tormenting  something little and naked. But this was only the joy of being alive, of  outrunning  the storm and being caught by the rain at last, drenched but  unharmed.  He looked from one to another of them, thinking they were not so  ugly  after all, or maybe he was just getting used to them. Then he met Yarga's eyes, and the orc's laughter stopped abruptly and  his eyes were cold as stones.

The fortress had yet one room with an unbroken roof, and they  took refuge there. They found  a supply of cut wood next to what had been the  guardroom, and they  kindled a fire and huddled around it to get dry, shivering,  but in high spirits still.

"I thought it never rained in Mordor,"  Frodo  said, trying to wring the water out of his cloak.

"Storms  in the  autumn," said Lash. "Or there used to be, before the War.  The Moon of Storms, we called it. A little rain in the winter,  but not the wind and thunder. Dry the  rest of the year."

Radagast  had set the water pail out in the rain to  fill, and now he hung  it over the fire to heat. "You know the weather,  Lash."

"A  hunter must know the weather. The animals do."

"You were  a hunter? Before the War?"

Lash snorted. "Before and during  – orcs like  meat! Hunter and tracker, but there was little to  hunt, towards the  end."

"And Canohando was messenger."  Radagast spoke carelessly, pulling  mugs out of his sack and making  tea. "What did you do, Yarga?"

Yarga  smiled horribly and  looked at Frodo. "Torturer, in Lugburz. You would have come  to  me, Ring-bearer, if your slave had not rescued you."

Frodo's  mind  reeled and he struggled not to let it show in his face. Then  Radagast was beside  him, gripping his shoulder, pressing a steaming  mug of tea into his hands, and he steadied.

"How did you happen to be in the outpost with Lash, at the  end?" Radagast asked, his voice as placid as ever.

"I ran away." The orc  snarled, glaring, even at the other orcs. "I killed a prisoner before he  spoke –  I ran to save my life."

"You killed him – why?  By accident?"

Yarga  bared his teeth. "He screamed too loud.  He hurt my ears and I slit his throat."  He met Frodo's eyes, his  smile malevolent. "Perhaps I would have slit your throat,  Ring-bearer. Then the Ring would never have reached the Mountain."

Lash leaned toward the fire, refilling his mug. "And then it would not  be raining. I would rather have the rain."

Yarga  turned on him, fury in his face, and Canohando thrust himself  between them. He said nothing, looking  from one to the other,  and after a long moment Yarga's eyes fell. He let  Radagast hand  him his tea mug and sat down, nursing the drink sullenly. The  wizard  called Frodo to him with a jerk of his head, and handed him pans  and meat  and parched grain. Frodo put his mind to his cooking  and tried not to think  about the bloodlust he had seen in Yarga's  eyes.

####

The  storm lasted all day. As night  drew down, the wind died away and the only sound  was the rain beating heavily on the flags of the courtyard outside.  Frodo stood in the open doorway watching the light fade, drops of water splashing up from the pavement onto his bare feet.

He  had come here of his own will. He had not counted on meeting his  past in such a graphic  way, of course. Or what would have been his past, if not for Sam. How ironic, of  half a million orcs in  Mordor, that one of the three who remained should be  Yarga, who would have been his torturer! His executioner, probably. Yarga might still be his executioner.

Faramir had warned him.

Radagast  sat by the fire, whittling on a stick of wood. "Come here,  Donkey. Let us challenge our hosts to a game of draughts."

Canohando  grunted in  amusement. "When did we become your hosts, old man?"

"When  we entered  Mordor, I suppose," Radagast said. He had cut a collection  of wooden circles  from the stick he'd been toying with, and now  he took half of them and put them  in the cooking pan, set it over  the fire. "This is your land, after all. I must  admit I had not  thought of it that way – it was Sauron's realm, and I had forgot  the land had other inhabitants with better claim to it than he.  Lash has  reminded me."

Lash looked up at hearing his name.  He was sitting  cross-legged against the wall, his head sunk on his chest as if he dozed.

"Never mind, Lash. Go back to  sleep," Canohando said, and the smaller  orc closed his eyes again.  "Explain yourself, old man."

Radagast was  stirring the  wooden pieces in the pan, letting them darken but not stick to the  metal. "Lash knows Mordor. He knows the land and the weather,  the creatures who should be living here – he is glad to see  the rain. He will be glad to see the  animals return, if they do."

"He  will be glad," Canohando agreed. "And then he will kill them."

Radagast  laughed. "He will kill enough to feed  himself, certainly. But he will leave enough alive so he can eat next year, and the year after that." He pulled the pan off the fire and dumped out his bits of wood. They were many shades darker than the ones that had not been heated.

"Mark a board for us, Donkey, here on the floor. Do you know this game, Canohando?"

Frodo had pulled  a half-burned stick from the fire and  was marking a board on the  stone floor. Draughts, Radagast called it. We call it  Kings in the Shire – I don't think I'd want to invite Canohando to a game  of  Kings! He blackened every other square and sat back as the orc examined his handiwork.

"Draughts, eh? Oh, yes, I know  this game. Orcs and Tarks*, we call it!"

"Very well,  come and play. You and Frodo against Yarga and me, since Lash  is sleeping."

Canohando gave him a sharp look at this division  of teams, but made no objection and said something in his own  tongue to Yarga, sitting in a corner fletching an arrow. The four of them  settled on opposite sides of Frodo's gameboard and Canohando scooped up the blackened pieces.

"Now you're an orc, runt," he  said. He looked under his brows at Yarga. "And you're a tark."  He grinned at the other orc, and Yarga  growled low in his throat.

"We are white and you are black," Radagast said quietly.  "You cannot make a tark of Yarga, or even of me."

"I cannot  make you white either, old man – your skin is darker than mine!  Call it black and white then – Yarga is no tark, not even in  jest." A look passed between the  orcs, as if Canohando would make  amends, and Yarga unclenched his fists and looked down at the  board.

They played until the fire burned low. Yarga  wanted to rearrange the teams after the first round, but Radagast would not have it so. "I need you to help me," he said. "You both must  have played long  bouts of this in your off hours during the War;  you're far more skillful than Donkey or I. There'll be no game  at all if you're both on the same  side."

"But we are, old  man," Canohando said softly, and he was not talking about the game. "Don't deceive yourself. Yarga and I are both on the  same  side."

********************

*tark – Orkish slang for a man of Gondor  (LOTR Book  4)

The rain poured down day and night, and lightning split the sky as if the very clouds had taken fire.  Thunder rolled and echoed in the stone fortress till they were nearly deafened, and Lash slapped his hands against his thighs and shouted back at it, delighting in the foul weather as if he had been the god of storms himself.

 "Now all those little streams we cleared will run full!" he exulted.  "Those seeds you've been throwing on the ground will come up, Healer.  What will they grow?"

Radagast laughed and pulled a hard little apricot from his sack, tossing it to him. "Taste that and tell me what you think of it – they may grow in your mountains one day, if my work prospers.  What will come up first are plants to start the growing cycle – tough, low herbs to cover the ground and keep it from drying out, or washing away in floods, and a hardy strain of grass, deep-rooted, to clothe the land again and bring up minerals to enrich the soil. When there is cover and food for them, I hope the animals will return. You may hunt better things than rats and snakes, in years to come."

The orc's smile was a nightmare of jagged grey teeth, several of them missing, but his evident happiness touched Frodo.  Of the three, this orc frightened him least.  Even so, when Lash wanted to play a game of draughts, he thought it safer to let the orc win – although as it fell out, there was no need to "let" him. 

"You play like a tark," Lash said mockingly, but to Frodo's surprise the orc then went back over the game, pointing out all his mistakes and showing him how he should have moved.  "Another game, Halfling.  Remember what I told you, and before the storms are over you'll be fit to play Yarga."

"We played Yarga last night, Canohando and I."

Lash grunted.  "And did you win?  Yarga plays like the devil he is – no one beats him. But you listen to me and you'll give him a fight before he brings you down."

Frodo didn't find that especially comforting.

Yarga and Canohando had gone exploring through the ruined fort.  They came back at suppertime with a couple of dead rats and a double handful of small bones. 

"Can you play knucklebones, runt?" Canohando demanded.

"As a lad I did – let me see."  He examined the bones with interest, then with growing unease.  They were shaped somewhat different from the sheep bones that had been common in the Shire.  Longer, coarser.  He dropped the one he held back into the orc's hand, resisting the urge to wipe his hands. "What sort of bones are they?" he asked, wanting to be sure.

"Knucklebones, I said.  From orcs.  These are good ones; must've been a big stinker."

"You play with orc bones?"  He could not keep the horror out of his voice, and Canohando frowned.  "I'll whittle some from wood – then I'll play you."

The orc might strike him down, but for the moment he didn't care.  He turned back to the fire, checked to be sure nothing was burning in the pans he had left there, and took a stick of wood from the pile, getting out his knife.

"What do you care, runt? They are not your kind."  Canohando had followed him, squatted beside him, still holding the bones.

He tried to think how to explain his revulsion.  "No, they are not my kind.  But they are your kind; they are not animals.  Would you eat orc meat?"

Canohando didn't answer, and Frodo looked up. What he saw in the orc's face made his gorge rise. "You would! You would eat your own kindred!" He went back to his whittling with a shudder.

Radagast spoke quietly from the shadows.  "He is right, you know.  Orcs are not animals, and their bones deserve respect."

"That comes well from you, tark!" Yarga sat down by the wizard, drawing out his knife and starting to skin his rats.  "When have the tarks ever treated us like anything but animals? Or the elves either, that you like so well!"

Radagast nodded.  "There is long enmity between orcs and the other races of Middle Earth, and that with good reason.  Nevertheless, orcs are of the Children, however far removed.  What do you know of your own origins?"

"We are of the Dark," Canohando's voice was surly.  "We Orcs of Mordor, we can bear the sunlight, but many of those who came from the North during the War could not.  That is our origin, old man – Darkness!"

"It is not. Take your rats over by the doorway, Yarga; that smell would choke a horse.  After we have eaten I will tell you how orcs came to be."

But when supper was over, he did not begin with orcs at all.  He drew an odd, chubby-looking wooden flute from his sack, and holding it to his lips he produced a music that was heartbreaking in its poignancy, rising and falling like an eagle riding wind currents above the mountains.  Frodo and the orcs almost stopped breathing to listen, the haunting sound carrying them to some Otherwhere outside of time and far outside of Mordor.  When at last he lowered the flute and began to speak, the wizard's voice held them enthralled.

"It began with music," he said.  "It began when Eru, who lives in the Now and has neither origin nor ending, gave life to His thoughts. And His thoughts became the Ainur, and those who are called by the elves the Valar, and they sang before Him.  They sang, and so Ea was created, and they joined with Him in His creation.  But the Children are of Eru's making and His alone, and the Valar had no part in them – and by this they are set apart from the animals.

"Even in the beginning there was discord, and that came from Melkor.  For Melkor would have his own glory, apart from Eru, and he sought to force his own melody into the music, in Eru's despite.  But Eru turned all his discord into new harmonies, richer and more beautiful than they had been before, until Melkor became sour with rage.  He warred on his brethren, the Valar, and was cast down, but he did not repent and he bided his time.

"Much I could say of Melkor's spite and jealousy, and his spoiling of the works of the Valar, but that is for another time. When at last the days were fulfilled as Eru had decreed, the Firstborn of the Children awoke.  But they awoke to darkness, and the shadows were deep around them, for their only light came from the stars. And in the shadows there was fear.  For time and again, some one or two of them would wander a little away from the rest, and not return, nor were they ever seen again, so the Firstborn became afraid.

"And they had good reason to fear.  For Melkor lurked with his servants in the shadows, and the stragglers of the Children were taken by him, and it was a bitter fate. Morgoth, he had become, the Dark Enemy of the world, and those he captured he imprisoned, tormenting them through years immeasurable, and mistreating them with fiendish cruelty, until they were changed and marred beyond recognition.  He twisted them to his fell purpose and enslaved them, and they became the first orcs.  But in their beginning they were beautiful and noble, Children of the One."

His voice fell silent, and Frodo came slowly to himself.  The fire had burned down to red coals, and in the semi-dark the orcs were only shapes of deeper darkness. Radagast lighted his pipe, and his face was lit for a moment.

"What became of the others, the ones who did not become orcs?"  said Canohando.

"The Valar became aware, after a time, that the Firstborn were awake.  They sent a messenger to gather them to safety, but their fear had grown very great because of Morgoth, and many of them distrusted even the Valar, not knowing them.  Some of them dared the journey to Valinor and some did not, so their kindred was divided.  And Morgoth  pursued them, so that they suffered much at his hands.  But the orcs, as they then were, he turned against their former brethren, and they slew one another whenever they met, yet it was he that was the true Enemy of them all."

"And what do we call these 'brethren', who became our enemies, old man?"  Canohando's voice was soft, but the hair rose on Frodo's neck at the menace in his tone. Radagast's pipe glowed red as he drew on it, and he said quietly,

"I do not know your name for them, Canohando, but I would call them Elves."

There was a roar that echoed from the stone walls as the orcs leaped to their feet shouting, and Frodo threw himself flat on the floor as a great shadowy arm reached for him.  It passed over him harmlessly, and the wizard's voice cut through the uproar.

"Sit down, the three of you!  I do not say you are elves anymore, so you need not feel yourselves maligned.  Morgoth did his work too well, and Sauron bettered it.  Orcs you are and orcs you will remain, for good or ill."

The orcs avoided them for many days.  Frodo and Radagast were alone in the stone chamber, and the rain beat down relentlessly outside.  They played draughts for hours, and when they tired of that Frodo whittled his set of knucklebones – he had started them, so he might as well finish.  When they were done, he practiced with them until his hands had re-learned the game he hadn't played since he was a lad, finding ways to compensate for the missing finger.

Radagast sat carving a stick of fragrant wood he had taken from his bag, hollowing and smoothing it with loving care.  They talked a little of their travels, reminding each other of things that made them laugh in the remembering, and the deserted fortress seemed almost cosy with the rain outside and the bright fire within.

Frodo  thought the orcs returned to the room to sleep. He never saw them come in and they were gone when he awoke, yet somehow he felt their presence even through his dreams.   He supposed they had gone back to eating rats and snakes, but one night he left a pan of meat and onions, covered, next to the fire pit when he went to sleep.  It was empty in the morning, and after that he left food for them every night.

He would not have said he missed them, but he thought about them.  "Will they leave us now, do you think?" he asked Radagast. 

The wizard shook his head. "I doubt it.  They are coming to grips with what they are, Donkey; it is no light matter to find they are the mangled offspring of their most hated enemies!  I do not think they will simply leave us now; they will come back to travel with us, as before, or they will return in black hatred to slay us if they can."

That was Frodo's thought as well.  "They cannot slay you, can they?"

Radagast laughed.  "These little fellows?  But they could you, Donkey – best stay close to me now, until we know how the wind blows."

A few mornings later Frodo awoke to find Canohando sitting next to him, alone.

"It is time you hunted with me again, runt.  You will forget what I taught you."

Frodo looked over at Radagast, still wrapt in sleep.  He had not lost his fear of the big orc, and the wizard's words had confirmed it.  "Breakfast first," he said, thankful to find an excuse for delay.

"And what will you cook, when the old one is not awake to give it to you out of his bag? I have eaten your food, runt; today you shall eat mine. Get your bow."

 He could waken Radagast with a word or two, spoken loudly.  He met Canohando's eyes, dark with hidden meanings that he could not read.  That is what he expects me to do.  He is testing me, if I will trust myself to him. 

He stood, picking up his bow and quiver.  He had made a wager – he would not draw back from it.  The orc put a hand between his shoulder blades and pushed him out into the dark passage that led to the interior of the fortress.

They hunted in silence, and Canohando was not content, this day, to let him shoot at windows or at torch brackets in the wall for practice.  The first time he touched Frodo's arm and indicated a rat skulking in a shadowed corner, Frodo tried to refuse, but the orc glared at him with such ferocity that he looked hastily away, taking aim and letting the arrow fly before he could think too much about what he was doing. He missed and the rat scurried to safety through a hole in the masonry.  Canohando struck him in the shoulder with an open hand, hard enough to hurt, but –

It was a correction, he thought.  Bilbo had done much the same, years ago, when he presented a sloppy translation of an Elvish poem for his perusal.  The comparison made him choke back a laugh.

"Today you will eat what you shoot, runtling, and nothing else.  How hungry are you?"

If that was the choice –!  "I have been famished enough to eat a rat," he said honestly, "but not today.  I would rather go hungry."

Canohando looked amused. "How if I keep you from other food until you are hungry enough? But no, the old man would come searching for you, I think.  Look then, runt – I have had no breakfast, and I am hungry enough to eat a rat, or more than one.  You would not kill a tark to save my life, but will you kill a rat to feed my hunger?"

He had been right; it was a test. The orc knew no other measure of friendship but: would you kill for me? 

"I will, if I can shoot straight enough," he said.

There were many missed shots, for the rats were quick and his heart was not in this sport. But at last there was one not quick enough, and his arrow pierced it through.  It squeaked and struggled a moment and was still.  Frodo looked away, feeling sick, but Canohando clapped him on the back and went to pick it up.

"Good! You will not starve now, if ever you are separated from the old man and his sack. I have done you a good turn in that, at least."  He was skinning and cleaning the animal as he spoke, setting the arrow to one side.  "We will cleanse that in the rain on our way back – bad luck to hunt with an arrow already bloody.  Make a fire for me, runt. I have lost my taste for raw meat."

The orc offered him some of the meat but, cooked or not, it was no sacrifice to refuse.  Even the smell turned his stomach.  When Canohando finished eating he gathered the bones in the discarded pelt and stamped out the little fire.

"Come, it is not good to keep this in a place where we wish to live."  He led Frodo through a maze of passages and narrow stairs until they came out at last on a ledge at the top of the tower, forty or fifty feet above the ground.  Canohando flung the remains of the rat far out into the rain, then held out the arrow to be rinsed by the downpour.  Water streamed from his hair and garments, and when the arrow was clean he handed it back to Frodo and washed the blood off his hands.

The rain was not cold; it was even pleasant, running down Frodo's face and arms, and he combed his fingers through his hair, working the water all through it.  Not quite as good as water hot in the tub, he reflected, but he did feel cleaner for this rainwater bath.  He saw Canohando watching him.

"Wash away the fear smell," the orc said softly.  "Why did you come with me this morning, afraid as you were?"

Frodo's heart lurched and he froze into stillness.

"Is it a sport with you, runt, to challenge death?  I smelled your fear with the King's men, as well, when you stepped inside their circle – you were not so sure they would not slay you!  And you are afraid of me; even now you are afraid.  Why did you not stay safe by the old man this morning?"

The orc could smell fear – could he smell a lie?  Truth, then, to whatever end it led.  "Radagast believes you are at war within yourself, against the Dark." Frodo did not look at the orc, stared out instead over the rain-washed plateau, grey and deserted.  "I have fought that battle, and it is ill to fight alone.  I would have been destroyed by it, alone."

Canohando stepped behind him, gripping his shoulders with fingers like iron.  "How if I threw you down from here, runt?" he said in Frodo's ear.  "What would happen?"

Frodo looked straight ahead.  "I would die."

"You would die," the orc agreed.  "And I – I would grieve.  So, you stand with me in the battle, Ninefingers?  You had better hope I win it!"

Frodo reached up and took hold of the orc's hand, hard and rough, with claw-like nails that dug painfully into his skin.

 "I know," he said.

When they got back to the main room, Lash and Yarga were playing Orks and Tarks by the fire, Yarga with a pile of captured pieces. Radagast was smoothing his wooden carving with a bit of obsidian ground to a fine edge.  He looked sharply at them when they came in, and Frodo knew the wizard had been afraid for him.

"There is a stew there, if you' re hungry," was all he said.

Frodo went at once to get his bowl, and Canohando gave a bark of laughter.  "One more day, runt, and you would have shared my meal!  But today I will share yours; that rat was just enough to whet my appetite."  He added something in his own tongue, and the other orcs looked at Frodo.  Lash gave him a gap-toothed grin of approval, but Yarga's eyes were hard.

The wizard pulled a rag from the pocket of his robe, rubbing his carving and turning it in his hands, using the obsidian delicately from time to time to smooth away a bit of roughness. 

"Tell us about the Shire, Donkey," he said suddenly.  "I have seen only the outlying woods, and our friends here have never seen anyplace like it at all."

Frodo was at a loss for words.  How to describe his homeland?  Camped out in an abandoned Orc fortress, the Shire seemed like a dream he had once had, impossibly remote and lovely.  But they were all staring at him, waiting for him to begin.

"It is so green," he faltered.  "Not in winter, of course; then there is snow, sometimes – the ponds freeze, and we have skating parties."  No, the orcs would not know what skating was.  He tried again.  "There are trees and gardens – some hobbits build houses of wood, but many still live in holes dug out of the hillsides, as our people have done as far back as we can remember.  You hardly see a hill that does not have its round door and a few little windows, with flowers all around.

"Brandy Hall, where I lived as a child, is carved into a great mound of a hill, tunnels and rooms enough for the whole clan, practically, and we always said it had a hundred windows, though I don't know if anyone ever really counted.  It looks to the west, and at sunset those windows catch the light like a hundred mirrors – and at night they glow with firelight; you can see them all the way across the River, coming home on the Ferry—"

He gulped and got up to get himself a mug of tea.  How long since he had thought of home?  He hadn't missed it until he began to speak of it.

"Tell about your family, Donkey."

He seated himself by the wizard, the hot mug comforting between his hands.  "My parents drowned when I was twelve," he said.  The old desolation rose in his heart and he hurried on.  "I lived with my aunts and uncles after that, and when I reached my tweens I went to live at Bag End with Bilbo – my cousin, but he was so much older than I, he was like another uncle.  And my friends were almost all cousins, too – Merry and Pippin and Fredegar –"

"All except your little gardener," Radagast put in.

Frodo smiled.  "Samwise.  He was the best friend of all, though I didn't realize that till later, when I needed him most."  He had a sudden thought and glanced at Canohando.  "Sam killed for me, or tried to.  He fought the Spider; he saved my life."

The big orc had seated himself close to Lash and Yarga, and he reached out and laid a hand on each of their shoulders.  "These are my cousins," he said.  "They saved my life."

Frodo doubted the orc understood what cousins were, but it didn't matter.  He had the idea. 

"It was your cousin Bilbo who traveled with Gandalf and the dwarves," Radagast said.

"Yes.  That was before I was born, of course, and I grew up hearing tales of his adventures, the Lonely Mountain and Mirkwood, the Dragon and the spiders."  No, he didn't want to think about the spiders.

 "He was always telling stories of his travels, but most hobbits didn't believe him.  They thought he was the most awful old liar!  Well, it really did sound unbelievable, sitting around the Ivy Bush with a flagon of ale, and Bilbo going on about trolls turning to stone, and him and the dwarves being carried through the air by Eagles!"  He laughed in remembrance.  Only he and Sam, he thought, had ever really believed Bilbo's tales.

"And when you got back home, did your old neighbors believe your stories?"

Frodo shrugged.  "I didn't tell many stories.  I wrote it all down, of course, because it ought to be remembered.  It was important!  But it wasn't anything I wanted to talk about down at the Green Dragon.  I didn't go there very often anyway."

"And they wouldn't have believed you, if you had tried to tell them," said the wizard.

"No, probably not.  The Shire isn't much interested in things so far away, Radagast.  They put up a nice memorial to the hobbits who were killed fighting the ruffians, and I suppose Pippin and Merry will be Captain Peregrin and Meriadoc the Magnificent to the end of their days.  As they should be!" he added quickly.  "But the whole War, the defeat of Sauron and the return of the King – that doesn't mean much to the Shire, so long as Elessar keeps the ruffians from coming back.  It's too far away, and hobbits are only little people, when all is said and done."

"Little people who fight the Spider of Cirith Ungol and escape," growled Canohando.  "Little people who bring down the hosts of Mordor and leave the land empty and Masterless."

"Not so little, eh, Canohando?  But they really are, you know.  Donkey has courage and tenacity, and his little Samwise has a great heart, but it was not these things that brought them victory."  He gave a last, loving polish to his piece of wood, and leaned over to hand it to Lash.

"It is a flute, like mine.  If you wish, I will teach you to call the birds with it, for Mordor will be full of birds in a few more years, unless I am much mistaken."

Lash examined the flute with delight, cradling it as if it were the most precious thing in all the world, the polished wood a strange contrast to his scarred, broken-clawed hands.  He held it to his mouth, blowing in a sharp blast, and it emitted a plaintive squawk.

Radagast laughed.  "I have a heard a wood duck make a noise like that!  Be patient, Lash, and you will have many bird calls in your repertoire."

Canohando tossed a stone into the fire.  "You talk in riddles, old man," he said testily.  What brought the runt and his cousin to victory, then?"

"Remember the story I told you, Canohando.  The Dark One tried to twist the song of Eru, and Eru turned it back on him, to sweeter harmonies.  In all of Ea there is a tilt that favors life and lovingkindness, for that is the nature of the One who made it.  He who fights against that is like a swimmer making his way upstream against a waterfall – soon or late, he will be swept away.  Donkey and his companions rode the current instead of fighting it, and that was their strength."

Canohando nodded, tapping his front teeth with his empty mug and then getting up to refill it. Lash sat caressing his flute, the conversation passing by him unnoticed.  But Yarga glowered under his brows at Radagast, and when he looked at Frodo there was murder in his eyes.

The rain stopped at last and they left the fortress gladly, like prisoners released. The sun came out and within a day the ground was dry again, but the old streambeds were filled to overflowing, running high and fast.

"Now we will see what has come up, of all we planted," Radagast told Lash as they walked. The orc nodded and blew into his flute, producing the wild cry of geese flying south for the winter. He made bird calls more than he talked, these days, and Radagast grinned.  Lash repeated the cry, and suddenly it was echoed from the sky, so high up they had to strain their eyes to see the flock passing far above, black against the clouds.

Lash was startled into a harsh laugh, looking up wide-eyed to watch the geese go over; then he put flute to lips again and followed them with a cacophony of honking that left Radagast and Frodo doubled over with mirth, and Canohando shaking his head as if he wondered what madness had overtaken the other orc. Yarga stalked in silence a little way ahead, ignoring them.

They retraced the route they had been following before the rains caught them, hoping to find some of the places where they had scattered seeds. As it turned out, these places were easy to spot; the month of downpour had sprouted their plantings and sped their growth, so they found many little patches of grass and herbs already nearly up to Frodo's knees. They gathered around these bits of hopeful green, none of them more than a few yards across, and clapped one another on the back and laughed aloud; even Yarga smiled and seemed pleased to see how their work had been rewarded.

The desire to see more and more lured them on, so when they stopped it was late in the day, the sun already low in the sky. The wizard set about making the supper fire, and Frodo took the pail and started to the stream to fill it.

The sunset had stained the water crimson and he gazed from blazing sky to glowing water in delight, awed at the beauty of what had been a blasted land, before its moon of storms. The stream was high, the rushing water drowning out any other sound, and he was just about to kneel and fill his pail when suddenly he was caught under the arms from behind, savage claws digging into his ribs, and flung bodily out into the middle of the flood.

He sank, water filling his mouth, and struggled up to gulp a breath of air before the roiling water dragged him under again. The attack had been made in silence, but the second time he surfaced he heard a voice, a roar of rage or grief, and he tried to look toward the shore to find the source of it, but the water pulled him down.

He was going to drown. Already he was tired, almost too tired to fight his way up to the air, and the stream battered him against its rocky bottom and held him under. His lungs ached from the effort of holding his breath, and he got his feet against the bottom and pushed with all his strength, but the water bowled him over and he was forced back down against the rocks before he could reach the surface. Then there was an awful pain in his head, a jerk of his neck, and he was yanked up from the streambed and hauled into the air, gasping and choking, held up by his hair.

"Breathe, runt! Breathe!"

He breathed, desperately, and Canohando shifted his grip to wrap an arm around his chest, dragging him toward the shore. They were a couple of feet away when suddenly they both went down together, and the orc thrust Frodo up and out of the water, hurling him against the streambank even as he himself went under.

Frodo clawed at the rocks and dirt, pulling himself out, gasping a shout for help even before he had his feet under him. Something flashed past him into the water, and then Radagast and Lash were both in the stream, holding to one another to keep from being knocked off their feet, and they dragged Canohando up from the bottom and out onto the shore, waterlogged and unconscious, bleeding from the temple.

Radagast rolled him onto his front and pumped the water out of him, and he breathed but did not waken. Lash and the wizard carried him back to the campfire, blazing merrily now, and Frodo staggered after them with the water pail. He hung it to heat and went to where they were stripping the orc of his wet garments and wrapping him in his blanket. He wrung out a rag and began sponging away the blood, but Radagast pushed him aside to examine the wound and pull up the orc's eyelids, staring into his eyes.

"What happened, Donkey?" he asked.

Frodo held Canohando's cold hand between his warm ones, feeling again the relentless grip on his hair, dragging him back from death. "Someone threw me in. I was drowning and he came in after me."

"Yarga threw you in. We were following, but we were not close enough. He was very quick." It was Lash, bringing his blanket to spread on top of Canohando's own. He squatted next to Frodo, his eyes on his comrade's face. Canohando's breath was shallow and his skin, normally the color of slate, was pale as ashes. "Can you save him, Healer?"

"Donkey, get some athelas from my bag and bring hot water. I will save him if I can, Lash. He hit his head on the rocks."

"Yarga has run away."

"As he did before, from the Dark Tower. Go after him, Lash. Bring him back."

Let him run, Frodo thought, but he said nothing.

"All the more danger when we do not know where he is," said Radagast, as if Frodo had spoken aloud. "He was driven by love as well as hate, you know."

"Love!"

The wizard was washing Canohando's face with a cloth dampened in the athelas water. He withdrew the orc's arms from under the blanket, one at a time, and rubbed them down with the sweet-scented tisane before he tucked the blankets snug around him again.

"Yarga loves Canohando, remember, though he would not put it to himself that way. Love is a thing he has never known, and he feels it as the desire to keep the other all for himself. He tolerates Lash, as being another orc and the one who saved his own life, but he hates you on many counts – you are no orc, you destroyed the Ring and Sauron's rule, and most of all because Canohando seeks your company. It is beyond Yarga's imagination that Canohando might love both you and himself."

The wizard smiled at Frodo's expression of disbelief. "Why else did he go into the flood for you, Donkey? Did you not know that orcs fear the water?"

"But Lash went in, with you –"

"To save Canohando. You have seen three acts of love today, Frodo, though one was sadly perverted and may yet have a tragic end."

Darkness had fallen and the night grew cold. Lash did not return, and Canohando shivered under his blankets.

"We must get him warm. Get some rocks, Donkey, and put them close by the fire – we will tuck them around him when they are heated."

Frodo did as he was bid and then brought his own blanket to add to Canohando's coverings. The orc shivered uncontrollably and Frodo ached with pity.

"Radagast, could I warm him –?"

"The love is not all on one side, eh, Donkey? Yes, crawl in by him and lend him your warmth. I will bring the stones when they are heated through."

Frodo lay down by Canohando and pulled the pile of blankets over them both. The orc stench was strong under the covers and he willed himself not to mind. His lungs were filled with air and not water this night, only because this orc had braved the flood for him, and he wrapped his arm around the chilly ribcage, feeling the slow thud of the orc's heart.

"You must not die," he whispered. "Canohando! I will not let you die!"

After a time he fell asleep, his cheek pillowed against the orc's scarred back. Radagast wrapped the heated rocks in a cloak and tucked them under the covers on the other side. He filled a bowl with hot water and cast some leaves of athelas into it, holding it where the orc would breathe the steam.

The sky was beginning to lighten when Lash returned, his knife unsheathed, pushing Yarga ahead of him. Yarga's eyes went straight to the mound of blankets, then sought the wizard, questioning.

"He still lives, Yarga. Come and sit by him. Lash, can you make tea for us? You have seen us make it often enough." The orc looked at him doubtfully. "Put away your knife; it will not be needed."

They sat in silence watching the dawn, drinking their tea. Canohando began to shiver again, and Radagast reached under the blankets, pulling out the rocks. "Put these around the fire to get hot," he told Lash. "Yarga, will you lend him your warmth, while the rocks are heating?"

The orc nodded dumbly and lay down with his back against Canohando's chest, and Radagast drew the blankets over him. There was a disturbance on the other side, and Frodo poked his head out.

"Is it morning? How is he, Radagast?"

Yarga jerked up, glaring at him, pulling off the blankets. "Lie down!" the wizard said sharply. "If you would have him live, do not let him take a chill!" Yarga subsided, pressing his back against Canohando, and Radagast tucked the covers around them again.

"Stay there a little longer, Donkey," he said. "We are re-heating the stones, and then you can come out and have breakfast."
 

23. Change of Direction

There was an uneasy truce in Yarga's attitude to Frodo. He never looked at the hobbit directly, nor for that matter did Frodo look at him, but they watched each other. Frodo was careful to stay out of his reach, preferably with the fire between them.

Canohando remained insensible until the fourth night. The other orcs were sleeping after staying by his side all day, observing Radagast closely as he cared for him. At last the wizard had gone to take what rest he could, leaving Frodo to sit watch. The fire burned down and Frodo sat talking softly to the orc, more to keep himself awake than anything.

He wasn't really thinking about what he was saying, but all the time he caressed Canohando's hand, hardly noticing any more the scaly skin and thick, ragged nails. He started when a hoarse voice grated, "So you are still alive, runt? I got you out, then." The orc pulled his hand free and struggled to rise, but he could not sit alone without falling and Frodo caught him and eased him back down on the blanket.

"Wait, I'll get you some broth. You've been without food for days – of course you're weak."

"Weak! I can go many days without eating, not like you, runt! I should break you in half for that, but – I'll have some of that broth first."

Frodo chuckled and knelt behind the orc, propping him up and steadying the mug in his hands. Canohando drained it and motioned to lie down again.

"Three days," Frodo said, guessing what he would ask.

"And Yarga? The old man slew him?" The orc's voice was bleak.

Of course he would expect that, not knowing Radagast as Frodo did. "No, he sent Lash to bring him back. They are asleep over there." He indicated the far side of the fire.

Canohando stared at the mounded blankets, then at Frodo. "Are you mad, the two of you?" he whispered. "Do you think you are safe now, because I saved you once? You are not safe even from me! And Yarga –" He shut his eyes wearily. "You play with death, Ninefingers. It will be the end of you."

Frodo pulled the covers over him again before he spoke. "If Radagast killed him – for how could I do it? My sword against his bow? – if Radagast killed him, I say, though I have never seen him take a life, and I have traveled with him many leagues – what would you do then? Would you remain with us?"

The orc looked away into the darkness.

"Canohando – I could not have done other than I did, but – because I brought the Ring to the Fire, there remain only three orcs in Mordor. I would not be the cause of more death! Also I would see you cast off the yoke of Morgoth."

Canohando pushed himself up on one elbow. "You are mad. Get me another mug of that broth – I need my strength back."

Frodo was amazed at how quickly the orc recovered. By morning he was sitting unaided, devouring hunks of meat as fast as Frodo could grill them over the fire. By afternoon he was walking around the camp, Lash and Yarga shadowing his steps. The morning after, he was eager to move on. He brushed off Radagast's attempt to change his bandage.

"I am well enough, old man. Where do we journey now?"

Radagast looked him over as if evaluating his endurance. "I had thought to turn south. I have a desire to see how things go in the land of Nurn, and wet my feet in the Sea of Nurnen."

"Are we leaving Mordor, then?" Frodo asked.

"No, we are going to her breadbasket. Sauron's hosts had to be fed, you know, and there were not hunters enough, nor prey, to feed them all. The bulk of the food came from Nurn. But what became of that land when its Master was thrown down?"

Frodo stayed close to Radagast as they set out, and Canohando walked behind them, between his comrades. The orcs talked quietly in their own tongue, but gradually their voices grew louder and they fell further behind.

"Keep going, Donkey," Radagast muttered. "Let them sort it out."

The sun stood overhead when they stopped to rest and eat, and by then the orcs were nowhere to be seen. Frodo and the wizard had finished their meal and sat smoking their pipes, lazy and contented in the sunshine, when Canohando stalked in. He moved stiffly and he had a long cut down one arm, the blood already dry.

"Is there food left, runt? We did not hunt this day."

"There is food." Frodo laid aside his pipe and went to stir up the fire. He was still cooking when the others came in, Lash supporting Yarga, who held a bloody rag to his side. Yarga looked as if he had been beaten about the head, as well.

Radagast started to go to him, but Canohando elbowed the wizard away. "I will tend to him, old man. Will you give me bandages and some of that herb you use?"

Radagast gave him what he asked for and sat back. Canohando knelt where Yarga had stretched himself out on the ground, talking quietly to him and washing, bandaging his wound. He soaked another cloth in the athelas water and bound it around the smaller orc's head. At last he brought him food and a mug of tea, before he went to get food for himself. All the while Yarga watched him, the flat black eyes following Canohando's every motion with an intensity that disturbed Frodo.

They traveled no farther that day. Yarga fell asleep and the other orcs sat by him, shading him with their bodies. Lash blew softly into his flute, sounding like mountain songbirds. Radagast made a fresh tisane of athelas and wrung out a rag in it, going to wash the blood from Canohando's arm. The orc raised no objection.

"Will you plant that herb in Mordor, old man? It would be good to have it growing here."

Radagast nodded. "The climate is too dry for it in Gorgoroth, but it might grow in the mountains."

"That does us no good. The mountains are taken by Gondor."

"There are other mountains, north and south of Mordor, not only toward Gondor. Did orcs live there as well, before the War?"

The orc shrugged. "Perhaps. I have not been there."

"The northern mountains stretch far to the east, and I think that land is thinly settled. You might find a home there, Canohando."

"Perhaps," the orc said again. The wizard rummaged in his bag and brought forth a small earthenware jar with a wooden stopper. He dug out a gob of some strong-smelling ointment, smearing it on Canohando's wound.

"We will go there, after I have seen Nurn," he said. "Somewhere we will find a place for you three." The next day they traveled on, and the orcs stayed with them this time.

Winter in Mordor was pleasanter than Frodo had expected. It rained sometimes, but without wind or thunder, just a steady flow of water out of a grey sky. Most days were cool and dry, and sometimes they glimpsed the sun for a short while, before clouds covered it again. At night it was cold and they were glad to huddle in blankets round their little fire while Radagast told them stories of the First Age. Frodo was surprised how little the orcs knew; all the tales seemed unfamiliar to them, and they listened raptly.

But even more than the stories, they responded to music. The wizard got in the habit of playing his flute every night before they slept, and the orcs listened as if spell-bound; even Yarga's eyes lost their fire while the music lasted, and Lash tried inexpertly to join in with his own flute, weaving bird calls incongruously through every melody. Sometimes Yarga beat a rhythm along with Radagast's song, slapping his hands sharply against his thighs, his eyes turned inward, lost in some world of his own.

The rain came more frequently as they made their way south, and they forded many small streams, bordered with willows and reeds. One afternoon they reached the top of a little rise to find ploughed land before them, tender seedlings of some crop just breaking through the soil. While they stood staring at this hopeful landscape, they were challenged suddenly by a troop of short, stocky men who appeared so suddenly, it was as if they had risen out of the very earth.

"Orcs! Go back! There is no place for you here!" The men carried short swords and wore metal helmets, but otherwise they were without armor, dressed in loose shirts and baggy pants bound tight around their ankles, their feet bare. Their demeanor was grim and determined, however, in spite of their motley appearance.

"Go back!" the spokesman said again, stepping forward with his sword arm outstretched before him.

Yarga had his bow already strung, but Canohando snatched it from his hands, looking at Radagast. This is your affair, his look said plainly enough; it was your desire to come here.

"We will not come into your land against your will," the wizard said mildly. "Are you men of Nurn?"

"Men and women," was the answer, and Frodo looked more closely, realizing in surprise that the speaker and several of her followers were women. Her voice was as deep as a man's, and in the baggy clothes they looked much alike.

"We are the defenders of our land, and we suffer none to enter here. The slavedrivers ran away when the ground moved, and we will not have them back again."

Radagast nodded. "That is your right, certainly. The orcs are all gone, then, who used to be here?"

"Gone." She paused, then said as if unwillingly, "Some we killed. Many. But then the Sky Blue One came and told us we did evil, so those that remained we drove away into the Eastern Wasteland and let them go. But evil or not, we will kill any orc who tries to enter here again!"

Radagast was staring at her. "The Sky Blue One?" he said. "Of what manner was he?"

The woman looked him up and down. "Taller than you and fair of skin and hair, but still like, somehow. He came to us the first summer after the ground moved, when we were still at war against the orc-kind and no one thought of planting the fields. He was robed all in blue, like the sky, and he reminded us that no one would remain alive, if we did not grow food."

"And is he still with you?" The wizard's voice was eager, but the woman shook her head.

"No. He went after the orcs, away into the East."

Radagast sighed. "Ah, well, I hoped to have found one of my own Order, but I am too late. For so he was, I deem. We came together to these shores, the five Istari, but we remained in the West, Gandalf and I, and Saruman. The Blue Wizards went to the East, and we heard no more of them. I must seek for them one day, but now is not the time." He stood for a moment staring at the ground as if in thought, then turned his attention back to the woman. "You people of Nurn, you live at peace now? And you grow food for yourselves, not for the Dark Lord's armies."

The woman nodded. "We are at peace among ourselves, and we patrol our borders, lest the orc-kind return."

"That is good. We will leave you and go another way." He turned on his heel and started back the way they had come, Frodo and the orcs following him. Frodo looked back once over his shoulder and saw the little patrol still watching them, swords out and ready in case they thought of returning.

They made camp soon after, and ate and sat around the fire listening to Radagast's flute. And then out of the darkness, back in the land of Nurn, they heard answering music: drums, mostly, beating a complicated rhythm, and also a sort of musical wail, high and eerie in the night.

Yarga had been lolling back on the ground, half-asleep, but he sat up at the sound of the drums and listened intently. Soon his hands were beating an answering rhythm against his thighs, and Radagast stopped playing, the better to listen to the far-off drums and Yarga's reply to them. When the music stopped at last, the orc lay back down with his arm across his eyes. Canohando said something to him, but he turned his face away and did not answer.

Lash slipped away during the night. He was gone when they woke at dawn, and Canohando was beside himself. "He has gone back to those snaga," he told Radagast in a voice tight with fear. "He has gone back to them, and they will slay him."

Radagast nodded. "Stay here, you three. I will go after him." But he had no more than taken his staff when Lash bounded into camp, looking well pleased with himself.

"Here!" he said to Yarga, thrusting something into his hands. "Now you will play for us by the fire, along with the Healer."

It was a drum, the wood intricately carved, the leather head so pale it was nearly white. It had a leather strap on one side, apparently meant to be hooked to the belt when traveling.

Yarga turned it in his hands, staring at it and then at Lash. "How did you make them give it to you?"

"I traded for it." Lash glanced at Radagast, as if for approval. "I killed no one, Healer! I sat where we met them yesterday, and played bird songs till they came to see what bird there was that sang at night and had so many calls – I traded my flute for the drum."

Frodo thought he heard regret for the lost flute in the orc's voice, but Lash was looking at Yarga. "Play it," he urged. "Let them hear, over there, what an orc can do with a drum."

Yarga stood for a moment, running his hands over the carved wood, and then he laughed aloud, almost the first sound of real pleasure Frodo had ever heard from him. He sat down with the drum between his knees, bending to it as to a lover.

It was unbelievable, what Yarga could do with a drum. It sang under his hands; it cried and shouted and echoed through the morning air, and Canohando and Lash began to clap along with it, and Frodo found himself clapping too, and Radagast pulled out his flute and played in the background, letting Yarga take the lead while the flute followed wherever the drum led. It was a wild music they made that morning, just over the border from Nurn, and before it was over Canohando and Lash and even Frodo were dancing in a wide ring around the musicians, till Frodo ran out of breath and went, laughing, to start the breakfast fire.

"You made a good trade," Radagast told Lash while they ate, "and yet, I would that you still had your flute. I have grown fond of hearing birds singing round our evening fire."

"I hoped –" Lash stared at the ground by the wizard's feet, sounding strangely shy. "I hoped you might make me another one."

Radagast smiled as if he were well pleased at the request. "I will do better than that, my friend. I will teach you to make your own; then you need never be without music, and you can trade your flutes where you will, for what you need. And since we cannot enter Nurn, perhaps we should turn now to the northern mountains and search out a new place for three orcs who cannot go back home."

"There is somewhere else I would go first," said Canohando, and Radagast looked at him in question.

"I would see what became of Lugburz."

They stared at him in silence that felt heavier, the longer it lasted.

"I would see it," he insisted, though no one had spoken. "I know it is destroyed; it must be! But I must see it for myself before I turn to find a new home."

"If you must see it, then we will journey there," said the wizard.

Canohando nodded, satisfied, and Frodo bit his lip. He would not refuse to go where Radagast led, but more than any place in Middle Earth he dreaded Barad-dur, the Lugburz of the orcs. He had escaped being taken there once before, but now it seemed he would have to go.

24. Hope and Threat

Radagast seemed in no hurry to reach Barad-dur. They turned north from the border of Nurn, but angled far to the east, away from Sauron's old stronghold. The soil was still wet from the autumn storms, and they scattered seeds in sheltered hollows among the rocks.

They reached the spur of the Ered Lithui along the edge of Gorgoroth, and followed the line of hills toward the northeast. Every day Frodo expected Canohando to protest that this was taking them farther from Lugburz, not closer, but the big orc said nothing. Perhaps his knowledge of the country was at fault – but no, he had been a messenger; the northern part of Mordor, at least, must be well known to him.

The hills here were even more barren than the ones to the west where Gondor now ruled. They were steep-sided, and they had been stripped of their trees more than once: the first time when Sauron was building his fortress, then over and over again, as wood was needed for spear shafts and wagons and engines of war. The slopes were badly eroded; the streams, running high from the recent rains, yellow with silt.

Lash grew more agitated the deeper they penetrated into the hills, growling and muttering in his own harsh language each time they came to some deep-carved gully, the soil washed away until the underlying granite was exposed. One day he burst out, "Even the rain does no good here! Your seeds can't grow on bare rock, Healer."

They stood looking at a washout some twenty feet across that ran halfway down the hillside. Lash jumped down into it; the gully was nearly waist-deep on him.

Frodo sat down to rest, taking a drink from his water bottle. Radagast looked around at the stony landscape. "There is something we might try, but it would be heavy labor, far beyond what Donkey and I could do."

Lash looked up at them hopefully, and Canohando said, "We will do the work, old man, if you think it will mend these rifts in the land. They are like wounds; they make something hurt in my belly."

The wizard set them to gathering rocks and building a rough wall across the width of the gully. It took the better part of four days, and while the orcs built the wall, Frodo and Radagast searched out every sheltered spot they could find within a half-day's walk of their camp, planting seeds.

The last day it began to rain again, a cold downpour that turned the bare earth to sticky mud. They huddled together for warmth, their blankets over their heads, eating dried fruit and strips of dried meat from the wizard's sack, while he told them tales of Numenor, its days of glory and its fall, and the terrible wave that destroyed it at last.

"They couldn't have been much wetter than we are," Frodo said lightly, and sneezed. Radagast reached out to feel his forehead.

"Where is the nearest outpost from here, Canohando? Do you have any idea where we are?"

They could not see the orc's face in the shadows of their makeshift tent, but there was amusement in his voice. "I know where we are, old man, near enough. There is a fortress two or three days from here, down on the plain."

"Good," said Radagast. "We will seek some better cover from these rains than our wet blankets. In the spring we will go to Lugburz." And Frodo was silently thankful for the sneeze that had put off that dreadful prospect a little longer.

When the ended at last, they dried their belongings as well as they could and made ready to leave. They stopped first to look at the gully they had been working on, and found that the rain had washed more soil down the slope, lodging it against the rock wall. Radagast clambered down and tossed seeds on the little ridge of dirt that rimmed the stones.

"With luck," he said as he climbed back up to join them, "the rocks will hold firm, and the soil will build up behind them to fill the rift. We will come back in a few years and see."

Canohando raised his brows. "I think you will be a long time in Mordor, old man," he said, and Radagast smiled benignly at him.

"Quite a long time, I should think," he said.

They reached Canohando's fortress late on the second day. It rained again, but they did not stop for it; it was warmer walking than sitting still. Frodo was sneezing frequently, carrying his handkerchief balled up in his hand to save the trouble of constantly fishing it out of his pocket. He didn't feel ill, really; only weary and headache-y, but Radagast lost no time in settling him before a fire and brewing a mixture of herbs for him to drink. Whatever was in it made him drowsy, and he lay down to sleep right where he was.

The orcs had been exploring the fort. "There's not much firewood," Lash said, bringing an armful and heaping it in a corner.

"There is a room below ground that seems dry," said Canohando. "It would take only a small fire warm it." He went to squat by Frodo, touching the hobbit's cheek. "He is fevered, old man."

"He took a chill," Radagast said. "Donkey, wake up; drink another mug of my tisane." But Frodo was hard to rouse, and when he sat up at last he put his hand to his chest as if it hurt him to breathe. The wizard coaxed the tea into him and let him lie down again.

"Is there a flow of fresh air in that room, Canohando?"

The orc shrugged. "Go and see, old man; I will stay with the runt. Lash, show him where it is."

Radagast went with Lash, wondering all the while where Yarga had gone. But when they returned, Yarga was leaning in the doorway watching Canohando. Frodo was still asleep and the big orc sat close by him, his back to the door. He was unaware of Yarga's presence, and he held Frodo's hand in his.

"Sleep till you are well, runtling, but not too long," he said softly. "It is a hard fight, and I need my shield-brother."

"That room has air enough," Radagast said briskly, as if he had not heard. "Get him up, Canohando; we will move down there where we can all keep warm." He did not look at Yarga, but he had not missed the stony expression on the orc's face.

Frodo could walk, but he seemed only half awake. When they came to the stairway he stumbled, and Canohando picked him up and carried him down to the lower chamber. They made him as comfortable as they could and got a little fire going, and Radagast prepared food for himself and the orcs, but Frodo would not eat. He slept restlessly, and as night fell his labored breathing was loud in the small room. Radagast sat down with his back against the wall and drew the hobbit up to lean against his chest, and Frodo seemed to breathe easier that way.

He woke in the middle of the night; he had slipped down to lie on the floor, and it was hard to breathe again. He moved to sit by Radagast, his head leaning against his shoulder, and the wizard stirred.

"Awake, Donkey? How do you feel?"

"I'm all right when I sit up."

"Sit, then. I'll mix up some medicine for you."

A vile-tasting concoction to drink, and a bowl of steaming athelas water to lean over. Gradually the tightness in his lungs eased and he began to feel drowsy again. Radagast settled him back against his shoulder. "Sleep, Donkey."

Frodo slept through most of the next day. He woke late in the afternoon feeling nearly himself again; he had a heavy cold, but that was all. He looked around in confusion. "Why is it so dark? Is it still night?"

Canohando sat beside him. "This is the lockhole, under the fortress. After all your journeys, you're back in an Orkish prison." The orc grinned at the dismay on Frodo's face. "You woke in good time for your torture, runt – the old man is teaching Lash to cook. How hungry are you?"

"Not hungry enough to eat a rat! Is Lash really cooking?" He looked over at the fire; Lash squatted there, stirring something. Radagast sat nearby, smoking his pipe while he supervised.

"I think you had better be very hungry," said Canohando. "I am not certain that an orc can cook, whoever teaches him."

Yarga came through the doorway at that moment, carrying what looked like half a dozen dead rats by their tails. He glowered. "Is Lash still an orc?" he asked. His glance flicked over Canohando like a whip. "Are you, Ghul-rakk?"

Canohando stood up slowly, his eyes blazing. "You may be the meat, if I hear that name again. And I will help Lash cook it."

Frodo stared, his mouth fallen open; the atmosphere of good-natured raillery had changed in an instant to one of deadly menace. Lash put down his spoon with careful deliberation and rose. "His name is Canohando," he said. "He has earned it. And you and I, we never named him Ghul-rakk."

Yarga sneered. "Now I name him so. He eats no raw meat; he makes no kill." He spat on the floor by Canohando's feet. "Do you think you will turn into an elf, if you kiss the hairy feet of that halfling?"

Radagast moved to Frodo's side, pulling him to his feet. Lash fingered the hilt of his knife. "I held you back from the pit, the day the ground twisted," he said. "Together we drew this one back from death."

There was warning in Canohando's voice. "I am no elf, Yarga. I have not forgotten how to kill."

"Kill the halfling, then, if you are still an orc," Yarga challenged.

Canohando turned to look at the hobbit; he eyed him up and down for a long minute and Frodo endured it, steeling himself to show no fear, though his heart was hammering in his throat. Finally Canohando stepped in front of him, shielding him from Yarga, and Frodo breathed again.

"No," the orc said. "You kill him, if you think you can – but you will have to get past me."

Lash came to stand by Canohando, pulling out his knife. He ran his thumb across the blade, then raised his eyes to Yarga. "There are three orcs left in Mordor, that is all," he said. "Must we slay one another until there are none?"

Yarga glared at them in silence, then threw his rats down before them. "Food for the orcs, if there are any here," he said. "I think there is only one orc left in Mordor." He snatched up blanket and drum from his sleeping place and went out into the narrow corridor. After a few minutes they heard the sound of his drum, a low throb that faded away as he passed out of hearing into the upper reaches of the fortress.

*******

Notes:
* Ghul-rakk: literally, milk-sucker. Soft; a useless weakling. Lash's remark implies that this might have been Canohando's Orkish name, which would explain why he was quick to accept Radagast's Quenya name for himself, as much more complimentary!

25. The Pit That Was Barad-dur

Yarga stayed away three days and then Canohando went to look for him. He wanted Lash to go with him, but Lash was beginning to carve his flute.

"Leave him to the dark and to his drum, Canohando," he said, not taking his eyes from the wood in his hands. "You cannot talk to him in this mood."

Frodo thought that was good advice, but Canohando paced up and down the room like a caged beast, and at last he caught up his bow and went out. He did not come back until late in the evening as they were settling down for sleep.

"Did you find him?" Radagast asked. The orc nodded, laying his bow and quiver carefully against the wall.

"I killed meat for him, but he would not eat. I will go again tomorrow."

"Be careful he does not take you for his meat," Lash said. He crossed the room to sit by the bigger orc, and Canohando shifted so that they were shoulder to shoulder, as if the touch comforted him. "Leave him to his drum," Lash said again.

But when they woke the next morning, Canohando was gone, and he did not return until they were eating supper. He sat with them and accepted the mug of tea Frodo gave him, but he would not eat.

"I have eaten already," he said, draining his mug and passing it back to be refilled.

"Whose kill?" Lash asked.

"Yarga's. He had eaten mine during the night." Canohando grimaced. "Raw," he added, scraping at his front teeth with his fingernail, as if to cleanse them.

Lash half-filled a bowl with stew and carried it to him. "Raw with Yarga, cooked with me," he said, as if it had been a challenge, and Canohando tipped back his head and gulped the food in one motion.

"Mark a board, runt," he said to Frodo. "We will be Orcs together, against these Tarks." He bared his teeth fiendishly at Lash, but the other orc only grinned, and though they played Orks and Tarks until Frodo was nodding in his place, struggling to keep his eyes open, Lash and the wizard took every game. The next morning Canohando was gone again.

Lash worked patiently on his flute, shaping the stick of cedar Radagast had given him and hollowing it. His face was peaceful, his hands deft and careful in spite of their rough appearance, and Frodo watched him covertly, feeling that his wager had paid off for this orc, at least. Radagast told them tales to pass the time, and in the evening he played for them on his own flute. Canohando was gone every day, hunting with Yarga, they supposed, but he came back at suppertime. And after a few nights, when Radagast began his music, they heard Yarga's drum somewhere out in the darkness, answering the flute and beating haunting rhythms around its clear notes.

Weeks passed, and Frodo was long over his cold. He sat near the fire one morning playing knucklebones by himself, listening to Radagast telling about the Gold and Silver Trees and watching Lash as he rubbed his completed flute to a smooth finish. He was startled by Canohando bounding into the room.

"Come out of this dark hole," the orc shouted. "It's spring!" They hastened after him up the stairs and out into the upper courtyard. The ground was dry, and they stood blinking in the sunlight. The cold, dank winter was over.

"It is spring indeed," said Radagast, and Frodo stretched and turned his face up to the sun, closing his eyes against its brightness and reveling in its warmth.

"Time to move on," said a voice behind him. He swung round to see Yarga standing in the gateway, half in the shadows. "Are we going to Lugburz, old man?"

Radagast nodded. "If you still wish to go there," he said. He looked at Canohando.

"Yes," the big orc said. "I wish it." Frodo pulled his cloak snug around himself, chilled as if someone had stepped on his grave.

They spent one more night in the fortress, Yarga sleeping with them in the underground room, and in the morning they set out. Canohando took the lead, as if he would countenance no more dawdling on this journey. He covered the ground at a pace that kept Frodo nearly trotting to keep up, and when they stopped for the night, the hobbit collapsed to the ground with no strength left to build a fire.

"Did you mean to wear him out?" Radagast asked the orc quietly. Lash was cooking their meal, and the wizard sat by the fire smoking. He had covered Frodo with his blanket before he sat down.

Canohando blinked, then went to squat by the hobbit. "No," he said. He rested his hand on the blanket-shrouded form; Frodo was sound asleep. "No; I forgot he is so small. Slow me down tomorrow, old man, if I go too fast."

The journey took them twelve days, traveling at a speed that Frodo could maintain without exhaustion. They did not slow down to search for planting spots or to look for signs of life; indeed, the land was so barren, it would have been of no use to look. The soil was hard as iron and the old streambeds they passed were dry; the winter rains had not fallen here. The last few days they waded through ashes, up to Frodo's knees in some places, ashes that caught the air as they walked, drifting up to sting their eyes and burn the backs of their throats. They veered away from the Mountain to avoid the worst of it, and that added several days to the trek.

Then suddenly they were there. Without warning the land gaped open at their feet, a plunging canyon that stretched from where they stood to a black cliff that broke the horizon far ahead – in all that space there was nothing, an aching void that Frodo thought must go down to the center of the earth.

He backed away from it, fearful as if something in the depths might reach up to drag him down. He wanted to turn and flee, but at the same time he wanted to look down into the pit, to know if there was anything, anything at all, to be seen. He lowered himself to the ground and crawled forward on his belly, feeling the edge with his fingers and peering over.

It was black, black as death and fathomless, and even now it reeked of ashes and brimstone. Frodo's mind reeled and a wave of nausea swept over him; he scuttled backward and lay on the ground trembling, grateful for the solid earth under his body. Not since Shelob's tunnel had he looked on anything that so horrified him, and yet it held a terrible fascination; he dug his fingers into the dirt to stop himself from creeping forward to look again.

"Come, Donkey, we will not camp near this thing." Radagast's voice broke through his fog, and he looked up and grasped the wizard's outstretched hand, scrambling to his feet. He followed Radagast, looking back over his shoulder for the orcs. Canohando and Yarga stood immobile next to the pit, staring into it, but Lash was a few yards from them, his hand shading his eyes, looking toward the mountains away to the north.

Radagast did not stop until they were half an hour's walk from Barad-dur. They made tea first, and as soon as he finished his, Frodo lit his pipe, soothed by the familiar ritual and aroma. The wizard brought out cooking pans; Frodo took them from him and started preparing the evening meal.

"I'll cook tonight, Donkey," said Radagast, but Frodo shook his head.

"It helps, doing something. Anything. Radagast, it's so – nothing!" He waved his hands, helpless to express what he was feeling. "All that awful power; it was enormous, it was overwhelming; I saw it, Radagast! Did you ever see the Morannon? It was terrifying; you felt it was hopeless to even struggle against such power and – there's nothing left. Just emptiness."

"The subjection of all life," the wizard said thoughtfully. "He cast it in Eru's face, his defiance, his rage, and – Eru cast it back."

Frodo shivered and set himself to cooking, although the last thing he felt he wanted was food.

It was near dark when the orcs found them. Lash came in first, blowing softly on his flute, a warbling of birdsong, sounding peaceful and sleepy. Canohando and Yarga returned together, silent and inward-looking. Frodo filled bowls and they ate; when they finished, Canohando drew a half-finished arrow from his quiver and sat in the firelight fletching it. Yarga sat in his sleeping place, honing his knife.

“Have you seen enough?” Radagast said into the silence.

He looked at Yarga as he spoke, but Yarga did not raise his head and finally Canohando said, “We have seen enough. We will leave at first light.”

“Good!” The wizard drew out his flute. He echoed Lash's birdsong of a little while before, quiet and plaintive, and water running over stones, and rain that fell soft on fertile land. Then the music changed, and it was darkness creeping over a sunlit steppe, darkness and threat, and the birdsong returned for half a measure only to be choked off by the marching of iron-shod feet. A theme of metal and stone grew to a discordant wail that made Frodo cover his ears, but the orcs listened avidly, as if the music gave voice to their hidden thoughts. The flute ended on a piercing note like a shriek, and there was silence so deep that they were aware of their own racing heartbeats. Then the sound of water returned, and the birdsong, and so it ended. Radagast put the flute away and they lay down to sleep.

Frodo woke in the cold hour before dawn, jolted awake by dreams of fire and blood. There was no sound but the breathing of his companions.

The empty canyon where Barad-dur had been was calling to him. He had held back yesterday, but now the craving to look once more into that black pit was overpowering. He got up and padded quietly around the camp, biting his fingernails, trying to fight the urge. They were all asleep, Yarga lying on his back with his arms thrown out to his sides. It was too dark to see his face, but something in his posture touched Frodo; the orc looked so vulnerable, asleep like that.

He had time to go back for one more look, if he hurried. He could be back in camp by dawn; there was moonlight enough for him to find the place. Warning prickled in his mind, but he ignored it. He had to see that chasm of nothingness one more time.

He retraced their steps of the day before, the ashes rising on the chill air to drift about him, making him cough. He stopped to take a drink from his water bottle and pushed on. The moon was sinking into the west.

And then he stood on the brink again, staring into the void. It was dark around him, but nothing like the darkness in that accursed hole, and he shivered with cold and horror, but did not turn away. The sky began to lighten and at last he looked up. Time to go.

He turned, and nearly stepped backward into the abyss. Yarga stood behind him, a black silhouette against the graying sky, half a dozen steps away. Frodo felt his blood turn to ice.

"I didn't hear you," he said, and took a step away from the pit.

"No," Yarga said, and smiled.

"I had to see it again." He was playing for time; surely Yarga was not alone? Radagast, at least, must be near at hand.

Yarga's smile widened; Frodo had never seen him so happy. "I left them sleeping, Ring-bearer. So you came back for another look, did you? I think you should see it closer, what you wrought in Mordor."

The orc advanced on him, and Frodo glanced back over his shoulder. The abyss yawned behind him, and he knew Yarga's speed too well to think he could feint and dart away.

"How many orcs lie rotting in that hole? I think I will send you to join them. I will hear you screaming all the way down." The orc's purple tongue snaked out of his mouth, licking his lips. "But I would not see you die," he said regretfully.

His breath was rank in Frodo's face. His knife hand came up slowly until the tip of the blade rested in the hollow of Frodo's throat.

"I would you had come to Lugburz, Ring-bearer. I would have made you shriek! And then I would have slit your throat, to stop your mouth…"

Frodo stood motionless, staring into the cold eyes, holding them. Now you must choose, Yarga. To slay or to leave alive. To break free from Morgoth's yoke or – not.

He could not hate the orc, even with the knife at his throat. Yarga's eyes were as black and empty as the void behind him, and all Frodo could feel was pity. Yarga might kill him, but Canohando and Lash would not have. They had broken the yoke; they were free.

Suddenly he was no longer afraid. He would die, or he would live a while longer, and he was at peace either way. He had fulfilled his purpose – twice over he had fulfilled it! – and Yarga could take nothing from him. He grieved for the orc, though, if he chose to slay.

Yarga glared into the hobbit's eyes and was confounded by their peace. Fury and confusion churned in his mind, the knife wobbled in his hand, and the point nicked Frodo's skin, drew blood. The peace in the blue eyes deepened. Yarga's hand dropped and the knife hung at his side.

"Go," he muttered.

Frodo's hand reached out as if by its own will and took Yarga by the arm, pulling him toward camp. "Come back," he said.

For a wonder, the orc followed him. They were halfway back when a cloud of ashes appeared ahead, Canohando and Lash, running, but Radagast was in the lead. Frodo thought in surprise that he had never before seen the wizard run. They surrounded him and Yarga, panting for breath, and the flying ashes blew around them, making Frodo sneeze.

Canohando caught Yarga by the shoulder, but the smaller orc twisted out of his grip and darted away. Canohando let him go and turned to Frodo.

“What passed between you and Yarga, runt?”

“He did not kill me.” As the words left his mouth, Frodo thought how foolish they sounded, but Canohando nodded.

"I had not thought to see you alive again. Why did you go back there alone?" He did not wait for an answer, but started back toward the pit himself, and the rest of them trailed after him, Radagast with his arm tight around Frodo's shoulders.

Yarga was not there. Canohando walked to the edge and stood looking down, and Frodo went to his side. "This is your doing, Ninefingers," the orc said. "The Dark Lord is thrown down, and three orcs are – I do not know what we are." He took Frodo's elbow and pulled him away from the brink. "This is where we leave you, old man,' he said to Radagast.

"Where will you go?"

Canohando looked to Lash, who had been casting about, examining their footprints on the ground. "I cannot tell if he came back here or not. I will have to track him from where he ran off," Lash said.

“We will follow Yarga,” Canohando said. "And then we will go into the eastern mountains and find us a new home.”

The orc took Frodo by the shoulders and stared into his face. His eyes were black, as they had always been, but not empty. Not like Yarga’s. “Will you find him?” Frodo asked.

“We will find him. He will be waiting for us.” Suddenly the orc’s arms closed around him, crushing him, a rough embrace. "Shield brother," he muttered. Then he shoved the hobbit away, and Frodo stumbled against Radagast. The orcs started back the way they had come, breaking into a trot. Canohando looked back once and raised his hand, and they were gone.

26. Light-bearer

Radagast and Frodo waited only to see the orcs out of sight before they broke camp and left Barad-dur, never to return. Indeed, had Radagast wanted to go back, Frodo could not have borne it. For months afterward his sleep was broken as nightmares brought him again and again to the edge of the abyss, Yarga's knife at his throat, Yarga's voice... The grace of peacefulness he had known in reality was absent in his dreams, and he woke always in a cold sweat, moaning.

"It will pass, Donkey, it will pass," Radagast murmured in the darkness, wrapping a blanket around him and holding his trembling form tight until he calmed. "You have a strong spirit, but the body will have its say, even when the danger is no more."

"Is it truly no more? You don't think Yarga will follow us, even now?" Frodo was not afraid in the daytime, but when he was asleep it was another matter.

"He will not follow. You have won your wager, Frodo; take comfort in it! Those orcs, whatever they may become, will never be what they were before they met you. You gave them hope and they took hold of it, all three of them, each in his own way. I am glad indeed that you came with me to Mordor – in all my desire to heal this wasted land, it had not even occurred to me to hope for this, that the curse of Morgoth might be lifted from any of his victims!"

Frodo let himself be comforted, and fell back into sleep. Gradually the nightmares came less often, until they came no more.

They spent the summer in the western mountains, not hiding this time. Several times they encountered patrols from Ithilien and sent messages to the King, greetings and well wishes. Near the end of summer they were tracked down deliberately by Elessar's men, bearing gifts – soft, light blankets of Elven weave, a packet of delicate tea, a small vial of miruvor, the reviving cordial of the Elves, and best of all, to Frodo's mind, a goodly supply of the finest Longbottom Leaf, the seal of the Shire still on it, and a couple of new pipes.

"The King greets you and wishes you all success in your chosen task," the Captain of the patrol told them, standing stiff and formal to deliver his message. "He says further that any creature of any kind whatsoever, that you may take under your protection, is in his keeping as well, so long as it remains with you."

Radagast looked at Frodo. "I think a letter is in order, King's Friend, to apprise Elessar of what became of the creatures whose protection we claimed in his name, last time we passed this way. Will you write it?"

So Frodo accepted writing materials from the Captain and wrote to Aragorn, telling of the orcs and what became of them, but glossing over his own danger. "They are gone into the northern mountains, far to the East," he finished his account, "and I doubt they will come this far West again. Truly they are much changed from what they were, and I, Frodo, ask that the King's blessing may be on them."

He thought for a moment, rubbing the pen against the side of his nose, and added, "We thank you, both Radagast and I, for all your gifts and especially for the pipeweed! If you have occasion to send a message to the Shire, will you send word from me to Samwise? Tell him I am well, and I have not forgotten him. With all respect and affection, your faithful subject, Frodo Baggins."

They parted from the patrol with many bows and expressions of courtesy, but in truth, Frodo was not sorry to be on their own again. And that evening, sitting by the fire, he breathed deep of the fragrance of the packet of leaf before he filled his pipe.

"You may go home, you know Donkey, anytime you like." Radagast was regarding him with some concern, and Frodo smiled.

"No, I am not yet ready to leave you, Aiwendil!* But it is good, all the same, to catch a whiff of home. I hope Aragorn will pass on my greeting to Sam."

"I think you can be sure of that, Donkey. Probably with a rather complete account of your doings, as far as Elessar knows them."

Frodo laughed. "I'd like to hear what Sam says if he hears about the orcs! Ten to one he won't believe a word of it."

When autumn came they turned again toward Nurn. This time they were not stopped at the border, and Radagast looked his fill at the land and went out with the fishing boats on the Sea of Nurnen, standing in the bow with his robes blowing around him, gazing to the East. He was delighted with everything he saw – the land was in good heart, and the former slaves had chosen headmen and wisewomen who kept the peace as well as could be expected, after centuries of enslavement. At least there was still freedom, and no new oppressor had arisen to drag the folk back into servitude. But his face when he looked to the East was unreadable, and Frodo wondered what was in his mind.

They spent the winter in Nurn and the spring in the Morgai. They had gathered seeds from their plantings at the end of the previous summer and they journeyed as they had before, planting any spot that seemed wet enough to bring the seeds to growth. But now as they traveled they passed many little stands of grass where there had been none before, patches of green scattered here and there in the grey land, and in the shade of the thorn bushes a few little trees were springing up, thin and pliable as whips, of some species that could endure the harshness of the land.

In summer they returned to the western mountains, but farther to the south than they had yet gone, and they met no patrols from Gondor this year. There were many valleys where the trees were thrice Radagast's height, young trees growing among rotten old stumps that testified that this forest, too, had been cut down in the Dark Years.

"It is healing itself, Radagast!" Frodo exulted. "We have never come this way before, and it is healing all the same!" He strode ahead of the wizard, a slight figure but wiry and strong, his step vigorous. A squirrel scolded from a branch above him, and Frodo pursed his lips and chattered back at it, sounding like a squirrel himself. Radagast laughed aloud, and it was not only the healing of the forest that gladdened his heart.

For more than a score of years they ranged the land, following the seasons from Gorgoroth to the mountains and back again, but never venturing into the northeast, where the orcs had gone. They did not talk of the orcs, but they came many times to Frodo's mind. He hoped they still lived, that no enemy had found and slain them, as the men of Ithilien would have done. He hoped they had found a home to their liking in the far eastern mountains. Often and often his thoughts returned to them, and he wished blessing on them.

At last one year he turned to the East when the summer's heat drove them out of Gorgoroth. Without a plan or a word spoken, one morning he doused the breakfast fire and shouldered his pack, and not even glancing at Radagast he faced the sun where it hung over the horizon and began to walk. The wizard followed him, and it was a strange thing, because always before Radagast had been the leader who said where they would go, and when.

After some days they came to the mountain spur that jutted down from the Ered Lithui along the border of Gorgoroth, and Frodo turned north, choosing a way through the hills but not up into the mountains, pushing always into the northeast. The farther they traveled, the greener the land became, second-growth forest springing up around them, the stumps of the older, devastated woods no more than moss-covered humps among the new trees.

The end of summer found them far to the east, past the spur and deep into the northern range. This forest was older, with no sign that it had ever been felled. There was little undergrowth; the tall trees had shaded out their lesser brethren, and Frodo and Radagast wandered at will with no need of a path.

And then one afternoon they found a path. It was clear on the forest floor and it ran east, straight as an arrow. Frodo stood looking at it, then glanced around in all directions, listening. There was only the sound of the birds high in the trees, the movement of flocks gathering for the long flight south. Finally he walked a stone's throw away and sat down, dropping his pack with a sigh.

"What now, Donkey?" Radagast asked. "Do we wait for them to find us?"

"I suppose. That would be better than walking in on them uninvited, would it not? In case they do not wish to see us." Frodo dug into his pack and extracted his pipe and tinderbox. He leaned back against a tree smoking, lost in thought.

Radagast busied himself scraping away a patch of forest duff to make a firepit. He began cooking supper, and the aroma of meat and onions gathered around them and was carried away on the evening air. They ate without talking as the dim light under the trees faded. When they had finished, Radagast built up the little fire again so it shone gold and orange in the darkness, and he brought out his flute. Frodo lay back on his blanket, watching the flickering light and listening to the wizard's music.

They heard no footstep, but suddenly there were bird sounds mingling in the music, birds that had no place in that deep forest, the chuckling of waterfowl and the noisy honking of migrating geese. Frodo sat up, grinning, staring into the darkness at the edge of the firelight.

"Lash!" he called. "Come and drink a mug of tea with us, Lash!"

The honking geese changed to the sound of gulls screaming over the water, and Lash walked into the light and squatted by the wizard. He gave a final blast, the raucous duck cry he had made the day Radagast first gave him the flute, and tucked it into his belt.

He was unchanged, and yet utterly changed. Ugly as he had ever been, bow-legged and barrel-chested, his smile ragged with broken teeth – but even in the firelight Frodo could see the happiness on his face, the deep contentment.

"I thought you would come someday, Healer. I told them you would come. You and the Light-bearer."

Frodo started to protest at the new title so suddenly bestowed on him, but Lash shook his head.

"You carried the Ring to the Mountain, but it was light you brought to us, light and hope. You are welcome here."

He pulled out his flute once more and blew into it, and it was not bird cries now, but music, discordant and strange, compelling, and totally unlike anything Frodo had ever heard. Then there was a drum far out in the darkness, answering, coming nearer, and Frodo tensed, waiting for Yarga to appear. But it was Canohando who stepped out from behind the trees, the drum slung across his shoulder so he could play as he walked.

Frodo got up and went to meet him. The drum stopped abruptly in the middle of a phrase, and Canohando pushed it aside and caught the hobbit, pulling him right off his feet into an embrace that was at once fierce and gentle. Frodo clung to him, and when the orc set him down again there were tears in the hobbit's eyes.

"You're alive!" He was laughing through his tears, and Canohando stood with a hand on his shoulder, watching him. At last he calmed and turned to the fire, but Radagast was there already, and the tea was made.

"Were you so afraid for me, runt?" The orc sat by the fire as he had so many times, his mug in his hand, and it was as if the years had rolled back. But there were only two orcs.

"I was afraid for all of you, for who is there, who is not your enemy? But where is Yarga?"

Canohando put another stick of wood on the fire before he answered, poking it until it blazed up and the light was strong. "Yarga is dead these nine years," he said at last, his eyes intent on Frodo. "Will you mourn for him?"

Frodo met his look without dissembling. "Yes, I will mourn for him." He moved around the fire to sit by Canohando, his shoulder against the orc's side. "I can see you grieve, even now. How did he die?"

"What did I tell you of orcs, runt? We live until we are slain. He was slain, in the fields of Nurn."

"You went back there –"

"We went back to trade my flutes," said Lash. "We had gone two or three times before, no more than that, for it is a long way. We stopped at the border and the folk would come and trade with us, for they have things we cannot make." He smiled at Radagast. "Things you taught us to want – cooking pots, tea – and they liked my flutes, so they were willing.

"But that time we crossed the border, for there was a noise of battle in the distance and a great column of smoke going up. We had come to like the folk well enough, and there was trouble."

"It was a party of orcs," Canohando took up the tale. "We had passed them sometimes in the mountains, but they were unchanged from the Dark Years and so we kept to ourselves. They came to take what they wanted in Nurn, or maybe to make themselves masters there again, I do not know. They had killed many of the folk and fired the village before we came. They were many, but our arrows brought them down."

He fell silent, staring into the fire. "And Yarga?" Frodo asked finally.

"Yarga had used up all his arrows," Lash said. "A big orc rose up behind Canohando with a battle ax in his hands, and Yarga shouted a warning but he did not hear. Yarga threw himself in the way – maybe he thought he could unbalance him, throw him over backward, but the ax caught Yarga in the side. Then Canohando heard and he turned and slew that orc with his own ax, but it was too late."

"He died in my arms." Canohando's voice was flat and he did not weep, but Frodo could feel him trembling. He took the orc's hand and held it in both of his, leaning his cheek against it. Truly, truly he grieved for Yarga, hearing how he had died.

Lash touched Canohando's arm. "They gave him a warrior's funeral pyre, the people of Nurn. Others had seen the smoke and come to help, but it was already over. It was good that there were some of the folk who knew us, and a few in the village still alive who could say we had not been with the attackers! They buried their own dead in the ground, but that is not our custom, so they made a pyre for Yarga and sent him off with music and drumming."

Canohando pulled his drum forward so Frodo could see. "We sent a drum with him, but not his own. This he gave me, to remember him, before he died. To remember him," he repeated, and he bowed his head and moaned deep in his throat.

"We remember him also, and with honor," Radagast said. "He cast off Morgoth's hold indeed, and gave his life for his friend. You made a song for him?"

Lash nodded and put his flute to his lips. He waited until Canohando began a pulsing rhythm, like a heart beating, and then the flute wound over and under and around the drum, and the drum speeded up like one who runs into battle, shouting defiance at the foe, and the flute shrilled a battle cry. Canohando began to sing, and the uncouth Orkish was suited to the music and was even beautiful, because it fit so well. Frodo could see the battle as it unfolded in the song, and Yarga's cry of warning and the fatal stroke of the ax. He heard Canohando's rage as he brought down the assailant, and his terrible sorrow at Yarga's death. And then the drum stopped and Canohando's voice was still and the flute went on alone, and it sang of freedom. Another flute joined in, and it was Radagast. He blended his playing to Lash's music, and then he drew it to a deeper pitch and it sang of going home. And then there was silence but for Canohando's choked weeping, as if he were torn asunder by his grief, even after so many years. Frodo wrapped his arms around him and the orc leaned against him till the hobbit was nearly overborne by the weight, and scalding tears fell on his neck.

At last it was over. Canohando straightened up and rubbed his wet face with his hands and shook his hair out of his eyes.

"There are four orcs now," he said, and Frodo grinned.

"I am glad to hear it, but how?"

"I have sons," said Lash, and looked embarrassed as Frodo jumped up to shake his hand and congratulate him.

"You have found a mate," said Radagast, beaming, and Canohando grunted.

"Not an orc," he said. "One of the women of Nurn, who survived the attack on that village. She followed him into the mountains; all the way here she followed him! She would not be left behind."

Lash shrugged. "Her family were all slain – she was driven mad by grief. But she is a good wife."

*******

Notes:
* Aiwendil - "Bird-tamer", Radagast's Quenya name.
 

Frodo thought he would have known the older boy for Lash's son, had he met him in a courtyard in Minas Tirith. The little one was another matter. He had the grey skin and barrel chest, the misshapen ears – an orc, without question. And yet the child was not ugly. His facial features were like his mother, his teeth white and straight, his eyes – Frodo glanced at the woman who sat by the fireplace, stirring something in an iron pot, and she gazed back at him boldly. No, her eyes were blue.

The child had his father's black eyes, but they were beautiful, huge and expressive. How was it he had never noticed Lash's eyes?

"Do we meet with your approval, Light-bearer?"

He flinched. "Don't call me that! Please." She smiled.

"What then? Ninefingers? That is what Canohando calls you. Or Donkey, like the Healer?"

"My name is Frodo." She resented him, and he wondered why. He'd only met her last night, when the orcs had carried them off home, their hospitality as irresistible as an Orkish raiding party would have been.

"Frodo Ninefingers, and you destroyed the Great Ring and brought down the Dark Lord, and flew away like an Eagle when you were done. How is it that you walk the earth like an ordinary mortal, Frodo Ninefingers? On hairy feet that are too big for you."

The boy was walking, not too steadily yet. He still caught for support at things around him, and now he clutched Frodo's knee, gazing up at him, the beautiful dark eyes full of light. Frodo forgot the mother's antagonism in his delight at the child.

"What is your name, little one?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. But the boy giggled and puckered up his lips.

"Phro!" he said. "Phro! Doe!"

Frodo looked across at the woman, stunned. He was afraid to ask if he had heard correctly, and she laughed at him.

"Oh, you heard him all right! That is his name – Frodo. So what do we call you, hey? Your name's already taken, in this house."

It was too ridiculous, and he laughed. "You had better call me Donkey, I suppose. Radagast has called me that for many years, and it suits well enough."

Radagast was out on the mountain somewhere with the orcs, trying to find a suitable place to plant athelas. It was almost the first thing Canohando had said this morning, asking that the herb be planted here.

"If you had been with us, old man, with your bag of herbs – he lived an hour, maybe, after he fell – "

Frodo's heart had twisted with pity. An hour, with such a wound! Lash had whispered to him that Yarga had been cloven nearly in two. Oh, Yarga –

"I doubt I could have saved him, Canohando. There are limits, you know, even to my leechcraft. But come, we will find a spot for your athelas."

The older lad, a child of seven or thereabouts, had gone with them. He was all orc in appearance, but he had a ready smile and laughed easily. Lash had introduced him last night when they came in, but the younger one had been asleep.

"My son, Yargark. In Yarga's place."

It had taken Frodo a moment to understand. "In Yarga's – to take the place of Yarga?"

"He is the third orc. Yarga is dead, but Yargark is in his place. It is to keep him with us." And Frodo was struck once again by the bond that united these orcs, a race that was supposed to be incapable of tenderness.

The mother in her smoldering resentment reminded him more of Yarga than the orcs did, and he wondered how he could placate her. The babe was climbing his leg, and he gave him a boost onto his lap. The little orc pulled himself up, his bony knees digging painfully into Frodo's thigh, catching him around the neck with fingers that gripped like iron. He had the orc claws all right.

"Why have you come here, Frodo Donkey?" the woman asked.

He held the child a little away from him, the better to breathe, and made a noise with his lips, trying if he could make him laugh. A crow of glee rewarded him, and then the child was imitating him, breaking into giggles with each effort.

"I don't know," he answered. "I wanted to see how they did, but I have wanted that before without going after them. This time – I don't know. I was drawn; I could not stay away." He met her eyes. "I am sorry if our presence makes more work for you, Mistress. We need not remain above a few days; indeed, the winter is coming, and my master likes to spend his winters where it is warm."

She stared at him. "Your master? The old man? They told me you were no slave."

"Not a slave, no." He wondered himself why he had referred to Radagast in that way. Radagast was his friend.

Sam had been his friend, and Sam had never failed to call him master. Master, or Mr. Frodo. It had been irksome at times, especially after the Quest, when such niceties of social position had seemed ludicrous between them. Sometimes he had wanted to protest, but it would have distressed Sam and would not have changed his long-established habit, so he refrained.

Now suddenly he understood. As Sam was to me, so I to you, Radagast, he thought. I follow you wherever, as Sam did me, and whatever your task may be, it is mine as well. Only this once have I forged ahead of you to go the way I myself chose – and in truth I did not choose it. I was drawn, as I told her.

He looked at the woman, curious what had brought her here, to give herself to an orc and be his wife. The question must have been too plain on his face, and her chin lifted defiantly.

"He is kind," she said. "He is kinder than many of the men in my village, and especially kinder than my brother-in-law, who would have taken me for his wife after my sister was killed, had I remained in Nurn."

"Lash was always kind, even when I first met him," Frodo agreed. "I doubt he was ever an ordinary orc, from the very beginning."

The child was playing with the buttons on his shirt, and then slipped his hand between the buttons and found Arwen's jewel where it hung around Frodo's neck. He tugged, and Frodo reached up and caught the little hand, pulling it out of his shirt and raising it to his lips. "No, no, laddie – can't have that!"

"Here, give him to me," the mother said sharply. "You need not let him climb all over you; you are a guest in this house." She set the child down firmly on the floor under the table and handed him a straight stick and a little stone. "There, Frodo, smooth your arrow. Lash will want to see it when he comes."

Frodo looked at the babe in surprise. "Is he making arrows already? How old is he?"

"Orc children learn their skills early. He is already beginning to track." She was silent, watching the child, then she burst out as if she could not help herself, "What was he like, this Yarga who was killed? Lash is content, with me and his children, but Canohando still mourns him, nine years later. Was he so wonderful, Light-bearer?"

Frodo sighed and took up the poker, stirring the fire absently as he tried to think how to answer. He did not want to malign the dead, and yet –

"He was not like Lash," he said finally. "He had been in Lugburz, one of those who tormented the Dark Lord's prisoners. He was still angry at the change that had come to Mordor, but he loved Lash and Canohando. Canohando especially – well, you can see that, in how he died." He hesitated. "He hated me. It came hard to him, not to slay me."

She gave a short, bitter laugh. "I think I can sympathize with him in that. You're a bit too good for this world, aren't you? An ordinary person might feel more at ease in the world, with you out of it."

Frodo was at a loss for any answer. She met his gaze for a long moment, then her eyes dropped and she twisted the folds of her full skirt between her hands, looking at the floor.

"I think you have been listening to too many tales about me, Mistress," he found his voice at last. "I told you not to call me Light-bearer! I am a broken-down Donkey who found some healing in the wilderness, no more than that." He got up and went outside, walking a short way from the house and leaning wearily against a tree.

The orcs were well; he could put his mind at ease now. The sooner he and Radagast left this place, the better.

Radagast would not leave.

"Something is not right here, Donkey; don't you sense it? You were drawn here, you say – there was some reason for that, and not just that I should plant a few seeds of athelas on the hillside. We must stay until it becomes clear."

"If we do not leave soon, winter will be upon us before we can journey down out of the mountains," Frodo argued. "I can tell you what is not right: the Mistress has heard too much foolish talk about the 'Light-bearer', and she can hardly bear the sight of me. I do not think it will mend matters, if we are snowed in with them all winter!"

"Perhaps not. Well then, we will build our own house nearby. The Mistress will not have to see you, and we will be on hand if there is need."

But the orcs were overjoyed that they planned to stay, and they would not allow Frodo or Radagast to build anything. "Building with stone is what orcs do best, old man – it is in our blood," Canohando said with a laugh. "You and the runt work up a store of firewood; you will need plenty here in the mountains. Leave the house to us."

It was finished before the last leaves drifted down from the trees, a sturdy room with thick walls and a fireplace that ran the whole length of one side. The orcs had built it hard against the wall of their own house, with the enclosed woodshed between the two dwellings, and Frodo and Radagast spent their days cutting wood and filling the woodshed from the floor to the stone roof. Frodo met the woman sometimes when she stepped in for an armload of firewood, and they nodded to one another without speaking.

When the building was done, the orcs readied themselves to hunt. Canohando spent most evenings in the new house, making arrows and talking with Frodo and the wizard, and Lash joined them when his wife had gone to her bed. Frodo wondered if the orcs were aware of her antipathy to him, but no one spoke of it.

"We hunt better things than rats and snakes now, Healer," Lash said, sliding a finished arrow into a quiver that was nearly full.

Radagast puffed on his pipe, sending a ring of smoke to drift about the room. "Your mountains here seem almost untouched by the Dark Years. It is a good home you found for yourselves."

"A good home. You will hunt with us, runt," said Canohando. It was not a question, and Frodo nodded.

"I will go with you, but I am out of practice with my bow. I can carry the game bag, perhaps."

The orc gave a snort of laughter. "You can carry something, runt, but certainly not the game bag."

It snowed the first time a few days later, not deep, but the weather had turned cold and the snow lay without melting. One evening soon after Canohando came into the new little house with a filled quiver on his shoulder.

"This is for you, runt. Come on our side now, you and the old man."

The woman sat back in a corner with Yargark, little Frodo in her arms. Both lads were wide-eyed with excitement, but Yargark was solemn, motionless, while the baby bounced up and down in his mother's arms when he saw Frodo, reaching out for him. The woman quieted him with some difficulty.

"In the morning we will hunt," Canohando said. "Tonight we call the game." He took his drum down from where it hung on a hook above the doorway and squatted by the fireplace. Lash stood on the other side with his flute. Radagast leaned forward, drawing his hand out of the pocket of his robe, casting something into the fire. It flared up suddenly with a green flame.

"There is my blessing on your hunt," he said. "Call your game." He drew Frodo back into the shadows and they sat on the floor.

Lash began on a note that was ear-piercingly high, but not loud. Canohando's voice answered him, and for a long time the light, high flute and the deep voice called back and forth to one another as if they followed each other in and out among the trees. The drum came in at last, throbbing, and Frodo felt himself drawn by it, impelled forward against his will. He was rigid with the effort to remain in his place, not to run toward that pulsing drumbeat, and Radagast put an arm around his shoulders.

"Steady, lad. You are not game."

It seemed to go on for many hours, and after the first few minutes Frodo was able to listen calmly, admiring the weird beauty of the music without feeling compelled to follow the sound wherever it might bring him. No one fed the fire, and after a while it died down to glowing coals. As the flame diminished so did the sound, until there were only the red coals and a faint throbbing of the drum, and the seven living creatures breathing quietly in the dark room.

When even the coals were darkened and the room was utterly black, the drum ceased. A moment later Frodo felt Canohando's hand pulling him up, and Radagast rose beside him. They made their way out of the room, through the woodshed and back to their own side in silence. Canohando's hand closed over Frodo's mouth, a clear signal that there was to be no talking, and then he was gone and the door closed behind him.

They left before daybreak, but Radagast remained behind. "I do not hunt," he said. "My task is healing and my food is provided, but that is not so for you. Go and return in peace." So Frodo and the orcs set off alone, the woman standing in the doorway with the babe in her arms, waving his skinny arms and chortling his farewell. But Yargark followed fifteen or twenty paces behind them until at last Canohando stopped and fixed him with a look that froze him in his tracks.

"I can hunt!" the youngster said.

"You can hunt," the big orc agreed, his voice quiet. "Can you obey?"

"I can! I'll show you I can!"

"Show me now," Canohando said. "Go back and guard the house. Even here there may be enemies, and the old man does not kill." The boy stared at him, his eyes mutinous, but then he turned around and started back the way he had come.

"Is there danger to them, alone there?" Frodo asked.

Canohando shrugged. "While we live there is danger, runt, but he is safer at home than with us. We are not hunting rats this day."

"What are we hunting?"

"Sticky Mouth," Lash said softly. "Be silent, Light-bearer. We are too few to make a wolf pack and howl on the trail."

The words conveyed nothing to Frodo, but he said no more. He had his bow and Canohando's gift of arrows; the orcs carried heavy spears in addition to their bows. The day was overcast as if another storm were brewing, and in silence they hiked for several hours through snow that came to Frodo's knees, before the orcs stopped at last.

They leaned their weapons against a tree and squatted down facing each other, patting the snow with their hands, flattening the area between them. They continued in this way, moving slowly, until they had a patch of beaten snow twice Frodo's height and four feet across. Then they went to opposite ends of it and began making narrow extensions out from the central area, two at each end. Canohando stopped with that and stood up, but Lash went on working, making a shorter, broader extension between the first two, then drawing it into a narrow point.

Frodo walked around the pattern they had made in the snow, and finally it came to him what it was – the shape of a bearskin, spread out as if it had been a rug lying warm and soft before a fireplace. Sticky Mouth! No wonder they carried spears!

He stared at the orcs. Did they have no fear at all, to hunt a mountain bear with such weapons, just the two of them alone? Almost alone. What was he here for? What possible use could a hobbit be on this hunt? The hair on the back of his neck prickled with sudden apprehension.

"Come here, Ninefingers," Canohando murmured. "Come walk on Broadfoot's back. Lend us your luck."

Frodo went forward as commanded, stepped into the area of flattened snow and walked all around in it, his bare feet making it smoother, firmer. Bilbo had been the 'lucky number' for the Dwarves, when they went to reclaim their stolen treasure. Now he was luck for the hunt. He didn't believe in luck, but he hoped some Power would watch over them this day.

He walked over every inch of the snowy bearskin, from the snout to the back legs. "Enough?" he mouthed at last.

"Enough," said Canohando. He spoke almost inaudibly by Frodo's ear. "Broadfoot sleeps now, with her this year's cub. When we have killed her, you will bring out the cub from the den. Not to kill!" he answered Frodo's indrawn breath. "Only do not let the cub come out until Broadfoot is dead."

He was not here only for luck, then. "Elbereth!" he whispered under his breath. This year's cub would not be much smaller than he was himself.

They went forward to a slope covered with low bushes, a clearing where one of the forest giants had been felled by some disaster and lay on the ground, half covered with leafless vines. Canohando grabbed Frodo's arm and stopped him, pushing him back into the brush and holding up a hand. Stay here. The orcs went on.

They drove the bear out of her den with arrows, creeping to the entrance, hidden under the fallen tree and shielded by bushes, and firing inside, screaming and howling until they sounded like twenty orcs instead of two. She came out raging, her roar shaking the air, and charged Canohando full on. Lash put an arrow between her shoulders and Canohando dove out of her way behind the tree trunk. She turned on Lash and Canohando slipped to one side and buried an arrow in her flank. Maddened, confused, she turned back and forth between them, and the arrows drove her farther and farther from the den to where their spears waited, stuck in the snow a few yards apart.

Frodo watched, forgetting to breathe in his fear that one of the orcs would be a second too slow in ducking away, and those massive claws would tear him open. Then he heard a sound from the den behind him and whirled around. There was a whimper, piteous and lost sounding, and he ran to push the bushes aside and catch the cub in his arms before it could come out, falling with it and rolling, both of them together, down into darkness. The furry creature struggled and he clung to it with both arms, wrapping his legs around it and trying to make himself heavy, heavy, to hold it down. It flashed through his mind that if the mother escaped the orcs and returned, he would never see daylight again.

She did not return, however. The cub relaxed in his grip, mewling like a baby, and Frodo petted it and talked to it soothingly, as he would have talked to a frightened child, trying to ease its fear. Then there was a voice from outside, calling.

"Light-bearer! Bring him out now – let me see my beast-child!"

Frodo staggered up, pulling the cub onto his back, its paws over his shoulders. He felt his way out to the entrance, the little bear bumping against the back of his legs, and the glare of sunlight on the snow hit his eyes like a blow, so he squeezed them shut. Lash reached past him and pried the cub off his back; when he could see again, the orc stood with the little bear in his arms, and his ugly face was soft with tenderness.

"Ah, but you're a fine one, Mrog." Lash was examining the cub, talking to it all the while, and the animal submitted as if dazed, limp in the orc's big hands. "A male? Yes. That is good. Tor-mrog I name you, Brother Bear, and you shall be brother to my Yargark."

The mother bear lay dead fifty yards from the den, the spears buried in her body. There was blood spattered on the snow all around, and Frodo looked away. Canohando stood beside him, a bloody gash down one shoulder, his leather shirt ripped open. He grinned and clapped Frodo on the back.

"You did well, runt! Lash thought you could not hold the cub, but I knew better!"

"So we'll take it home, a pet for Yargark?" And had that been the whole purpose of this hunt, he wondered.

"Not a pet, a brother. Come, you and I must skin Broadfoot and make ready the meat; Lash cannot have her blood on him. He will carry the cub and make it understand, it has a father now."

Frodo nodded and followed Canohando to the carcass. He knew nothing of cutting up a kill, but he obeyed the orc's commands and between them they removed the thick pelt and wrapped it around the slabs of meat. At last they gathered wood and built a fire, burning the bones.

"For respect," Canohando said. "If we leave her bones to be gnawed by wolves, Broadfoot will be angry."

Frodo regarded him with amazement. "Do orcs always do this, when they hunt? It seems to me that we do not understand your kind at all, Canohando!"

"No, I think you understand very well, runt. Orcs would not burn the bones, not for respect. Lash learned this from his mother when he was a child; she was from one of the mountain tribes."

"Human? So Lash is only half-orc?"

It explained what had puzzled Frodo from the beginning; he had always felt that Lash was unlike the others. It had been Lash who reached out to save Yarga when the ground split before them, when the Ring went into the Fire, and he had no doubt it had been Lash's decision to care for Canohando when he fell at their feet, burned and near death. All the enormous change in these orcs had begun with Lash.

"Half orc, half human, half bear," said Canohando. He had fashioned a travois from peeled saplings while they talked, balancing the skin-wrapped bundle of meat on it and binding it on with lengths of sinew. "There, that will travel smoothly. Come, we will eat now."

He led the way back to the den and ducked inside. Lash was there already, the cub still in his arms, both of them asleep. Canohando nudged the other orc with his foot. "Wake up," he said, "you may be half bear, but you cannot sleep away the winter. It is time to eat and go."

29. Binding Hearts

It was full dark before they got back to the house. The little bear had fallen asleep on Lash's shoulder, lulled by the motion and the orc's voice, a steady murmur too soft for Frodo to make out any words. Frodo himself had carried the weapons, the orcs' as well as his own, while Canohando dragged the travois.

The big orc untied the bundle of meat and carried it into the woodshed. He took the weapons from Frodo and jerked his head toward the door. "Sleep. You are luck, indeed, runt. I was not sure we could do this, only the three of us."

The room was empty when Frodo went in, but there was a fire on the hearth and in a moment Radagast came in from the orcs' side of the house. He looked sharply at Frodo, but then his face creased in a smile.

"Ah well, no wound on you, at any rate, and only a scratch on Canohando. How did Lash fare? He is hard at work in the woodshed, making a cave for his bear to sleep where it is not too warm. I could not see if he took any hurt."

Frodo flung himself down on his bed. "I don't think he did. I wish you could have seen them, Radagast! It was terrible, and yet beautiful, too, like a dance, the way they moved together with the bear."

Radagast nodded. "They must have been very skillful, to take Morok with so little hurt to themselves. She is a deadly foe. What was your part in this hunt, Donkey? They would not have brought you along only to watch."

"No." Frodo laughed softly. "I was the baby minder. I went into the den and held the cub until – " He sobered suddenly. "Until it was over. I know they have to eat, Radagast, but I pitied the bear. She fought bravely for her life."

"And for her cub," the wizard said. "Well, the cub, at least, will be well taken care of, as well as his mother could have done."

"Lash said it was his beast-son, a brother for Yargark. Is it to make the lad fierce, like a bear?"

Radagast had been brewing tea as they talked; now he handed a mug to Frodo. "Something to warm you, Donkey. You've had a long day. No, not to make him fierce, to make him gentle. I talked long with Lokka while you were gone –"

"Is that her name? I have never heard them speak it – Lash calls her 'Wife', and Canohando says, 'Lash's wife,' even when he speaks to her direct."

The wizard shrugged. "It is the custom of their people, I suppose. But Lokka is her name, and she told me Lash has been planning from the time of Yargark's birth to get a bear cub for him. He had a cub of his own when he was young; he told her it was the bear who taught him that friendship was not weakness."

A bear to teach gentleness? Frodo remembered Lash's soft murmur of comfort to the cub, coming home – somewhere the orc had learned tenderness, and surely not from other orcs!

"So they really wanted the cub, not the meat."

"Oh, they need the meat as well, and the bearskin will make a warm bed, these winter nights. But from what Lokka said, they would not have dared the hunt if you had not been here; for some reason your presence tipped the balance. She has been much afraid – I think that is what lies behind her dislike of you."

"They would not – really? Radagast, they told me I was luck for the hunt!" It disturbed him deeply; they would not have killed this bear, if he had not come.

"Don't fret about it, Donkey. They must have meat, and it will be good for Yargark to have his bear-brother. It was not your doing, yet certainly they are lucky to come off with so little injury. Give me that mug and go to sleep."

But the morning revealed yet another outcome to the bear hunt. Frodo was wakened early by Canohando and Lash coming into the room. Radagast was kneeling on the hearth, blowing the night's coals into flame, and Canohando said,

"Will you go take your breakfast with Lash's wife, old man? We would be alone with Ninefingers."

The wizard rose slowly and Frodo sat up in bed, wondering what this was about. The orcs were solemn-faced, but they did not look angry, and Lash carried something in a wooden bowl.

Radagast turned to Frodo, questioning, and Frodo nodded. The wizard went out, and Frodo got up, straightening his clothes and combing his hair with his fingers.

"Come here, runt." The orcs had sat down cross-legged before the fire, and Canohando was adding wood to it, one stick at a time. Frodo lowered himself to the beaten earth floor to sit between them.

"My mother's people had a custom," Lash began. "It was not often done, but when two warriors had faced death together, and lived – if they were joined in heart, so each would give his life to save the other –" He broke off, adding wryly. "It is not done among orcs."

"Until now," said Canohando, meeting Frodo's eyes. "But we are one heart, Lash and I, and we would include you in this, Ninefingers, if you are willing."

Frodo was struck dumb for a long minute. At last he held out his hands to them. "I am willing. What must I do?"

Lash set the bowl he was carrying on the floor in their midst. "We are one heart, so we will share one heart. Mrog is fierce to defend her own, and we will be fierce to defend each other. We eat her heart together, to make us one."

And Frodo saw what was in the bowl, the great, dark heart of the bear they had killed. Stars above! But it was friendship they offered him -- more than friendship -- brotherhood. And they have been on my heart these many years, he realized. I will not be free of them while I live, and I would not change that, even if I could.

"One thing, runt," Canohando warned. "You cannot cook this -- it is not meat, it is a promise. You will have to eat it raw, but I will chop it fine for you – you could not chew it with those little teeth of yours."

Frodo swallowed. "I think we are one heart already," he said. "But I will eat."

Canohando took out his knife and cut the bear heart in three parts, then shredded one portion till it was finely minced. He took one piece and ate it, and handed the bowl to Lash. Lash put the second piece in his mouth, and it was Frodo's turn. He picked up a mass of the chopped meat in his fingers and crammed it into his mouth. It was strong-tasting, musky, and he was afraid he would gag, but he forced it down and took some more. It took many mouthfuls, and then he sat with his teeth clenched, willing himself not to be sick.

Lash pushed a mug of water into his hands, and he drank gratefully, ridding his mouth of the awful taste. "It is done," the orc said. "Do your folk do anything like this, Light-bearer, to make them one?"

Frodo nodded, remembering. "It is not often done, no more than with you," he said. "But sometimes hobbits who are friends will mingle their blood, to make themselves kin, even though they are not so. Or even if they are, to bind their hearts."

Canohando was watching him. "You have done this," he said with certainty. "Who did you bind your heart to, runt?"

Frodo smiled suddenly. "My cousin Merry. It was when I left Brandy Hall to live with my uncle, and Merry was beside himself – he was sure we would grow apart, and we had been so close. He was fourteen years younger than I was, and I had carried him around and played with him, all his life…"

Merry had been seven, far too young for any such ritual. It was the night before Frodo was to leave, and he had heard his little cousin crying as he passed his room on the way to bed. He'd gone in, of course, and tried to console the lad, but it was hopeless.

"You'll forget all about me, away in Hobbiton, Frodo! Bilbo doesn't come to visit more than once or twice a year – when you come back it will be all different, you'll think I'm just a child, too little for you to bother with–"

All Frodo's words had failed to penetrate the lad's misery, and he had been at wit's end how to comfort him. Suddenly Merry had choked back his sobs and sat up tall in Frodo's arms. "I know – we will make ourselves blood kin; then you will not forget me!"

"No, Merry, you're too young for that. And we're already cousins, anyway."

"That's not the same; how many cousins do you have, Frodo? Fifty at least, if you count the whole Shire! But you have no blood-kin. We'll be brothers; then you will not forget me."

"Merry, no! I'll never forget you; how could I, you scamp –" But Merry had snatched his small penknife from the bedside table and slashed it across his palm, gasping at the smart, but determined. Frodo had stared in horror at the little, bleeding hand, and as if in a dream he had taken the knife and cut his own palm, pressing his hand against Merry's to mingle their blood.

"Now you won't forget me," Merry had said with satisfaction as Frodo bound up his hand with a strip of cloth torn off the bottom of the bedsheet.

"No, rascal, I never will. But you get to explain the torn sheet to your mother, mind! I'll be leaving right after breakfast."

Merry had giggled. "I'll be on water rations for a day," he said, "but that's all right. Now we're brothers, Frodo."

"Was he the one who followed you to Mordor?" Canohando asked, and Frodo came back to the present with a start.

"No. No, but he went with me when I left the Shire; he would not let me go alone into danger. I left him at Parth Galen, thinking to save his life, but he was captured… he was one of the two who went to the Ents, and grew tall …"

"But it was another who went with you to the end."

Frodo nodded. "Sam was my heart's brother, without any blood at all, of kinship or of mingling." He sighed. He missed Sam suddenly with an intensity that made him ache, and he thrust the feeling down, unwilling to weep before the orcs.

"We have bound ourselves according to your custom," he said. "Shall we do it according to mine?" He pulled out his knife and, pressing his lips tight together, he drew the blade across his palm, leaving a thin red line. The line thickened as the blood welled into it, and he held out the knife to Canohando.

The orc never took his eyes from Frodo, cutting his own hand and passing the blade to Lash, then reaching to grasp Frodo's hand. When they had all three performed the ceremony, Frodo went to the wizard's sack that hung from a hook on the wall. He took out the jar of ointment and smeared a bit on the orcs' hands, then on his own.

Canohando sat looking at him thoughtfully. "You always surprise me, Ninefingers," he said at last. "There is always more to you than I expect."

30. The Gift

He followed the orcs to their side of the house for breakfast, and Lokka met him with a shamefaced smile. Perhaps it was as Radagast said, that her resentment of him had stemmed from her fear of the bear hunt.

"So you are luck after all, Ninefingers," she said, setting roasted meat and fresh bread before him. "And I have a new son." She made a face, wrinkling up her nose, and Frodo grinned.

"Is he to your liking, Mistress?" he asked.

"So Lash is pleased with his beast-son, and Yargark also, I am content. It is a strange household, this, but I am happy in it." She flushed. "I thought you went, all three of you, to your deaths. Forgive my discourtesy to you, if you can."

"It is forgotten," Frodo said. "Has Yargark met his new brother yet?"

"Yargark woke up when I was building a den for Tor-mrog," Lash said from his end of the table. "He helped me cover it with wood and spread an old bearskin inside, and then he crawled in to sleep with his beast-brother. As I used to do also, with mine,' he added, tearing off a bite of bread.

"How did you come to have a bear cub when you were young?" Radagast asked. "Is it a common thing among orcs?"

Canohando laughed. "More common to kill the mother and make sport with the cub until it dies," he said, and Lash nodded.

"My mother was from one of the hill tribes; my father took her in a raid. She ran out, when he and his followers were throwing the cub from hand to hand, beating it with the blunt ends of their spears. She ran right in the midst of them and caught it in her arms, screaming that the spirit of Sticky Mouth would hunt them down, did they murder the cub. 'And your son also,' she shrieked at my father. 'And I do not care if she kills you, you devil, but I care for my child!' She brought the cub in and soothed his hurts and fed him, and he became my brother."

"What became of him at last?" Radagast asked.

"At last? I went to war, Healer. The Uruks came, calling us to march with the Witch King, to bring the Dark Lord back to Mordor, and I left my mountains. You saw what became of my country, the trees cut down and the land laid waste. There were no bears there when I returned."

There was silence, and Frodo remembered the barrenness of Mordor when first he saw it. Finally he said, "It is getting better, though. The bears may return someday."

"But not the orcs – Gondor will make sure of that," Lash said. "This is our home now, and it is good – the trees here have not been cut these thousand years or more. Only I would have my sons learn from Sticky Mouth, as I did. They are strong, the Mrog, but they protect their own; they do not slay them. My beast-brother defended me even from my father, sometimes, and often from other orcs. More than once he saved my life."

"He taught you to love," Radagast said quietly, and Lash looked away as if the word embarrassed him.

"I am for the sweat lodge this day," he said, standing up. "Will you come and try it, Healer, Light-bearer?"

A smile split Radagast's dark face. "Do you have a sweat lodge, Lash? I have not been in one in many years – of a certainty I will come!"

"You will come too, runt," Canohando told Frodo. "I think you will like it."

The orcs went off to prepare the lodge, and Frodo passed the time bouncing Frodo-the-orc on his knee, pretending it was a pony ride and enjoying the babe's crows of laughter, while Lokka went about her household tasks.

"Have you ever taken the sweat bath?" she asked after a while. When he shook his head, she smiled broadly, saying, "Well, don't worry, Ninefingers – I don't look out the window."

He puzzled over this remark but forbore to ask for an explanation; he would not risk provoking her resentment again. Then Radagast came to call him to their side of the house, and he gave little Frodo a last bounce and went. Canohando was waiting, and Frodo took one step into the room and backed out again, averting his head. The orc gave a shout of laughter and grabbed Frodo's wrist, hauling him in and shutting the door behind him.

"Never mind, runt, you don't have to look! Just get out of your clothes and come on – you wear your skin into a sweat lodge, and nothing more!"

"It's all right, lad," Radagast added, throwing his brown robe across his bed. "It is done this way all through the deep snow country. Hurry now; Lash has the stones hot for us already."

Frodo obeyed, shamed and unwilling, and for the first time since he left the Shire with Radagast he wished that he had stayed home. As soon as he was naked, Radagast pushed him outside into the snow, and they followed Canohando into the woods, the bitter cold biting at their skin.

The sweat lodge was a low wooden hut in a little clearing, a few minutes walk from the house. Inside it was nearly dark, to Frodo's relief, the only light coming through chinks in the log walls, and the air so hot it almost took his breath away. There was a split log floor, cut away in the middle to leave room for a firepit surrounded by large stones – it struck Frodo odd that this small hut had a floor, while the house had only beaten earth – and Radagast stretched himself full length next to the wall with a sigh of contentment.

"If I had known you had a sweat lodge, Lash, I had asked you to fire it up the first day we were here! It is the best thing in the snow country, I think."

"It is another thing I had from my mother," Lash said. He scooped a handful of water from a container that stood near the fire, sprinkling it on the hot stones so it sizzled. "We built our first one as soon as I grew strong enough to help – my father mocked her for it, but I loved the heat and I would not let him tear it down."

"You must have been a brave lad."

Lash laughed. "Brave, or foolish. He was not so bad, as orcs go. He slept a good part of the winter, like a bear, and did not bother us much. It was worse in summer, but then my beast brother was awake to protect us."

Frodo sat against the wall, his eyes closed, basking. He had not been aware how deep the cold had gotten into his bones until he came into this blessed oven, and he soaked up the dry heat blissfully. His nakedness no longer troubled him; it was irrelevant in the pleasure of being baked alive.

"We will have to carry the runt out, old man," Canohando murmured.

"Donkey? Are you all right?" The wizard's voice seemed to come from far off, and Frodo answered without opening his eyes.

"It's wonderful. I think I'll stay here till spring."

They laughed at him, and he smiled. Lash emptied a bucket of water over the rocks and a cloud of steam rolled up. Sweat poured off Frodo and he felt as if he were drifting away.

"Wake up, runt." Canohando was shaking him, and he opened his eyes. Lash and Radagast were gone; he was alone with the big orc. It had cooled a little in the hut, but it was still blissfully warm. And Canohando was staring at him, or rather at Arwen's jewel hanging against his chest. The orc reached out one finger to touch it, and Frodo waited for him to recoil – anything of Elvish make had always repelled the orcs. But Canohando stroked the jewel with his finger, then took it gently in his hand, running his thumb across the surface.

"Tell me again, runt, where you got this thing." There was something in the orc's voice that snapped Frodo to full wakefulness, an echo of his raw grief the first night, when he told them of Yarga's death.

"It was given me by Arwen Evenstar, the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven, the Queen of Gondor. She said it would comfort me when the memory of the Dark was heavy on me, and so it did."

"The memory of the Dark–" Canohando's voice was hoarse, and he bent his head to press the jewel against his forehead. "That memory is heavy on me, Ninefingers." He shivered as if with cold, although it was still very warm in the hut.

"We slew them every one, when Yarga died, and it was justice, for they came as destroyers. But when I remember him, dying in pain and gore, I could slay again, any who came within my reach. I could go through all the lands from here to that little Shire of yours, and carry death and fire, when I remember him."

He was holding the jewel to his head as if it were a poultice to draw poison from a wound, his matted hair brushing Frodo's chin. The chain pulled against the back of Frodo's neck and he reached up to unclasp it.

"Wait, Canohando."

Quickly now, before he thought about it. It was years since dark memories had tormented him. He was healed now – surely he was healed! – and if not, he was closer to healing than Canohando. He got the clasp undone and lifted the chain free, leaned forward and fumbled under the orc's hair to fasten it around his neck.

"As Arwen gave to me, so I give it to you, Canohando. May it comfort you as it did me, and remind you of the runt who will ever be your friend."

The orc sat back on his heels, his hand holding the jewel against his breast, his eyes searching Frodo's face. "You – give me this? The jewel of the Queen of Gondor! Why?"

"To comfort you. To strengthen you, against the Dark. It is always there, you know; we battle it until we die. And orcs live longer than hobbits." He smiled. "You will need it longer than I, perhaps."

Canohando fingered the jewel, rubbing it against his lips, and already peace was creeping into his eyes. "If I meet with any men of Gondor, they will think I slew you and took it from you."

That thought had already occurred to Frodo. "I will write to the King and tell him that I gave it to you. And what other orc could wear such a thing, excepting only Lash? They will call you Elf-friend, Canohando," he added mischievously.

The orc guffawed and hit Frodo on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "I have been called worse things! Come, we have sweated here long enough. Now for the snow!"

He pulled Frodo up from where he sat and shoved him out the low doorway, catching up a birch branch that was stuck in the snow by the entrance. He slashed at Frodo's back and shoulders with the branch, and Frodo ran from him, laughing and throwing himself down in the snow to escape. It felt marvelous, cool and tingly after the heat, and he jumped up and darted back to grab a birch branch of his own from the dozen or so by the door of the hut, chasing Canohando down and beating him in his turn.

****

Radagast looked at him long, when he told the wizard what he had done, and Frodo flushed under his gaze.

"Did I do wrong, to give it to him?"

"You are the only one who can answer that, Frodo. But this I will say: that jewel will work on Canohando long after you are gone, and not for evil. Arwen Undomiel did not give it to you idly; it has a strong virtue."

Frodo nodded, satisfied. "Neither did I give it idly, Radagast."

31. Winter of the Bear

In after years Frodo thought of it as the winter of the Bear. The cub slept in his makeshift den in the woodshed and they saw little of him, but they could hear him breathing, snoring sometimes, when they went back and forth from the orcs' home to the new side of the house. It gave Frodo a shiver down his spine knowing he shared house space with a bear; he could not have said if what he felt was fear or delight. Yargark went off every evening to sleep with his beast brother; he said the cub roused now and again, when the cold lessened. Sometimes Frodo heard him talking softly to the animal, when he passed the den on his way to bed.

Now that Lokka was no longer hostile, Frodo and Radagast spent most evenings on the orcs' side of the house. They played knucklebones, or Orks and Tarks, Frodo and Canohando making a team as they had years before in Gorgoroth. Lokka sat with them, saying little, but sharp-tongued and often funny, when she did speak. At the end of every evening Radagast brought out his flute, and they made music for a while before he and Frodo found their way to their own side to sleep.

In the daytime Frodo hunted with the orcs, if not again for such dangerous quarry. He gained back his little skill with the bow and even bettered it, under Canohando's relentless tutelage. They took deer, mostly, but they also filled many game bags with rabbits and grouse. The orcs seemed to live almost entirely on meat.

Frodo never really got used to the killing – he had been learning to heal the wild creatures for too long to enjoy hunting them – but he liked being out on the mountain. Lash was their tracker, and Canohando held back and followed his lead, although he had been the commander of their little band since Frodo first met them. Usually Yargark was with them as well, and Lash kept him close at hand, teaching him. It took longer that way, and Frodo and Canohando would lean against a boulder or brush the snow off a fallen tree to sit down, while Lash showed his son the fine points of following a trail.

"You should have a son of your own," Frodo remarked one day, not really thinking about what he said, only feeling that Canohando would be a good father, wise and strong. The orc looked at him broodingly.

"Where would I find a mate, Ninefingers? Perhaps the old man will pull one out of his sack for me, eh?"

Frodo realized too late that he had touched a sore spot. "There are no other orcs who have turned away from the Dark, are there? Could you not take one of the women of Nurn, as Lash did?"

Canohando snorted. "Aye, I could take one, or a woman from a mountain tribe, as Lash's father did, and the same way his father did, in a raid. But I do not wish for such a wife, taken by force and hating me all her life."

"No, of course not!" Frodo said, appalled. "But Lokka followed Lash of her own will, you said." He looked sidewise at the orc, smiling a little. "You are no uglier than Lash; probably better looking, not that I'm any judge! Why would some woman not be willing, as she was?"

"I am still an orc, runt. You don't notice that anymore, perhaps, but it would not escape anyone else's attention! Lash saved her life in that raid; he slew an orc who was dragging her away, and all her family were killed that day. She had no kin to protest when she made up her mind to have him. Even if I found a woman who was willing, her kin would not be."

He pushed himself away from the tree he was leaning on. "Come, they are getting ahead of us. You find me a wife, runt, and I will be glad to sire sons, and daughters too! Perhaps you will meet a she-orc one day, and persuade her to break Morgoth's yoke – send for me, if that happens."

Frodo spoke of it later to Radagast, and the wizard shook his head. "He is right, of course. Lokka seems happy enough with Lash, but she must have been desperate indeed to choose an orc for her mate. Canohando may have to do without sons."

It bound Frodo closer to the orc; he had no sons either. He counted himself uncle to Sam's brood – he wondered fleetingly how many there were by now – but he would never be a father. If he went back to the Shire, even now? He considered the idea for an instant, then put it away. He had left it too late, and anyway he was content as he was. But Canohando was not – he hurt for Canohando.

Yargark brought down his first deer that winter. The youngster had wounded the animal, but it was not a clean kill and he had to follow the blood trail to finish it. Lash sent him off alone, sternly: "Do not loose your arrow if you are not sure of your mark – we are not wolves, to kill with a hundred bites!" But once the lad was out of sight, Lash followed softly after, to keep him from harm. Canohando took Frodo's arm to hold him back.

"You stay here, runt; if you came on the deer, you would want to bind its wounds! There's a grouse in the game bag; we will eat while we wait for them."

They waited long for Lash and Yargark. "A blood trail can be hard to follow," Canohando said. "The wound closes a little and there is no more blood. For Lash it would be easy, but Yargark must do this himself if it is to be his kill."

It occurred to Frodo that the orcs' lives still revolved around killing, although it was for food now, not war and pillage. And it was as if Canohando could read his thoughts.

"We kill to live, runt, but we take no pleasure in giving pain. We have left that behind," the orc said, and Frodo nodded, comforted. They were hunters but not murderers, not anymore.

Lash and Yargark returned at last, carrying the deer slung from a pole between them, Yargark all but prancing with excitement in spite of the heavy load. Canohando examined the animal critically; it was a young buck in prime condition.

"Three hunters now," he said to Lash, as if Yargark were not present. "We will do well in our camp, with three hunters." Lash only grunted, but his eyes shone as he gazed on his son, and Yargark looked fit to burst with pride.

Lokka made a buckskin shirt for Yargark from his deer, cutting a deep fringe at the bottom and along the sleeves. Canohando laughed at the fringe, flicking at it with his fingers. "What is this for, then? It will catch in the brush and tear off."

"He will not wear that shirt in the brush; he will wear it when we go down to Nurn. My brother had one like it," Lokka said with some heat. "Yargark is human, too, not only orc! "He should have what other lads have."

"He will have, Wife," Lash said. "We will go back, when he is old enough, and you shall try if you can arrange a match for him."

Frodo's eyes went to Canohando; the orc sat regarding Yargark as if he weighed his features one by one. "Perhaps," he muttered. "If his mother takes a hand, perhaps…"

Radagast brought out his flute then and began to play, and Lash joined in, but Canohando passed his drum to Yargark. "See what you can do with it," he said. "I have other use for my hands tonight." He sat close by the fire where the light was strong, carving something with a small knife that Frodo had not seen before. He moved beside Canohando for a closer look.

It was one of the big curved teeth from the bear they had killed, and the orc had drilled a narrow hole through the pointed end. Now he was engraving the tooth, cutting deep, fine lines in the hard surface. "Get out of my light, runt," he grumbled. "You can see it when it is done."

Lokka sat sewing on the other side of the fireplace. "Do your people make no music, Ninefingers?" she asked. "You listen, but you never join in."

Frodo smiled. "Oh, we make music! I used to sing, but I made rather a fool of myself one time, singing; I stopped after that."

She laid down her sewing to stare at him, her smile mocking. "No! The Light-bearer played the fool, even once in his life? You will have to tell me that story, for I will not believe it otherwise!"

Lokka had been friendly enough since the bear hunt, but now her tone grated on Frodo; it seemed she would be glad to hear something to his discredit, and he saw no reason to tell tales on himself. He had not felt like singing since the night in Bree when his song had nearly been his undoing, but he had no wish to talk about that occasion.

"You will not hear the story from me, Mistress," he said lightly, "and as no one else here knows it –" He met Radagast's eyes, questioning, and the wizard shook his head.

"Sing for us, runt." Canohando spoke without taking his eyes from his carving. "I did not know you could sing, and I would hear what music you make in your homeland."

That put a different light on it, and Frodo tried to think of something he could sing for the orc, running his fingers through his hair as he considered and rejected one song after another. And would he even remember the words, after so many years? But there was one he would never forget.

The road goes ever on and on, down from the Road where it began, and I must follow if I can—" His voice was warm and clear as a summer day; Radagast shut his eyes to listen, wondering why he had never thought of asking Frodo to sing.

They were quiet for a moment when the song ended, then, "Sing another one," said Canohando. "I can almost see it in your voice, that country of yours. Peaceful and clean, and full of little folk like you, with gentle eyes." There was something in the orc's tone that made Frodo yearn to take him by the hand and show him the Shire, lead him through flowering lanes and fields of corn, from Hobbiton to the Woody End…

And the Shire folk would be terrified, he reminded himself. He sang an old lullaby that was the first song he ever knew, and then a drinking song he'd learned from his cousins, and Bilbo's bath song – he sang one after another until he had to stop because he was growing hoarse, and the words came back to him as he sang, without effort.

Canohando never forgot that night of music, Frodo singing the songs of the far-away Shire; he believed in after years that the whole course of his later life had been set that night. But as for Frodo himself, that evening gave him back his voice. For years he had not sung, but after that he sang often, and long after they left the mountains he blessed Canohando for it.

32. A Time of Parting

There was a thaw halfway through the winter. The bear cub woke and blundered around in the woodshed, knocking the firewood out of its neat stacks, in wild confusion all over the floor. "He's thirsty," said Lash, and carried water to the cub in Lokka's big iron pot. Tor-mrog drank, then stared around at them blearily before crawling back into his sheltered "den". He was thinner than when they brought him home, but he seemed to have grown.

Lash surprised Frodo one morning as they left to go hunting, taking Frodo's bow out of his hand and replacing it with a new one. It was light and perfectly balanced, carved at both tips and rubbed until it shone.

"You have hunted long enough with that weapon from a deserted armory. You are a good archer now, Light-bearer. Here is a bow worthy of you."

Frodo was a little overwhelmed, as much by the praise as by the gift. He ran his hands over the bow, satiny smooth to his touch. Its wood was such a deep brown that it was nearly black, and each end was carved into a rosette of small leaves, as if the bow had been a living branch just awakening to spring. "You made this for me? Thank you!"

Lash nodded and turned away, starting for the woods, and Frodo fell in step behind him with Yargark and Canohando.

The days got longer and brighter, and the snow began to melt. The owls had been calling at night since deep winter, but there were other birds now, whistling their mating songs in the treetops. The cub woke again, and this time Yargark coaxed him into the orcs' side of the house, the two of them sitting like old friends before the fire while the lad fed him bits of smoked fish. Tor-mrog was thin, but very definitely bigger; Frodo would have been hard put to carry him now.

The bear was shy with the rest of them, but tame with Yargark. Baby Frodo approached on cautious tiptoe, and Yargark took his brother's hand and stroked the animal's shoulder. Tor-mrog regarded the babe curiously, then suddenly swiped his long tongue over the child's face. Frodo-orc looked startled for a moment, as if he might cry, but then squealed with excitement and flung himself upon the bear, wriggling himself into the thick fur and grasping clumps of it in both hands. Lokka started forward to rescue her son, but Lash held her back.

"He will not hurt the child; look at his eyes. They will be brothers, all three of them."

And so it seemed, for they seldom saw the bear apart from the two lads after that. The youngsters ranged the woods near the house together, the bear eating whatever he could find, leaf-buds and young shoots and insects that he clawed out from under the bark of dead trees. Frodo learned not to look too closely at what they were doing, the day he found the young orcs sharing a snack of fat grubs with their "brother".

Just when they thought it was really spring, a heavy snow came one night with a wind that blew deep drifts across the doorways. It kept up all day and they stayed inside, the bear and the children rollicking around the room, until Radagast stood and headed toward his own quarters.

"You have a fine family, Lash, but I am an old man. If anyone would care to join me for a mug of tea where the youngsters will not knock it out of our hands, you are welcome to my side of the house."

He went out, Frodo and Canohando following him, but Frodo looked back in time to see Lash fling himself down on the floor, the cub in his arms. His sons piled on top so he was lost to sight in a writhing heap of bear and young orcs, and Lokka stood watching with her fists on her hips, laughing.

"You had better take this side for your own when we leave, Canohando. You will need a place of refuge when that bear grows larger," said the wizard.

Frodo took a coal from the fire to light his pipe. Leaving? Yes, it was spring, and there was still work for them in Mordor. The months had fled by without his noticing, and the time of parting was nearly upon them. He glanced at Canohando and found the orc watching him.

"What did you hope for, runt, when you came seeking us?"

Frodo smiled; he would be sorry to leave, but he was glad he had come. "What did I hope for? To find you alive, to know you had found a home." His voice softened. "To know if Yarga had thrown off the Dark – and he did. I had not thought there might be young orcs, or so much happiness. All I can wish for now, Canohando, is that you find a mate."

The orc gave a snort. "If you find one for me, Ninefingers, send me word! You are the wonder-worker here." Radagast looked at him consideringly and opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it without saying anything.

The next day the sun came out and by mid-morning the outdoors was a mess of mud and slush. Canohando waded into it, calling back to Frodo who stood in the open door.

"Come, runt, you will be leaving soon and you have not yet climbed the mountain! Today we will hike instead of hunting."

"This is hardly a day for mountain-climbing!" said Radagast. "You will slide back two steps for every one you take."

But Canohando made little of the wizard's concern, and almost before Frodo knew how it happened, he was making his way up the mountain behind the orc, a coil of rope over his shoulder and his pockets stuffed with lembas that Radagast had insisted he carry.

When they were out of sight of the house, Canohando stopped and cut staffs for them both, slashing the bottom ends to rough points. "I would not give the old man the satisfaction, loading you up with food as if he thought you would starve without his magic bag, but it's true this mud can be treacherous. Thrust the staff deep in as you walk, runt, so you have something to hang on to."

It took only a few hours to reach the top; the orcs' mountain was not one of the high peaks, and the summit was a broad expanse of soft snow with an icy crust. They had passed the tree line, and Frodo could see for miles in every direction. Jagged peaks tipped with snow rose all around him, sparkling in the sunlight, but the lower slopes were clothed in dark forest. Canohando drew a packet wrapped in doeskin from his shoulder-pack; when opened, it held strips of dried, smoked meat.

"The last of the bear we killed," he said. "What is that stuff you carry? Will it go well with the meat?"

Frodo handed him a leaf-wrapped lembas wafer without comment, curious if he would really eat it. The orcs of the Tower had plundered his pack when they took him captive; they had eaten Faramir's food, but the lembas they had trampled underfoot. Canohando was different, though; Canohando wore the Elven jewel around his neck –

They sat on their cloaks in the snow, a winter picnic, and the orc laid a strip of meat on top of his lembas and downed it without hesitation. "It's good, he said. "Give me another one, runt. What is it, anyway?"

Frodo gave him several more, his lips twitching with amusement. "Elven waybread," he said. "Smell the leaves it's wrapped in, Canohando; they're mallorn, from Lothlorien."

The orc sniffed at them. "Spicy sweet and strange. That's the smell of Lothlorien, eh? Does the old man carry seeds of mallorn in his sack?"

"I don't know." Frodo watched in amazement as the orc rubbed the leaves between his hands to bring out the scent and breathed deeply of the fragrance. If he had had any doubts that Canohando had really changed –!

The orc's eyes were distant. "I suppose it would not grow here, so far north." He sighed and met Frodo's gaze. "You have seen Lothlorien, and Moria, and what other places I have never even heard of? And now soon you will leave us, but I would not have you go without some remembrance."

He drew something from the pouch at his belt and held it out. It was the bear's tooth Frodo had seen him carving, polished now to a sheen like ivory, suspended from a strip of twisted rawhide. Frodo took it in his hand. The creamy surface was engraved with fine lines, a rough picture but unmistakable: an orc and a hobbit with hands clasped, and in the hobbit's other hand a knife.

"You will not forget that we are one heart, runt; I know you too well to think that. But I wear the jewel the Elf-queen gave you, and so I give you something to wear in its place."

Frodo slipped the rawhide thong over his head. "Thank you, brother." He smiled a little. "It's been strange, having nothing hanging round my neck; I felt a bit naked. I will wear this all my life, and think of you."

They stayed on the mountaintop to watch the sunset, the snow turning lavender and rose all around them, until the sun vanished behind the peaks and only the snow itself gave them light to find their way home. Then they slipped and slid down the mountain, thrusting their pointed staffs through the mix of mud and crusted snow, and the moon came up and cast a blue, mysterious glow on the path ahead.

A fortnight later it was truly spring and time to go. They spent one last evening making music round the fire, sitting up later than they ever had, none of them wanting it to end. When they finally separated to seek their own quarters, Frodo found a soft doeskin shirt laid across his bed, so pale that it was nearly white, laced up the front with a thong of the same leather. Lokka's parting gift, and perhaps her unspoken apology for the hard welcome she had given him. It was not fringed like the one she'd made for Yargark, and when Frodo put it on in the morning, it hung nearly to his knees, like a tunic, split up both sides.

The moment of parting came, and they stood outside in the spring morning, a caroling of birdsong in the trees above them. Frodo and the wizard hugged the youngsters, even the bear, and Radagast laid his hands for a moment on Lash and Lokka's heads, as if in blessing.

"Your shirt fits you well, Light-bearer," Lokka told Frodo. "Wear it in health."

"You were good to make it for me. Be well and happy, here on your mountain." He clasped her hands in his, and she blushed and smiled. "I am happy," she said.

Frodo turned to Lash, but he could not leave him with only a handclasp. He embraced the orc as he had the children, and Lash held him close for a long minute. "Be at peace," Frodo told him. "Be happy," and the orc nodded without speaking.

"I will walk with you for one day," Canohando said, and Frodo was glad that this farewell could be put off a little longer. They started down the mountain, looking back to wave, and Frodo's last glimpse of the orcs' dwelling was of Yargark and his bear, clambering up the rough wall of the stone house and standing on the roof-beam, side by side.

They talked only a little as they walked; being together was enough, the forest floor soft under their feet and the sunlight glinting through the trees. Frodo began Bilbo's old walking song and Radagast hummed along with him. Canohando beat the rhythm on the drum at his belt, then improvised on it until the song was changed almost beyond recognition, and Frodo couldn't sing anymore for laughing. They camped at sunset, and Frodo slept soundly all night, unaware that Canohando sat sleepless beside him, but Radagast woke up near midnight and saw. And in the morning it was time to say good-bye.

"I will come back," Frodo said. "In a few years, we will come again--"

"No," Canohando said. "Do not come back, Ninefingers."

Frodo stared at him bewildered; had he offended the orc in some way without knowing it? But Canohando bent to look into his eyes, a hand on his shoulder. "There must come a time of farewell, runt. You leave us now and we live, we are well, and you also. We are one heart, sealed in blood. Nothing can add to that. If you came again and sorrow or death had found us, you would grieve. It is good this day; let it remain so always."

Frodo fingered the tooth that hung round his neck. He stared at the orc, trying to memorize his features, wondering how he had ever thought him ugly. He was Canohando, that was all, and Frodo's heart contracted at the thought of never seeing him again. "You will not forget me?" he asked, and the orc shook his head.

"I know as well as Lash does, what you are to us. You were a light for us to follow out of the dark, but – I do not forget my runt, pledging himself my shield-brother at the top of a ruined tower, and all the while afraid that I would dash him to death against the rocks." He caught Frodo in a hug that nearly crushed the hobbit. "You were my comrade in arms in the hardest battle I ever fought. Live as long as hobbits may! I will not forget you, not if I live to the unmaking of Arda, like an Elf."

Frodo took the orc's hand, tracing with his finger and then pressing to his lips, the thin white scar that remained from their blood-mingling. "You are my brother, Canohando. I will not forget you." He turned then and started away into the woods, leaving Radagast to follow in his own time. If he stayed another minute he would weep, and he would not have Canohando remember him drenched in tears.

Canohando watched him till he was out of sight, then looked at the wizard. "I may come again, if you are willing, when he has gone back to his home," said Radagast.

"Come, and be welcome," said the orc. "Bring us word of him, if you can."

33. A Detour On the Way

There would never be rain enough to turn Gorgoroth into woodland, but more than thornbushes grew there now. Willows and blackberries had taken root along the streams, and birds nested there. Most of the plateau was covered by tough, low grasses and herbs; in spring it was a carpet of blossoms. Conies sheltered in the thickets, and foxes had returned to hunt them.

Frodo and Radagast still rose at dawn, but more often than not Frodo sang while he cooked breakfast, his voice a soft counterpoint to the birds' morning chorus. "It's hot this morning," he said, breaking off his song. "Summer's coming, Radagast. Where shall we go this year?"

He had lost count of the years. Time was measured in the cycle of winter and spring, summer and autumn, as he and Radagast made their rounds from Gorgoroth to the Morgai, down to the Sea of Nurnen sometimes, and into the western mountains. They avoided the area around Barad-dur and Mount Doom, and they did not return to the northeast, where the orcs had made their home.

Radagast was pacing around the camp, smoking. Frodo shot him a glance; before breakfast was no time for a pipe, it dulled your appetite for the meal, but he said nothing.

"It is time we left Mordor, Donkey."

Frodo sat back on his heels, staring. "Is it really? And where do we go from here?"

If anyone had told him, when he came, that he would be sorry to leave the Black Land, he would have laughed. But now that the time had come --

For half a lifetime Mordor had been his home, both trial and reward of all the hope and patience he could bring to it. The task had been the wizard's, perhaps, but he had been partner to it; his own labor had helped restore this barren land to life. And if that were not enough, he had wagered on the orcs' healing, and won. He had been part of a miracle, and who in the outside world would believe him, did he try to tell them of it?

I found my purpose in Mordor, he thought. That day he saved my life, Radagast told me that was what I needed...

The wizard's voice broke in on his thoughts. "I go to the East, upon an errand that is not for you. And for you, if you are to keep your promise to your little gardener, it is time to go home."

Home! Frodo stood up, staring out to the horizon, but he did not see the flat Gorgoroth plateau, its grass bending to the morning breeze. "The Shire," he whispered. As if the name itself had power to conjure up the place, he saw the sweet green hills, Bag End set like a jewel in its garden, and Sam with a hoe in his hands, leaning into his work. All in a moment it passed before his eyes and was gone, and longing for it squeezed his heart.

"Yes, I must go home. How long have I been away?" He fell silent, trying to reckon up the years, but they folded into one another, uncountable.

"Long enough, Donkey, that your hair is grey." Radagast laid a caressing hand on his head. "You are growing old, and Samwise also. We have done what we can in Mordor, and now you must not tarry longer. Nor must I. We have reached the parting of the ways."

"No, Radagast! Will you not travel with me? After all these years, can your errand to the East not wait a little longer, to see me home?"

The wizard's grin was a flash of white in his brown face. "Don't try and tell me you're afraid to travel alone, Frodo! I know your courage better than that."

"Not afraid – unwilling to part with my master before I must." He glanced almost shyly at the wizard. "As I was to Sam, you are to me – except you saved my life, and I nearly cost him his. No," he said, smiling to forestall the wizard's anxiety, "I am not going back to those regrets – we did what we had to do, all of us. Only I would have your company a little longer. It is a long journey alone."

"I will go with you, Donkey," Radagast said. "But we will go through Gondor; I wish to have a look in the library at Minas Tirith." To his surprise, Frodo nodded.

"Yes. I would like to see Aragorn -- and Arwen."

They did not hurry, but it was only a month later they were passing through the gates of Minas Tirith; beautiful gates they were, of hammered steel, and the White Tree laid on in mithril in the middle of each. Frodo stopped to admire them, calling Radagast to wait.

"Gimli said he would bring craftsmen to help restore the city -- I wonder if the gates are of his making."

"And I wonder if Nano ever cut a jewel for the Queen's wearing," said Radagast with a smile. The gates stood open and they entered without hindrance, although guards in the livery of the city stood at attention in the gateway. No one seemed to notice the brown man in faded robes or his small companion.

They followed the stone street that wound up through the levels of the city, stopping at an open stall to buy hot bread and mugs of ale, which they drank as they stood there, giving the mugs back to the proprietor when they were done.

"Is the King in the city, do you know?" Radagast asked the man.

The fellow looked up at the top of the Citadel, where a black banner bearing the White Tree flapped in the wind. "Aye, he's at home, sir. His flag's a'waving up there, see? Did ye come to see the King?" He stared at them with open curiosity.

Radagast grinned. "Does he get many visitors, then, coming on foot without any entourage? And dusty from the road?"

"Oh, he gets all sorts, King Elessar does. He has a kindly welcome for wanderers -- he did his own wandering, so they say, before he came to Gondor. You go on up to the palace, sir; he'll see you're took care of."

They thanked him and went on, jostled by the crowd in the busy street, Frodo pointing out the few places he had memory of. "Those are the Houses of Healing up there -- I was in and out to have my bandage changed -- oh look, Radagast! I think that's the house we stayed in with Gandalf, only it has a little garden now, in front!"

"Are you sure Samwise did not remove to Gondor, Donkey? There are a great many gardens, and fountains, and enough trees to make a small forest, if you grouped them all together." Frodo looked a bit stricken, and the wizard laughed. "I'm only joking, lad. If Sam had come this far, I think we would have found him in Mordor, searching for you. More likely the Queen brought in Elven gardeners from Lothlorien."

"And Legolas said he'd come back and plant growing things here; I wonder if he did. Oh Radagast, won't it be fine to hear what they've been doing, all these years?" Frodo's eyes sparkled, and he pushed through the crowded street at a speed that brought them very soon to the open square before the gates of the Citadel. And there they were brought to a halt by a guard of soldiers who left the gates and marched up in formation, stopping an arm's length before them.

"The King bids you welcome, Frodo Baggins, and orders that every honor be given to you and your companion." The leader of the squadron stepped to one side, and the formation split to leave an open walkway between them, five on each side, at rigid attention.

Frodo stared from the soldiers to Radagast with consternation in his face. "Come lad, you can't run back to the wilds," the wizard murmured. "They're no worse than a gaggle of orcs."

Frodo choked and struggled to contain his laughter. "Thank you, Captain," he said courteously when he could speak, and he passed between the guard of honor and through the gate, Radagast close behind him.

They were met in the Courtyard of the White Tree by a round little man dressed in black velvet faced with silver cloth, a heavy gold chain around his neck. "Good sirs, good sirs, you are most welcome! The Queen commands that I bring you to your chambers where you may wash off the dust of travel and be refreshed; she and the King request that you will join them for the evening meal."

He led them inside and through a series of anterooms, white marble floors and walls that had scenes of woods and sea rendered so skillfully that you could hardly tell they were only paint on plaster, but the outside wall of each room was lined with windows that looked out over gardens and trees, little paths meandering among them so enticingly that Frodo wished he could slip out there at once and explore.

The apartments their guide brought them to were paneled in some wood that carried a faint, spicy fragrance. Frodo and Radagast had each a bedchamber with a high, white bed curtained in deep green, and between the bedrooms was a parlor with a fireplace of stone and cushioned chairs on a velvet carpet. A windowed door opened from the parlor into a walled garden, shaded by a vine that grew luxuriantly along an arbor, masses of purple blossoms hanging from the leafy ceiling like bunches of grapes.

There was another door on the opposite wall; the man opened it to reveal a room with a deep pool of water set in the floor, little wisps of steam rising from it. There was a wooden bench with piles of towels next to the wall, and the ceiling was pierced with many small, tinted windows that cast a rosy light over everything.

"I trust this will be comfortable for you, noble sirs; you will find robes folded by the towels, and if you leave your clothes on the bench after you have bathed, they will be brushed clean and returned to you before it is time for you to join Their Majesties. There is wine and fruit on the table there," he nodded at it, "and if you have need of anything at all, you have only to pull the bell rope by the door and someone will come to serve you."

"I am sure we have everything we could want or need," Radagast assured him with a smile, "and we are indebted to you for your kindness."

"No, good sir." His obsequious manner slipped for a moment, and his voice rang with sincerity. "It is we who are indebted to the Ring-bearer, and to your noble Order. My grandfather fought before the Morannon; he would have died there, but for Frodo of the Nine Fingers." He bowed deeply to Frodo. "I owe my birth to your faithfulness, Ernil i Pheriannath," he said. "You may ask for anything you wish, and if needs be I will ransack the city to find it for you."

Frodo had turned red, but he said only, "You are more than gracious, and I thank you." The servitor bowed once more and left them, and Frodo shook his head as if to clear it.

"I had thought to defer to your greater age, Radagast, and let you bathe first, but I must get me in the water and wash off that load of unearned praise before I gag on it."

"Now, Donkey –" Radagast began, but Frodo stepped into the bath room and shut the door between them.

"I did what was required of me – barely – and it was enough," he called back through the door. "I can live with that, but to be lauded for my faithfulness is a bit more than I can stomach, even now! Pour yourself some wine, Radagast – I'll be in here for a while."

They dined in the Queen's Tower, only the four of them by a window that looked out over the twinkling lights of the Citadel.

"We will welcome you in state tomorrow night, a banquet where everyone can meet our noble guests. Yes, Ring-bearer, you will have to endure it," Arwen answered Frodo's grimace. She smiled and held out her hand to him. "You knew when you came to Minas Tirith, that you would have to submit to our celebration; consider it given in honor of your fellow-traveler, if that pleases you better!"

"You are not still condemning yourself, are you Frodo?" Aragorn asked. "You wrote to me that you were healed."

Frodo met his look, and the glint of humor in his eyes reassured the King. "I am healed; I am well indeed! But I have been half my life in the wilderness, Aragorn – I had rather face a dragon than a roomful of courtiers in fancy dress!"

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed — how Frodo remembered that laugh! Seldom heard on their desperate Quest, but it had warmed him and sparked his courage, when he did hear it. They looked well, both King and Queen; their faces glowed and their eyes met often across the table, as if there were no greater joy than for them to look upon one another.

Dinner went on, course following course, served by lads on noiseless feet, clad in tunics of white and silver. At last the dishes were cleared away and they were left with goblets of sweet wine and a platter of crisp, thin wafers. Frodo got to his feet.

"My thanks to our gracious host," he bowed to Aragorn, "and to our hostess." He bowed to Arwen as well and went to kneel before her on the tiled floor. "Lady, I would make confession to you."

"How now, Frodo," she said in surprise, "what have you to confess to, dear one?"

He reached into his shirt and brought out the carved bear's tooth he wore round his neck. "I have given away your gift, Lady, and now I wear another token."

"Let me see it," she said, and he drew the leather thong over his head and handed her the necklace. It was crude enough, in all truth, and it looked more so in her graceful hands, a great fang engraved with rough lines, on a strip of rawhide. He lifted his chin; he would not be ashamed of Canohando's gift, however it might appear in Minas Tirith! He shut his eyes, trying to bring the orc's face into his mind.

"I see two figures here," said Arwen. "One is an orc, surely, and the other must be yourself. Why does the picture show you with a knife?"

Frodo held out his open hand. Arwen bit her lip, looking at the stump of his missing finger, but he shook his head at her, tracing a white line that ran across his palm from the base of the middle finger to the fleshy pad below his thumb.

"The knife was to make this cut, to mingle blood with my orcs. They are my brothers now, Lash and Canohando." His voice was tender on their names.

"They carry the scars on their hands as well," said Radagast. "And Canohando wears the Queen's Jewel."

"You wrote me that you had given it to him," Aragorn said to Frodo. "And I gave orders that if ever an orc was taken wearing Arwen's jewel, he should not be slain, but rather be brought before me. No such orc has been seen."

"The jewel was yours, Ring-bearer, to keep or to give away." Arwen said gently. "And Canohando carved this tooth for you? Will you tell me why you gave my jewel to him?"

She handed the necklace back to him, and he replaced around his neck before he answered. "He needed it, Lady, as much as I did when you gave it to me long ago." Arwen nodded, encouraging him. "He turned from the Darkness, but he was so alone -- Lash had wife and sons, but Canohando had only memory, of Yarga slain defending him. There were blood and fire in his eyes, and he fought so hard to hold them in..."

He looked up at Arwen with his own eyes full of tears. "The jewel had brought me comfort, as you told me it would. I gave it to him for his comforting, and I ask you to forgive me."

Arwen took his chin between her fingers and leaned forward to brush a kiss on his forehead. "You are forgiven, dearest. It is plain how you love your orcs, as you name them, and I hope my jewel will bring peace to Canohando."

Aragorn sat turning his wine goblet in his hands, his eyes far away. "It is a strange turn that you returned to Mordor, and that these orcs should cross your path and be so changed. I had not envisioned any such thing when I sent Radagast to you, Frodo."

"You sent Radagast?" Frodo stared at Aragorn, and the King smiled slightly.

"I was not easy in my mind about you, especially after Elrond and Gandalf sailed. Arwen sent word for me to the Brown Wizard, to seek you out and see if he could bring you aid."

"The truth at last!" Frodo's eyes brimmed with mirth. "Why did you tell me you came to look after your bird, when you found me? And how did you find me, there at the cave?"

The wizard shook his head. "That was happenstance, Donkey, if you believe in such. I was on my way to Bag End, but I stopped on the way to see my patient, and there you were! Yet if I had not made that detour, I would have missed you."

Frodo's amusement vanished. "If you had gone to Bag End direct, I would have been gone already… and Sam would have brought you along when he went to the cave, I suppose…" Radagast nodded. "I would have been dead before you got there," Frodo finished. Suddenly he was cold to the center of his being.

Radagast left his place and came to stand behind the hobbit, his hands on Frodo's shoulders. "Sometimes a kindly purpose leads us by the hand, even as we think we are choosing our own paths," he said. "And what has sprung from that morning when I came upon you cooking mushrooms, and gave you an apple instead? Everything from the life of your little bird – do you remember Cuina? – to the liberation of three orcs from the yoke of Morgoth! For mark you, Frodo, had you not gone to Mordor, they would not have been freed. You forged the bridge they traveled over, and only the Ring-bearer could have led them across."

Frodo leaned back against the wizard, closing his eyes, and Radagast massaged his shoulders, his fingers giving comfort and reassurance. But Arwen stirred among the silken cushions of her chair.

"And what will spring from that, think you? To undo that ancient evil for even one victim -- that is a mighty deed, and must have its own consequences. One is dead, you say, but what of the other two? If they do no more than sit quiet on their mountain, breeding a race of orcs that is not enslaved to Darkness—"

"I doubt Canohando will sit quiet all his life," said Radagast. "He was growing restless already, when last we saw him. You may find him in Minas Tirith one day, seeking the Queen whose Jewel he wears."

Frodo looked troubled. "Do you really think he would come here, Radagast? I had not thought of that, when I gave it to him."

"No, you gave it to him for his comforting, Donkey. And it did that, I think, but it may also inflame his thirst to know what he is -- and what he may become."

"And would he be a danger, if he came?" Aragorn asked.

Radagast considered for a long moment. "Not of his own will," he said at last.

34. Home Is the Wanderer

They stayed a month in Minas Tirith, and after the first banquet Aragorn yielded to Frodo's entreaty, and refrained from subjecting him to any more public honors. Frodo seldom left the Citadel, spending much of his time wandering in the gardens he had seen from the windows the first day, usually with a book from the King's private library tucked under his arm. He took dinner with the King and Queen when they were free to eat alone in their private dining room, and he passed many happy hours sitting with Arwen in her bower while Aragorn was busy with affairs of the kingdom.

One day the Queen overheard Frodo singing when he thought himself alone, and prevailed upon him to sing for her. Arwen herself had a lovely voice, and they found that they harmonized well together; several times after that they sang duets for the King and Radagast, and Aragorn surprised Frodo by producing a small harp from a leather case to accompany them.

“Is there anything you cannot do?” Frodo exclaimed with a grin. ”You were Ranger and healer and a commander of armies, you are a ruler of strength and wisdom, and now I find that you are bard as well! Truly the race of Numenor is in flower once again!”

Aragorn laughed. “I was raised by Elrond, remember. Small chance of growing up in Rivendell without learning to sing and play some instrument! But I had not known that you could sing, Frodo, or we would have had more music on our journey together. Music lightens the heart.”

“It does,” Frodo agreed. ”I wish I had remembered that in the bad times.”

Radagast was absent much of the time, though he joined them for dinner. He spent his days with the ancient lore-master who had charge of the great Library of the city, but his answers were vague when Frodo asked what he was doing. Something to do with the wizard's mysterious errand to the East, was all he could discover.

At last one evening Radagast filled his pipe after dinner and turned to the King. “I have learned all I can in the old records, thanks to your generosity in having the Master of Scrolls assist me, Elessar. This was the need that brought me to Minas Tirith, and now it is answered. I must not presume longer on you hospitality.”

Aragorn smiled. “That is a courteous way of saying you are ready to be on your way again, I think.”

Radagast sent a smoke ring to drift around Frodo's head. “It is time I brought my Donkey back to his home pasture, before I follow the path I must tread. Long years have passed since I saw my brother Istari who went into the East, and the time of our labors is fulfilled. I must seek them out, wherever they have wandered, but I will see Frodo home first, if he is ready to go with me now.”

Frodo nodded. “The day after tomorrow?” he asked.

“That will do very well,” said Radagast.

The next day Arwen sought Frodo out. “I have something for you, dear heart, before you leave us.” She held out a small pouch of black velvet, embroidered with the White Tree. “This was left in my keeping, to be given to you when I had opportunity.”

Wondering, Frodo untied the drawstring and shook the pouch out over his palm. A ring fell out, a graceful filagree of white metal that gleamed like silver, but with a deeper, richer sheen. It was set with an oval stone that changed color as he turned it in his hand, appearing green or blue according to how the light struck it.

“It's like the Sea,” he breathed, holding it up to the window and watching how it cast sparks of light around the room.

Arwen smiled. “That is what its maker said,” she agreed. “It was made for you by one who claimed to owe you his life, when you pulled him out of the Sea. Do you remember him?”

“Nano! Of course I remember - he made this? Oh, he became a master of his craft, indeed!” Frodo laughed delightedly, slipping the ring on his finger and holding it up so the stone caught the light once more. “He was here, Arwen? Did he make jewels for you as well?”

“He made a necklace of sapphires for me, and a coronet for my daughter on the occasion of her marriage. He was, as you say, a master of his craft.”

Frodo looked up sharply. “Was? But not any longer?”

“I am sorry, Frodo. He went with some of Gimli's people to Khazad-dum, to re-open the mithril works there. Your ring was fashioned from the first mining of that metal since the Dwarves were driven out long ago. But I fear that Moria is a place of ill-fortune even now; there was a cave-in a few years later, and many of the workers were lost. Your friend was one of them.”

Frodo bowed his head, his eyes filling. He stroked the cool gem with one finger and pressed it to his lips. To hear of Nano's success and his death all in one telling tore his heart.

“When?” he whispered.

Arwen paused to consider. “Six or seven years ago. He was not young, Frodo; he had lived a full life, and a happy one. The necklace he made for me will be treasured as long as this Kingdom endures, and even now his son follows the same trade with honor, in the Glittering Caves. The son did not go to Khazad-dum; he was content in the place of his birth.”

Frodo nodded. “I am glad his son still lives, at least. Thank you, Arwen.” He went back to his own quarters soon after that, packing up his things for their departure on the morrow and then lying on his bed, remembering, until at last he fell asleep.

They broke their fast with Arwen and Elessar and left the city before the sun had passed the third hour. The King had provided them with mounts to speed their journey, a pony for Frodo and a sturdy gray for Radagast. They did not stop to visit anyone else on their way, and on the afternoon of Midsummer Day they reached the cave where their friendship had begun, in the Shire, east of Tookland.

“And so the old hobbit got home that night,” Radagast said with a smile, and Frodo grinned.

“Almost, anyway. Will you come and visit Bag End, Radagast? You had me to stay in your house, and I would like to welcome you to mine. Although,” he added, struck by the thought, ”it isn't really mine any more. But Sam will welcome you, I know, and I would like for you to see my old home.”

Radagast looked down at him fondly. ”No, Donkey, I will leave you here where I found you. I fear hobbit hospitality would be irresistible; I might not get away till next spring, and indeed I must be about my search for the Blue Wizards. Come, we will have an early supper, and you shall sing me the songs of the Shire one more time in the firelight. In the morning we must go our separate ways.”

So it was, and the night was far gone before they took shelter in the cave for a few hours' sleep. At dawn they rose and ate breakfast without much talk.

“I want to go home, yet I do not want to leave you,” Frodo said. He sat by the breakfast fire, watching it die down to coals. Radagast stood and took his hand, pulling him to his feet.

“Come along, Donkey.” He tipped the hobbit's chin up so he could look into his eyes. “You have been the best companion for the road I could have wished for, and yet, to speak truth, I had not felt the need of any companion until you came to me. Now I know better and I shall miss you very much! But your little gardener has been missing you these many years, and he needs you now.” The wizard bent to hug him, leaning his cheek for a moment against Frodo's hair. “Go home to him, Donkey, and do not linger on the way.” He kissed the top of Frodo's head.

“Go now. I will watch you out of sight.”

Frodo threw his arms around the wizard, burying his face in the softness of the brown robe for a long minute. Then he turned and swung onto his pony. “Farewell, Radagast.” He met the brown eyes, so deep with knowledge and tenderness. “Farewell, and grace go with you. I hope you find your brother wizards.” He turned his pony away, starting down the long slope of the hill, trusting the beast to find its own way because he was blinded by tears.

He didn't linger on the way, but he didn't hurry. Every mile tugged at his emotions, the little springs he crossed on rustic bridges, the rolling hills with round windows peeping out here and there from riotous flower gardens. He kept his pony to a walk, gazing about him as the Shire tiptoed into his heart and filled it, bringing a flood of gratitude that he had lived to see this beloved place once more.

“I'm home,” he told himself. “I'm home, I'm really home...”

It was almost too much to grasp, and he went slower and slower, till by the time he reached Hobbiton it was already dark. He stopped at the bottom of the Hill; the old stable was still there, smaller than he remembered it, the key hanging under the window shelf as it always had. He let himself in and cared for his pony by the light of the starglass, remembering the last time he had been in this stable by night. Despair had filled him then; now it was happiness.

I'll sleep here tonight, he decided. No need to wake Sam and Rosie, set them running to fix him a meal, put fresh sheets on a bed for him. He hadn't eaten since breakfast, but he wasn't hungry. Coming home had been food enough for him this day. He rolled up in his blanket and was asleep in minutes.

The birds woke him in the morning and he was confused for a moment, finding himself under a roof. Then he remembered and leaped up with a rush of joy. I'm home! He followed the grassy path up the Hill to the kitchen door, the garden fresh and dewy all around him, the summer lilac bush filling the air with fragrance.

The kitchen was silent, no one up yet, and he set about making breakfast, waiting for them to wake. But Sam came into the kitchen alone, and the happy homecoming was darkened with grief - Rosie had died on Midsummer Day.

“I'm that thankful you got here in time for the funeral, Mr. Frodo. It's like as if you knew I needed you...”

And Frodo kicked himself for his slow travel of the day before, although in truth he would have been too late, even if he had galloped all the way. By the time he and Radagast had reached the cave, Rosie was already gone. He set breakfast before Sam and coaxed him into eating; shook the wrinkles out of Sam's best suit of clothes and helped him tie his cravat. He himself had to borrow a jacket from Frodo-lad; he was lean and wiry from his years in the wilderness, and Sam's clothes hung loose on him.

So he was there to stand by Sam as Rosie was laid to rest. When it was all over and the guests had gone home, and Sam's children had bedded down their little ones in all the spare bedrooms of the smial, Frodo was still there to sit with Sam in the twilight, and pour him a nightcap before he led him off to bed. But in the morning he woke to the rattling of crockery, and there was Sam at his bedside with the breakfast tray, as if all his years away had been no more than a dream.

“What do you think you're doing, Samwise Gamgee? It's me should be bringing you breakfast in bed!” he exclaimed, sitting up and reaching for the tray.

“Well, I brought enough for both of us, Mr. Frodo - I thought I'd pull up a chair and eat with you, if that's all right.”

Frodo smiled. “I'm glad you suggested it, Sam, or else I'd have to bully you into it. Come along then, breakfast in bed is delightful, so long as you're willing to share it with me.”

After a few days Sam's children returned to their own homes and they were alone together. Frodo felt as if time had stepped backward. Bag End was utterly familiar to him, as if he had never been away, but Sam smiled when Frodo asked if he had changed anything at all in the last sixty years.

“Well, of course I did, Mr. Frodo! We had to make bedroom space for all the children, and a playroom so they wouldn't be everlastingly underfoot in the kitchen - we even had a schoolroom for a while, in the second pantry just off the kitchen, so's Rosie could keep an eye on the cooking while she helped them with their lessons.

“You said it was mine, you know, afore you left, and I treated it just that way. But once the children were grown we didn't need playroom nor schoolroom, and these last few years I've been putting it back the way it was before, as near as I could remember. I didn't want you to not know where you were, when you got home.”

For a moment Frodo couldn't speak past the lump in his throat; he put an arm around Sam's stooped shoulders, gently, fearing to be too rough. Sam seemed so frail and old that Frodo was almost ashamed of his own robust health. “There never was anyone like you, Sam Gamgee, not in the whole history of the Shire! But I'm afraid you've worn yourself out, doing that for me; now I'm home you're to rest, do you understand? You let me see to the work.”

“I'll do no such thing, Mr. Frodo! I think I see myself letting you cut wood and scrub floors, to say nothing of the cooking - no, sir! I'll take care of you like I always did, like I've been wanting to do all these years -” Tears sprang to Sam's eyes and he pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

“Shh, lad, it's all right, I'm home again.” Frodo led Sam to the settee and sat down with him, patting his hand. ”Very well, then, you'll take care of me, wake me up in the morning as you used to - I'd like that, you know; I've missed your, 'Wake up, Mr. Frodo, it's a beautiful morning!' You always said the same thing, whether it was bright sunshine or a howling blizzard outside the window!”

He gave Sam a comical look, and Sam chuckled. “But I'll cook supper, mind - I can cook, you know! and as for the scrubbing and heavy work, we'll get some bright young fellow in from the village to see to it. I want to take the pony cart and drive out a little; I'd like to visit Merry and Pippin, wander about and see some of my old haunts, and I want you to come with me, Sam. I can't have you wearing yourself to a thread with housework.”

Sam was reluctant to let Frodo do any work at all, but Frodo made a show of indignation at the insult to his cooking (”I'll have you know, Master Samwise, that Radagast told me himself he hadn't eaten so well in years, when I took over as camp cook! You just wait till you taste my potatoes with cheese and mushrooms!”) They agreed at last that Sam would prepare breakfast and noon dinner, when they were home for it, but supper would be Frodo's responsibility.

“All the more reason for me to make sure we're away from home in the middle of the day,” Frodo said with a laugh. “You'll see more of the Shire this summer than you've seen in years, my lad!”

He wasn't lying when he said he wanted to visit Merry and Pippin; he had not thought of them often while he was gone, but now he was home he longed for their company. He had not allowed himself the luxury of homesickness in all the years he'd been away; now it descended on him in a flood, and he would have been content to visit them and come straight back to Bag End. He had been wandering for so long, sleeping on the ground, and it was heavenly to lie down in his own bed and wake to the rattle of the breakfast tray as Sam carried it in.

He would not have roamed the Shire this summer on his own account, but Sam needed to get away; Bag End was too full of Rosie. Sam moved into the little bedroom off the kitchen, away from the master bedroom and the big bed he had shared with her.

“It's too lonely, Mr. Frodo - I keep reaching for her in my sleep and it wakes me up. I'll do better in that hard little bed I slept in when you were first Master here, when I came to look after you when you was sick. That won't get me thinking Rosie is there by me.”

They spent a week at Great Smials, and the visit was a success for the most part. It was a jolt for Frodo, seeing Pippin with lined face and thinning hair - in his mind's eye his cousin was still the fresh-faced lad who had visited Bag End and shortsheeted all the beds, or perhaps the dashing hero of the Battle of Bywater. But Peregrin the Thain was as merry as little Pip had been of old, and Frodo soon forgot his elderly appearance.

The rigid decorum that governed life at the Smials wore on Frodo, until he reflected that the King's court in Minas Tirith was somewhat less punctilious in its etiquette than the Thain's entourage; after that he found it funny. Sometimes he had to bite his lip not to laugh, or slip quietly out of a room to indulge his mirth in private.

“You've been out in the wilds too long, Mr. Frodo; you've forgot the ways of civilized hobbits!” Sam chided him. “You've picked up wizard's manners, seems like.”

“I suppose I have, Sam,” Frodo admitted. “Be honest, now, don't you find it just a trifle ridiculous - no, I can see you don't. Never mind - just be glad I didn't pick up orc manners!” He chuckled wickedly, imagining Canohando at dinner with the Thain.

The visit to Buckland went better; Merry and Estella were hospitable but casual hosts, and in Merry's son Saradoc he found an eager listener to his stories of Mordor.

He had expected that Sam would enjoy hearing about his labors restoring that blasted land; Sam's had been the guiding hand in the reclamation of the Shire, after the ruffians were cast out. But Sam was not interested.

“Mordor! The less I hear about that place, the better I'll like it, Mr. Frodo. How you could go back there is more than I”ll ever understand, never mind staying for nigh on sixty years! Weren't you homesick? When I got your letter saying you were healed, I thought you'd be coming home any time...” He turned away, hiding his face, and Frodo's heart smote him.

“I -” He put his arm around Sam. “I couldn't think about being homesick, Sam. I couldn't let Radagast go alone, after all he'd done for me. Well, you wouldn't let me go alone, you know! And it was a good feeling, watching the land come back to life, knowing I was helping to make it happen. And the orcs -”

Sam grimaced. “Orcs! If I'd a known you'd run into orcs, I wouldn't've let you go alone that time neither! I never thought Radagast would lead you into danger, but I should've known - just like Gandalf, his mind on his own business and never a thought who gets hurt by it -”

“Sam!” Frodo's face was stern. “I never thought to hear you echoing Saruman's lies - if that's what the Shire thinks of Gandalf, I wrote the Red Book all for nothing!” He went to one knee by Sam's chair, taking a wrinkled hand in his own.

“Gandalf saved us all, old lad; don't you ever doubt it. If he hadn't realized what Ring it was, that Bilbo took from Gollum's cave -! We wouldn't have had to go on the Quest; we'd have been murdered in our beds before we ever left the Shire! Hobbits came off very lightly in the struggle - think how many Men died fighting the War. We lost nineteen at Bywater; that's all. Without Gandalf, we would have lost everything. And Radagast looked after me as if he had been my father -”

He choked on the word, and Sam reached up to put an arm round his neck.

“All right, Mr. Frodo, you've got the rights of it. Your Sam's as much a fool as he ever was, I reckon. But I'd as soon not hear about no orcs, if it's all the same to you.”

So Frodo went boating on the river with young Sarry, telling his tales of Mordor, but Sam sat on the bank and fished. After a couple of weeks they rode home again in the pony cart.

In truth, Sam didn't want to hear about Frodo's adventures at all. He listened absently to stories of injured animals, of Nano and Gimli and Rhosgobel, but when Frodo fell silent, fearing that he was boring his audience, Sam turned every conversation to Rosie.

“She was a lass!” he laughed. “Oh, I wish you could've seen her, teaching Elanor and Goldi to dance the springlering! Light on her feet like a bit o' thistledown, and her hair flying in her face...” He broke off, smiling, but when Frodo moved to clear the dishes from the table, he looked up.

“She was sunshine in the house, Mr. Frodo. Even on dark days - we had a few bad times, too, you know, while you were gone. Had a run of sickness one year; it laid us up for a long while, and there was a-many died of it. Coming on top of a crop failure; oh, it was a bad time, right enough! Rose, she was all over Hobbiton and Bywater, taking care of folks, till she took sick herself, and as soon as she was well again, she was back at it. You couldn't keep my Rosie down.”

“I remember.” Frodo stood with the dishes in his hands, gazing around the old kitchen. “She looked after me, too. Did she ever tell you, the time she woke me from a nightmare?”

“She did? No, she didn't tell me about that. Where was I, I wonder?”

“You were asleep. It wasn't long before Elanor's birth; Rose couldn't rest and she heard me kicking up a ruckus; I fell out of bed, and she came running in. We made some tea and sat up talking for a while.” He swallowed. “She was a rare lass, Sam; you were lucky to have her. I wish I had come home in time to see her again.”

Sam nodded, his hand over his eyes. “I believe I'll go have a lie-down, Mr. Frodo,” he said after a moment. “Wake me up for supper, mind, and maybe we can take a walk down to the Ivy Bush after. Should be a pleasant evening for a stroll.”

Summer wound to its end. The fields turned golden and they drove along the little byways, watching the harvest. They carried jugs of cider and baskets of spicy meat pasties; when the sun got high, they stopped near some of the reapers and invited them to share their meal. Everyone knew Sam; he had been Mayor of the Shire nearly fifty years, and he knew almost everyone by name, and the names of their parents and grandparents as well.

When the leaves turned color, they drove out to Bindbole Woods, staying the night at an inn and starting home in the morning through cut fields white with frost, their breath making little clouds before their faces. When they got home, Frodo turned the pony out to pasture and pushed the cart to the back of the stable, out of the way.

“I think that's it for this year, Sam. Time to sit snug by the fire till spring, read a little poetry, break open a barrel of Longbottom Leaf. Are you up for a game of chess after supper?”

35. Even the Dregs Are Sweet

November came in with cold rain and wind.  Frodo ordered a double load of firewood from a young hobbit in the village, who was saving up so he could marry his sweetheart at Yule. The fellow was glad to split and stack it for a few extra coins, and Sam smiled as he counted them out.

"She's a fine lass, that Dilly of yours! Mind you treat her well, Longo, and you'll be as happy as I was with Mistress Rose."

Longo grinned. "That's what I'm hoping, Mayor Samwise," he said. It was six years since Sam had ended his last term as Mayor, but the name still stuck.

They had nearly a month of dreary weather, and when it was not actually raining it looked as if it were going to. Sam and Frodo stayed close by the study fire, reading or playing chess. Frodo was long out of practice, but Sam had become expert at the game; he was embarrassed and Frodo amused when Sam took every game.

"You must have been listening, when I taught you years ago," Frodo said cheerfully, and Sam cleared his throat.

"Guess you didn't have much chance of keeping up your game, traveling around like you were, Mr. Frodo. Not much for chess, Mr. Radagast wasn't?"

Frodo grinned. "No – we played Orks and Tarks more than anything else. That and knucklebones."

Sam stared at him blankly, and Frodo chuckled. "Kings, lad – only you don't ask an orc to play a game of Kings, if you're wise! And Canohando liked to throw knucklebones by the fire of an evening."

From the corner of his eye Frodo saw Sam struggling to keep a straight face. He looked at him direct, quirking an eyebrow, and Sam gave it up, leaning back in his chair laughing and shaking his head.

"All right, Mr. Frodo! You've been wanting to tell me about them orcs of yours ever since you got home, and I wouldn't listen. Nothing I wanted to know about orcs that I didn't know already – but an orc that plays Kings is worth hearing about, I have to admit! You'd better go ahead and tell me."

Towards the end of the month the storms blew themselves out, and Frodo woke at last to a morning of terrible brightness. Sunlight dazzled his eyes when he pulled back his curtains, and he squinted, trying to guess the time. Long past breakfast, that was certain; more like midmorning. Sam had not come to wake him and so he had overslept himself.

He was afraid, and he almost ran down the passage to the kitchen. Sam would not have overslept; Sam never overslept. The kitchen was full of light and deadly silent, and he took a breath to steady himself before he turned to open the door of the little bedroom. Sam was old - oh, Elbereth, but he was old! Younger than Frodo, really, but he seemed older, and Rosie had died even younger. It took all the courage Frodo could muster to walk into that quiet bedroom.

My turn to draw his curtains, after all the years he did it for me, he thought, careful not to look at the bed. But when he did look, Sam lay flat on his back, eyes open, and he was breathing. Hearing those raspy breaths, Frodo breathed again himself; he hadn't noticed that he had stopped.

"Sam? Are you all right?"

It was a stupid question; of course Sam wasn't all right. He turned his head, the movement achingly slow, and his eyes held some dreadful knowledge. "I can't move my legs, Mr. Frodo. Nor my arms. It's an awful way to go."

Frodo sat down on the bed, smoothing the snowy hair back from Sam's forehead, thinking even as he did it how often Sam had wakened him that way, a gentle hand brushing the hair out of his eyes. "Do you hurt anywhere?" he asked.

"No, I just can't move. It was easier for Rosie; she went to sleep, is all. You'd better send for Elanor, Mr. Frodo, and the other children. It's their place to do for me until – well, as long as needs be. I don't want to be no burden on you, and you only home a little while after all those years away."

Anger welled up in Frodo, anger that Sam should be brought to such helplessness, and even more, that he would think himself a burden. He bit down hard on his lip; anger would not help; it would do no good to rail at death, and age, and sorrow. He bent his head, and his will, to accept what was.

"No, I won't send for Elanor," he said, and half smiled at Sam's confusion. "I won't, not if it means you'll shut me out, now when I can finally repay a little of my debt to you." Sam started to protest and Frodo stopped him with a hand laid lightly across his mouth. "Just answer me this, Samwise Gamgee! If I'd wakened this morning unable to move, would you have sent for Merry and Pippin, for my kinsfolk, to come care for me?"

"You know better nor that, Mr. Frodo."

"I do," Frodo nodded. "You would have done everything for me, right to the end, all the way to putting the coins on my eyes and planting flowers on my grave." Am I going too far, he wondered, saying the unspeakable, the unthinkable? But what else had Sam been thinking of, lying there unable to move since early morn? What else but death?

"You know you would have, Sam, and I would do no less for you. If you love me, don't ask me to stand aside now, when I can finally do for you. You'll break my heart."

He took Sam's hands, lying limp on the covers, and gripped them tight. After a moment he felt an answering pressure, weak, but Sam was squeezing his hands.

"Thank'ee, Mr. Frodo. It'll go easier, having you by me."

It was cold in the room. Frodo lifted Sam's hands to his lips, one after the other, and laid them down. "I'm going to get a fire going in here and make you some tea. Could you eat something?"

Sam shook his head, but when Frodo brought him some thin porridge a little later, he was able to swallow it. Frodo helped him sit up and packed pillows all around him, held the mug to his lips and fed him the porridge. When Sam wouldn't look at him for shame, he teased him out of it.

"Now, Sam, you did the same for me, that time I downed a bottle of brandy at one sitting and half poisoned myself! Remember that? You did more than just hold a mug for me to drink, that time, and I brought it on myself, my own foolishness. You haven't done anything to be embarrassed about, nor left the carpet in a state to need a week's airing, so don't let this worry you. Just remember, you'd do the same for me – and you have done, more than once!"

He had to send for Sam's children, of course. It was their right to be there, and in truth he couldn't have done it all alone. They came, and they cooked and carried water, washed the bedclothes and kept the fires going, and they sat with Sam and shared memories of their growing-up, till the little bedroom rang with laughter. Many a story Frodo heard, of mischief and merriment, all the family life he had missed by being away, and that Sam had not had time to tell him, or had not thought to tell him. And he told stories, too, of his travels with Radagast and the reclaiming of Mordor. Frodo suspected the children did not believe more than half of it, but Sam listened this time. He glossed over the danger the orcs had been to his own life, but he did not think Sam was deceived.

"You didn't really go and give Arwen's jewel to that orc!" Sam chided him after the children had left the room.

"Yes, I did."

Sam shook his head. "I don't know, Mr. Frodo. It don't seem like she would've liked that, Queen Arwen wouldn't. It was you she gave it to, and she wouldn't a given it to no orc."

Frodo smiled; it was the old argument about Smeagol, all over again. "Arwen herself would have given it to Canohando if she had known him. He needed it, in any event, as I did not by then. He had no Samwise, you see, nor any Rose, either, to help him." Sam snorted, but said no more.

There was laughter in Sam's bedroom, but it was a hard time for all that. They called for a healer, of course, but he could only suggest such horrors as bleeding Sam "to let the bad blood out" - Frodo took him by the arm and led him out of the room, paying him double the usual fee and shutting the door behind him with a decided thump.

"I am a healer," he told Sam's children, and he put forth all the skill Radagast had taught him, but to little avail. Sam never complained, but his helplessness was bitter to him, and though the paralysis in his arms eased a little, he could not feed himself. He tried from time to time when he had a good day, but it always ended with the spoon slipping from his hand, spilling its contents on the coverlet.

"It'll be a mercy to be finished with this. I wish I could die and have done with it!" he muttered one day when he thought himself alone. But Frodo was behind the door and heard, and it cut him to the heart. He could not wish it over, no, and him without his Sam. Yet it was wrenching to watch Sam flounder when he had always been so strong, and heartbreaking to realize that Sam's life was a burden to him now. He went and knelt by the bed, his arm across Sam's chest and his head next to him on the pillow.

"You'll leave me soon enough, dearest of friends. Don't begrudge me these last days with you, when I've missed so many."

Sam groaned. "You weren't meant to hear that, Mr. Frodo."

"No, I know I wasn't. Sam, will you understand me when I say, I wish you didn't have to go through this – but I'm glad I'm here to go through it with you?"

Sam nodded. "I'm glad of that too. I know it's no use to say I couldn't bear something, but I don't know how I could've borne this, if you hadn't a been here with me." With difficulty, he raised an arm to give Frodo a clumsy hug.

Finally one morning Sam didn't wake, but lay all day in a heavy sleep. His children slipped in and out to sit with him a while, saying their farewells, but Frodo didn't stir from his side all day, holding Sam's hand, rubbing it gently between his own, and bending once or twice to kiss his forehead, when they were alone for a few minutes. He didn't say much; there wasn't much they hadn't said already. Only now and again he murmured, "No hobbit ever had a friend like you, Sam, dear Sam. Thank you for being my friend." Near sunset Sam gave a deep, shuddering breath, and that was the end.

Frodo rose and called Sam's sons and daughters, but he himself went outside into the cold, unseeing and alone. I will always be alone now, he thought. I came home for Sam, and Sam is gone. He walked down into the old Party Field and leaned against the mallorn that Sam had planted and been so proud of, and there he wept until he had no more tears.

When he went back in at last, Elanor and her sisters had taken over, washing their father and dressing him in his best. When they had done, Sam's sons came to coffin the body, but Frodo would not allow it.

"We'll do it in the morning; there will be time enough, before folk begin to come," he said. "Let him stay as he is for tonight. He looks so peaceful, you might almost think he slept."

They bowed to his wishes – it was what their Da would have done, after all. And when some of them would have kept watch and Frodo asked to watch through the night by himself, they yielded to him in that, as well. But when they came in the morning, Frodo wasn't in his chair by the bed. It stopped them for a moment. Then Elanor said softly, "Here he is." Frodo lay on the bed beside Sam, his arm around him and his face hidden against Sam's shoulder. "Mr. Frodo, wake up, sir. It's time," she said, and touched his back, half fearing to find him dead as well. But he opened his eyes and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Not the proper way to watch beside the dead, I know, only –"

Elanor took his hand and helped him up. "Da would've been pleased," she said gently. "There's hot water ready in your room, Mr. Frodo, for you to wash up, and one of the children will bring your breakfast tray."

She was a good manager, Sam's eldest daughter, and Frodo let himself be managed. The day passed in a blur as half the Shire trooped through the smial to bid farewell to Mayor Samwise. He had been greatly beloved, and it comforted Frodo in his grief to see the esteem in which his Sam had been held. On the second morning they buried him next to Rose, and the old cemetery was packed to the white picket fence with hobbits come to pay their respects. Bag End was thrown open afterwards to serve hot cider and slabs of spice cake to everyone who stopped by.

Frodo remained in the background, and there were few who noticed him. Thain Peregrin was there, of course, with Diamond, and the Master of Buckland had come with Estella; they had been visiting the Thain when word came of Sam's death. They stayed on at Bag End for a few days, and Frodo sat late by the fire with Pippin and Merry, smoking and talking, retracing in memory the paths they had followed together with Sam. Those evenings stayed in his mind like glowing miniatures, bathed in light, in the cloud of sorrow that had closed around him. Pippin had always, even from babyhood, been able to make him laugh, and that had not changed.

At length there was no one left at Bag End but Frodo and the Gardners, and it came to him abruptly that this was no longer his home; it was the inheritance of Sam's children. Where shall I go? he wondered, and lay awake most of one night pondering the question.

Merry or Pippin would find room for him and gladly, either one of them, and certainly they had plenty of space. He thought back to the Hall of his childhood, warm and boisterous and crowded. Even as a child he had yearned for a quiet corner where he could be alone to read and think. Now, after years in the wilderness with only Radagast for company, he did not think he could bear the teeming, anthill life of Brandy Hall. And the Great Smials would be the same or worse, even apart from the protocol and formality that had been funny when he visited, but would be hard to bear if he could not get away from it.

There was a family living at Crickhollow now or he would go there, but surely there must be a little smial somewhere tucked away, where he could spend whatever time remained to him. Near Hobbiton, he hoped; he would like to stay near Hobbiton, where Sam had lived his entire life apart from the year of the Quest and one visit to Gondor. He buried his face in his pillow as grief took him by the throat again.

After breakfast he asked Elanor if she knew of a small place he could rent, and she turned to him with a look of astonishment.

"Why, Mr. Frodo? Are we so hard to live with?" Frodo stammered apologies, explanations, and she smiled. "There's no need for you to go anywhere, sir. I know it's crowded here right now, but we'll all be going to our own homes in the next few days; there'll be no one here but Fro and his family, and he's only got the four."

"Young Fro might like to have his home to himself, however," Frodo said with wry humor. "The smial should not come equipped with a long-past owner, like a ghost in the back bedroom."

Elanor laughed. "Oh, he'd have a ghost, right enough, did he fail to make you welcome! Da would come back and haunt him sure! Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo," she added seriously, "we think Fro has the best luck of the lot of us, getting Bag End and you thrown in for good measure! If you get weary of him and Daisy and want a holiday, some time, you can come to any of us and we'll be delighted to have you."

"Thank you," Frodo said, deeply moved.

"Do you know what it meant to Da, having you come back?" Elanor asked softly. "I don't think he ever once spoke of you, all those years, without saying you'd promised to come home again. And we're that thankful, all of us, that you were here when he was stricken. It was you that carried him, Mr. Frodo; if you hadn't been here, he might've turned bitter at the end. You kept him from that. Fro will give you Bag End outright, if you want it; he told me so only yesterday. He won't move his family in till you say the word."

"Won't he?" Frodo asked, suddenly swept by remorse. He should have talked to young Fro before this, knowing he would naturally be Sam's heir. "Do you know where he is, Elanor? I must get this cleared up at once."

So Fro and Daisy went home only long enough to pack up their household and move to Bag End. The old smial echoed to the antics of four lively young hobbits, and mealtimes were feasts of good cooking and good cheer. After some negotiation with Fro, in which each tried to give the other the master bedroom, Frodo stayed in the room next to his old study – which was plenty large enough for his needs, as he pointed out in some exasperation to the young Master, besides being convenient if he wanted to sit up late reading. They all settled down agreeably together, and Frodo told himself daily how lucky he was, back in his old home, honored and well cared for by Sam's own children.

In the daytime he could believe it. In the daytime, surrounded by bustling family life, he managed well enough. He kept up his end of conversations, joined in the good-natured teasing around the dinner table, played chess with Fro sometimes and taught the game to the older children. They were all mourning Sam, but they kept up a façade of cheerfulness, and he felt this was healthy and right.

At night, though, sleep was elusive. He lay in bed as long as he could stand it, staring at the back of his eyelids, and then he got up and went into the study, wrapping up in a thick eiderdown to avoid having to light a fire. He tried to read, but he couldn't keep his mind on the book; tried to write, but it seemed pointless. Radagast would say I've lost my purpose, he thought, and he'd be right.

He felt like a burnt-out candle, used up. He had healed, at length and painfully, from the Quest, and had done what he could in the desolation of Mordor. The memory of the orcs rose before him and he wondered if they yet lived, wished blessing on them for the thousandth time.

He had kept his promise to Sam, had come home and been here to support him through the last battle. Is there something I still have to do? He opened the study window and stood with the cold air blowing over him, looking up at the stars, brilliant in the winter night. Isn't it enough yet? he asked silently. Can't I come home? And then he wondered at his own question.

One night it snowed. He looked out the window, and the ground was already covered, the air thick with flying snowflakes. The study seemed suddenly too small to hold him, and he wrapped his cloak around him, the same old cloak that the Elves of Lothlorien had given him a long lifetime ago, and stepped outside.

The stars were invisible, but the snow glittered on the ground and in the air, and he felt as if he were moving through stars, whirling, icy specks of light in blackest emptiness. Frightening, a little, but exhilarating too, and he reveled in it, feeling really alive for the first time since Sam's death. He stuck out his tongue to catch a snowflake.

Second childhood, he explained to an invisible watcher. I'm old enough; I'm entitled to a second childhood. It amused him and he laughed aloud, then choked back the sound, lest he waken someone inside the smial. He turned away from Hobbiton, toward the open field and the woods beyond.

The field was a trackless spread of white, like a new page not yet written on. He wrote his footprints on it, pushing against the wind that tried to unwind his cloak and spun icy particles sharp against his cheeks. Joy leaped up in him as he fought to keep possession of the cloak, blinking to free his eyelashes from the clinging snowflakes. The woods, when he reached them, were magical. There was no wind here and the snow fell straight down, a clean sweep of shining glory. Like Galadriel's hair, he thought, half dazed with cold and beauty.

There was someone leaning against a tree off to the left, and he turned that way. Whoever it was didn't move, just waited for him, and he had nearly reached the place when a piercing agony came out of nowhere and transfixed him. Pain burst in his throat and shot into his chest and down his arms. He gasped and stumbled, falling heavily full length on the ground, his face in the snow.

Then there was an arm around him, someone helping him to arise. The pain was gone as suddenly as it had come and he scrambled to his feet, a strong hand hauling him upright. He looked to see who it was.

"Sam!" he said, and felt the smile spreading over his face. He had a vague thought that he ought to be surprised, but he was only glad; he grabbed Sam around the middle, laughing, and Sam grinned and pounded him on the back. It was as if all the years between had never been; Sam was again the strong young gardener who had set out with him from Crickhollow, back when the Darkness was only a threat they ran from, before they knew its horrible reality.

"Are you ready, Mr. Frodo? I've come for you."

"I'm ready." Sam took his hand and they stepped out side by side, marching together as they had through all the long Quest, but they skimmed over the snow now instead of wading through it, and then they were climbing, up into the swirling flakes of light, higher and higher until it was no longer snowflakes but really the stars, that danced around them.

the end

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note: This story has a sequel, The Queen's Orc, also on this site.