Disclaimer: All the characters and settings belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This story is my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

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In the Hands of Friends - Part II

Merry slipped through the large doors and closed them behind him. There was no one outside, but he did not want anyone in the citadel drawn to the baths in curiosity over the hobbits. No, Merry would not allow anyone to disturb them this afternoon. Luckily he had been able (through subtle logic that only a hobbit could follow, or unwind) to convince Faramir to arrange for different duties for those who might have had business nearby.

Merry smiled to himself. Even the new King did not know about these baths. Aragorn was likely far too busy at the moment to even wonder if there were any. Merry, at any rate, was not about to volunteer such information just yet.

And what he gazed upon now was reward well worth it: Sam kneeling by the side of the pool with his hands working through the wet wavy hair plastered down the back of Frodo's neck; and Frodo's head resting, in turn, against Pippin's chest while Pippin's arms framed his older cousin, his hands working at the muscles on Frodo's shoulders. Water glistened on bare skin.

"That's more like it," said Merry with satisfaction.

Pippin looked up briefly and winked. "For you, maybe, standing there watching. How about lending a hand? Why don't you take my place?"

"Not a chance," Merry said. "I've already dried and dressed. Besides, my skills will be used soon enough."

At that, Frodo looked sideways and up at him. "What does that mean?" he asked. "I can't imagine there's anything else to be done. These two have quite thoroughly spoiled me as it is."

"Frodo, Frodo, my dear Frodo, you are sadly mistaken." Merry put down the bundle that he was carrying. "As well as possessing a shocking lack of imagination." He looked at Pippin. "Just the shoulders so far?"

"Um hmm," said Pippin.

"Done," said Sam. "All right, Mr. Frodo, close your eyes again. I'm going to rinse you off."

Lather and water streamed down Frodo's arms and back and created widening circles of foam on the surface of the pool. He raised his head slowly (leaving a trail of lather down Pippin's front) and Sam poured again.

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The warmth of water cascaded all about him, slicking his hair even flatter and straighter than before. And there was Sam's hand again, working out the last possible traces of lather. Frodo chuckled to himself. It was as if Sam were a dog worrying at a bone. Fingers would slide in and up and give a vigorous shake and rub and then move onward. Shake, rub. Shake, rub.

Finally, the last of the rinse water was poured over him. Sam seemed satisfied and sat back.

The next thing Frodo knew was the peals of laughter that echoed around the baths. It sounded a little odd though, as sodden hair covered his ears securely. Sound distorted and magnified itself.

"What?" he said perplexed. Only it was difficult to speak with a smooth wet curtain of hair covering his mouth.

"Where's he gone?" he heard Pippin say. "Sam! What have you done with my cousin?"

Sam's voice came after a slight hesitation. "I don't rightly know, sir. He was here a minute ago."

Hair was lifted from his face and smoothed aside.

"There he is," came Merry's voice.

Suddenly a towel was scrubbing his hair vigorously. Someone was supporting his head again for which he was grateful. It was difficult to hold his own while he was being dried so energetically.

"Someone give me a towel, would you?" he said dazedly. "I want to dry my face."

"Oh, no, you don't!" said Pippin in front of him.

And Frodo felt Sam's hands rest his head back down onto the towel folded under. A moment later, another towel was wiping his face.

"Don't open your eyes yet," Sam's voice said softly.

And then a soft bit of cloth was being touched ever so gently to the corners of his eyes.

"I know how you hate water in your eyes, Mr. Frodo. Just a moment..."

Feather-light touches over his eyelids. Delicate touches taking droplets away from eyelashes.

And finally the odd, ticklish dab to the inside of each of his ears.

"There!" said Sam with satisfaction.

Frodo opened his eyes. Sam and Merry were kneeling over him. Pippin was leaning against the side of the pool.

Frodo smiled. "My goodness, I never knew that having one's hair washed could be such an event. Thank you, you two. That was heavenly. But I think that I should get out of the pool now or I will be terribly wrinkled."

When he had dried himself, he looked around for his clothes in vain.

"Merry," he said sternly. "Where are my clothes?"

Merry grinned. "They are quite safe. Never fear! You won't be needing them quite yet."

"What?"

But before he could protest further, he was firmly led to what looked like a low stone table. A table, it seemed to him, but perhaps it was a bench for the Men who used these baths. Nevertheless, it was well-lined and padded with towels.

"Lie down on your stomach."

Frodo looked at Merry suspiciously, but did as he was told. "What if anyone comes in? I don't feel quite right lying here with nothing on."

"Nobody will come in," Pippin said coming up. He was dressed and mostly dry. "Relax! You're not to feel the least bit proper today. There was enough of that yesterday!"

"Good heavens, yes," said Merry. "Today is for us, so stop fussing!"

"And close your eyes," Sam added.

Frodo did so, a little reluctantly. It was all very well for Sam to tell him to close his eyes, but Frodo didn't quite trust three hobbits who clearly had some sort of devious plan. Three fully clothed hobbits, that is. Frodo sighed and let his head relax, cheek to the towels.

But soon he forgot to be suspicious, for in that moment someone took his right arm (Sam, he thought), another took his left (Merry, perhaps) and finally the third (Pippin?) was at his feet.

Hands rubbed, and pressed, and gentled, and, bit by loving bit, coaxed out kinks and knots from muscles that somehow (despite their long soak) still held the deep memory of tension -- the long memory of forced march and agonizing effort through evil lands.

Pain shot through his left arm, but quick and nimble fingers chased it away. Aching soreness was soothed with firm strokes along the sinews of his right hand. Cramps that curled the scarred and abused soles of his feet were banished by the almost punishing dig of knuckles against the tender arches.

Fingertips wriggled between his toes and bent them back and forth. Hands pressed and padded down either side of his spine. Fingers kneaded his buttocks and thighs, and worked their way down to dig into his calves.

All of this was done in utter silence on the part of the three working over him. But Frodo lay there gasping, wincing, and sighing -- a hobbit transformed into a full repertoire of sounds. And if he should ask for mercy for one especially sore spot, he was ignored, yet soon the soreness would leave. And if his sense of propriety demanded that attention to his bottom should cease, it was to no avail, for he was made to suffer the indignity nonetheless.

In short, whatever Frodo might say or plead, he was at the mercy of the three. But slowly inhibitions fled and instinctive clenching of muscles ceased. Bit by bit, he became contentedly defenceless and utter quiet descended over them all.

And at the end, when softly, carefully, his arms were laid at his sides, Frodo was quite simply the most bonelessly relaxed hobbit east of the Sea.

To be continued...