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

~*~*~

Chapter 8: In Giving of Oneself

She found him in his room. He was sitting on the edge of his bed lost in thought. The room was dim.

"Frodo?" she said.

Frodo looked up, startled, and then, as it seemed to Eowyn, he took a moment to collect himself.

"If you are willing," she said, and sat down beside him, "I need help in tending the wounded. This work would differ from the morning's tasks. Some of the healers have left for the fields where there has been a mishap, and so I am needed to remain behind and tend the old wounds of those who have not yet healed. Will you help me?"

"Yes." Frodo stood.

Eowyn looked at the curled fingers of his right hand doubtfully. Frodo followed the direction of her gaze warily.

"Can you use your hand freely? You will need to do so with the work ahead of us."

"I am all right," he said hastily. "I had no difficulty this morning."

"You did not do the delicate work that awaits us now. I must know that you can do that which would be required of you, without hindrance. I may also be able to bring some ease to your hand if it still troubles you."

She moved as if to take his hand, and he backed away.

"Frodo, you cannot help me with the wounded if you refuse to use your hand freely. I need your help, but not in half measure."

She took his hand then, and started to unfold his fingers.

He snatched his hand back as if he had been burned. His heart beat fast and he looked away, unwilling to meet the cool grey eyes which regarded him with candour. He could not say anything, either to excuse himself or to convince her to let the matter lie.

"If you do not let me ease the pain of your hand, then I cannot let you help me today." Eowyn rose. "I am loth to leave you behind, as I feel that you would have a deft touch, but, one-handed, you would only hinder rather than give aid when needed."

Frodo did not say anything, and so Eowyn made as if to leave. She paused at the door. "I ask you to reconsider. It would be better, I think, if you were to accept aid from those who would give it to you freely."

Even then, when no reply was forthcoming, she waited a moment in vain hope that Frodo would relent. Finally she went, leaving him to his own bitter thoughts.

* * *

Crawling, worming his way through the culverts that led him to the hushed shadowed pathways, he only once met another living soul who had absentmindedly nodded to him while hurrying past. From then on, he took to the raised, overgrown gardens that lay forgotten between the upper stories of the empty houses and the base of the great wall of the fourth level. Some of the steps that led up between dwelling and wall were even crumbling, and choked with weeds and even wild flowers which hung, tangled, amongst the stones.

Nimble and sure-footed, he cared nothing for the uncertain walkways. In fact, he revelled at his expertise in the solitude, knowing exactly which stones were loose, and which paths connected to further secret ways -- all gradually bending to the right following the great wall.

Once, he had come across a cascade of ivy, mixed with unknown greenery that covered the wall like a curtain. A bird had flown into the green mass and disappeared and, curious, he had stuck his arms in to follow, so deep that his face had been pressed into the leaves.

What a shock it was when his fingers had touched a cold mouth. With a cry, he had wrenched his hand away and stood there trembling. It was a long time before he could work up the courage to lift the curtain away. Even that took time, for the foliage was deep, and the ivy clung determinedly to the stone. But bit by bit, he parted the vines just enough to allow a spot of sunlight to shine through.

It was a carving, terribly old, he felt. And it was of a great warrior, perhaps even a king. He couldn't know for sure except that the sombre dignity of the face spoke of nobility and wisdom. Reluctantly he had left the carving, the remainder unseen, and resolved to return and perhaps uncover another part of the mysterious picture. He never saw the bird, or its nest.

But then the war started, and he never had the chance to explore underneath the hanging greenery, nor tell anyone of his find. He had been sent away and, now that he had returned, the pheriannath had taken over his imagination.

And now, Ah! he found his new goal, the stone arch over a small gateway that led to a sunken passage between building and hanging garden behind. The sunken pathway had been explored by him long ago, but it was the bridging arch that he wanted now.

He shimmied over the arch in a trice and was standing on the roof of the house. The roof was flat, and it boasted a vantage point that Fellen now prized greatly. For the height of the building raised him up, but the width of the garden separated him from the massive wall. Thus, he could more easily see up, up, above the fourth wall, past the fifth, and even just to the sixth.

No one was on the fifth wall today, at least on the southern side of the great circles. Disappointed, he idly cast his sight higher to the sixth wall, and then froze. Made tiny by the distance, but unmistakable in its hunched posture, one figure could be seen perched up on the heights.

Fellen frowned. Why would the Ringbearer be by the Houses of Healing? His eyes widened as he pondered the implications.

* * *

The stable was warm. Eowyn breathed in the close but not unpleasant air. A touch of Rohan, she thought. The familiarity eased her and when a soft whicker came from out of the muted shadows she smiled.

But she was here for a purpose, not for fond remembrances. Faint voices spoke at the very end of the long row of stalls, and so she made her way through bales of straw and hanging harnesses.

They were in the most spacious stall at the end. Her head came up proudly then, for even this stall was not as large as the one the chief of the Mearas had been given, as was his due, at Edoras. She laid her hand on the gate to the stall. Shadowfax whinnied a welcome.

"Lady Eowyn," Gandalf said. He smiled. "He seems glad to look upon one from his native land."

"As I am," she said, and laughed delightedly as Shadowfax whuffled in the palm of her outstretched hand. But she turned to King Elessar then, and her demeanour changed. "My lord, may I speak with you?"

"Yes, my lady. What brings you here?"

"I have but a moment before I must return to the Houses, but I would speak with you concerning the Ring-bearer. I ask pardon, for I would speak with you alone."

"You need not ask for pardon," Gandalf said, "and do not fear that you insult me, for I know of the Ring-bearer's plight and am glad that you wish to guard his privacy." With those words, he took up his staff and departed.

Eowyn watched him as he left, and then turned to the King. "I do not know if I have done wrongly in your eyes, but I have had Frodo join me as I work with the sick. He has proven to be a great comfort to those he aids."

Aragorn smiled. "I know this for the Warden has told me. I am glad to hear of it."

Eowyn inclined her head. "But I fear that I may have committed an error, for at first, when Frodo was taken in to the Houses of Healing, I was much worried. I did not like to think that he was under such duress as to demand severe treatment from you." Her fingers nervously pleated the skirt of her gown. "In my worry, I told Lord Faramir of what happened."

She forced her hand to stop its movements and slowly flattened its palm against her leg. Shadowfax harrumphed from his stall.

"I am sorry," she said, "for I feel that this matter should have been kept quiet. Yet Lord Faramir wishes to intervene and plead on Frodo's behalf. He would ask for leniency, or offer some kind of aid if there is aught that he can do."

A silence fell. Eowyn raised her head and looked full upon Aragorn, yet he did not speak but looked at her consideringly.

"Have I erred, my lord?"

"You have," he said, but not ungently. "I would have Frodo choose to whom he would speak of this. Yet I know that you spoke out of concern for him, and good may come of this. Go then, to Faramir, and tell him this--that if I should need him, I will send for him."

With this, he strode away. But before he had gone more than a few steps, Eowyn spoke anew.

"There is one more thing I wish to ask you."

Aragorn stopped and turned to look back.

"Do you know why Frodo might not want to use his hand?"

* * *

His toes had scrabbled briefly against the rough stone, but he was quickly up, and had settled himself against the upright block of stone, much as he had done only the day before. Only a day ago! It seemed as if it had been much longer.

This wall was higher in the City than the one he had been on earlier; and flowers, both cultivated and local, grew with abundance along the ramparts, for here were the Gardens of the Houses of Healing.

Frodo moved his left hand amongst the tallest of flowers which grew even as high as the wall itself. He paused, as if to pick one, but then withdrew his hand, for the flower was in full bloom and no doubt valued for its beauty. Instead, his hand settled on another which drooped. No fear of depriving passersby of pleasure from this one. He plucked it without remorse, and set it against his updrawn knees.

He knew not what kind of bloom it was, only that many of the petals still gleamed. He moved it, turning it back and forth, watching as the sunlight shimmered on its surfaces -- until he had turned it fully round and the wilted, decayed petals were uppermost. These were creased and brown-spotted, unlikely blemishes in a thing still growing.

He frowned and tried to smooth flat the offending parts. But they would not stay and immediately crumpled in on themselves. He let the flower fall.

He regretted his presence on the wall. He had seen Eowyn leave and return from an errand some time ago, and he knew that she would now be busy giving aid to those in need. He yearned for such labour, but it was not for him. He did not deserve such blessed distraction.

A voice broke through his thoughts.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ringbearer, sir?"

Frodo looked towards the voice and found himself staring into the face of the earnest young child that had watched him the day before. Too surprised to say anything, he watched as a flower, kin to that which he had abandoned, was solemnly placed in his lap. It glowed in the sun with full perfect colour.

The child just as solemnly bowed, looked anxiously at the windows and started to retreat.

Frodo found his tongue at last and abruptly he said, "Please don't go."

"I'm not supposed to be here," was the whispered reply. "I can't be here until tomorrow."

Frodo gazed at the guiltily fidgeting child, and suddenly smiled, a quick guilty smile of his own. "Well, then, I'll be here tomorrow, too."

The child's face lit up. "Truly? Oh, thank you!" And then he was off and running.

* * *

Sam found him in the same spot some time later, sunk into gloom once more.

Saying nothing, Sam stood by his master. And as Frodo looked at him, Sam stooped and picked up the flower that Frodo had earlier let fall. Thoughtfully, Sam looked at the petals gleaming in the sun, and then he brought it up to his nose and breathed in. A pleased smile appeared on his face, and he offered it to Frodo. Only then did he notice the other flower, still in Frodo's hands.

"Well, you have another one. But I reckon this one smells just as sweet. Have you smelled it, Master?"

Frodo bestirred himself with difficulty. He looked at the flower in his hand wonderingly. "No. I never thought to." Slowly, he brought it to his face and cautiously sniffed at it. Slightly surprised, he nodded approvingly.

"Now, wouldn't my Gaffer be surprised if he could see half the plants in this garden. But then he'd tell me to stick to the homegrown, like as not." Regretfully, Sam took his flower and tucked it alongside the other in Frodo's hand.

Frodo laid the flowers down side by side on the wall and clasped Sam's hand with his own. "Well, I don't see why you can't ask for some seedlings, Sam," he said fondly. "I am sure they'd survive the trip back to the Shire. And," his voice dropped to a whisper, "you needn't always follow what the Gaffer tells you."

"Why, I know that, Mr. Frodo!" Sam frowned. "At least, I do now. In fact, I was thinking just the other day that folk are going to find us mighty different when we get back."

Frodo pulled his hand away. "I know."

"Now don't do that, sir! Don't take what I say the wrong way. We have all changed. There's no going back on that, nohow. But I think that it will be good. Richer, somehow. Ah, I don't have your clever words to say it, but folks back home need a breath of fresh air, don't you think? Something to make them stop and wonder about something different for a change. Don't you think so?"

Frodo let himself down from the wall. "I used to think so."

"Have it your way then, sir. But what I really wanted to know is if you've seen the trees in this garden. They look wonderful from here, but I've been waiting until you were so minded as to have a look."

"All right then, Sam. Let's have a look. I can't promise that I shall be good company, but if you want, I'll come."

And so they walked on the greensward which ran between Houses and Wall, marvelling at the great trees, the only ones of their kind in the City. The cool shade from the canopy of new leaves was refreshing, and the sunlight was dappled on the grass.

As they sat beneath a great elm, they saw Aragorn coming towards them. Frodo frowned, and made as if to get to his feet, but Sam laid a hand on his arm. Frodo looked at him curiously but subsided.

"Frodo, Samwise," Aragorn said as he came nigh.

Once more, Frodo attempted to rise, but this time Aragorn forestalled him by seating himself, with his back against the tree trunk. The two hobbits faced him.

He spoke without preamble. "Lady Eowyn has told me that you haven't felt up to the tasks she set for you this afternoon."

Frodo felt a flush mantle his cheeks. "I was willing to go with her."

"Be at ease, it is not a thing you must do. However, it makes me glad to see you willingly give of yourself to the people within. No, I am far more concerned that you will not use your hand."

"I use it," Frodo said, heatedly.

"Thumb and forefinger only is what Lady Eowyn has seen."

He looked down at his right hand, clenched awkwardly in his lap. He could feel both Aragorn and Sam's gaze on him.

"Frodo," and Aragorn's voice was gentle. "You came to the Houses to find healing. Do not scorn what they have to offer you."

Frodo struggled inwardly for a moment but then despaired at the next words.

"You agreed that you would accept any such help or healing as would be offered to you. Is that not true?"

Frodo's voice was soft with regret. "It is true."

"Then give me your hand."

Slowly, he stood and moved closer. He held out his hand reluctantly.

"He can surely sit, can't he, Strider?" Sam said, and, not waiting for an answer, stood behind his master and, with gentle pressure on Frodo's shoulders, pushed him down.

Frodo was almost unaware of Sam's touch, his gaze fixed instead on his hand. Aragorn took it and firmly turned it upward. It was still clenched shut.

"Open it, Frodo," he commanded.

Slowly, cautiously, with rigid fingers protesting, Frodo opened it. The shock of cool air on his sweating palm surprised him. The skin felt vulnerable.

And when Aragorn pressed his thumbs into the open palm, in firm strokes from wrist to base of fingers, Frodo gave an in-drawn hiss of pain and jerked his hand back. But Aragorn did not let go and Frodo was forced to endure the continued assault.

Slowly, almost disbelievingly, he realized that the pain was lessening, and instead, a tingling warmth stole through his hand. He felt Sam stir at his side and heard him give a satisfied murmur as the tension drained out of his master. Now each finger was being rubbed and gently twisted. Stiff muscles relaxed, and it felt as if his skin had come alive, vibrant to the touch.

But Aragorn did not touch the gap of his missing finger. He treated it with great respect, manipulating skin almost to the very edges of the wound, but never directly touching it. Frodo relaxed, indeed, he almost would have sagged in his relief if Sam hadn't braced himself against his master and put a comforting arm around his shoulders.

And then, as he worked, Aragorn spoke. "Inaction is your enemy, Frodo. You must use your hand freely. Do not deny it movement, for you will simply increase the pain."

Now wrist and forearm were being attended to, and Frodo hadn't realized until then how tense they were. Aragorn continued to speak.

"Each day, nay, twice a day, you must let Lady Eowyn tend to your hand. And Samwise, here, too. I believe that he has been watching this with great diligence and could repeat my actions precisely."

Sam nodded emphatically. "I could, too, at that. If you'll let me, Mr. Frodo."

"He will." Aragorn carefully laid Frodo's warm, relaxed hand upon the hobbit's bent knee. "Do not let this happen again. It may be that your wound will hurt for a long time -- I have seen such wounds act so, but do not let it hold the rest of your hand hostage. Make it work. I shall instruct Lady Eowyn to tend to your hand, and then, if you are willing to do so, I shall ask her to have you accompany her once more on her rounds."

Frodo nodded dumbly, and Aragorn rose. "This is truly a beautiful place," he mused, looking about him. He turned back to the hobbits who had also risen. "I envy you your rest here. Use it well!" And with that, he was gone.

"That Strider," Sam said, admiringly, after a moment of reflective silence. "As they like to say around here: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. Odd words, I always think, but true!"

"Yes, Sam," Frodo answered softly, distantly. "But true."

To be continued