Summary: The Ring-bearer, as seen by his family and friends. Meant as a character study more than a story.

Rating: G

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

Chapter 5: Aragorn son of Arathorn, October 1418

How? How is he still alive at all, much less able to sit upright on the pony?

For none have ever taken a wound from a Morgul blade and lived. I have not told the other hobbits this. They are burdened enough with exhaustion, and with fear for their friend and kinsman. Yet Frodo still breathes. He has not become a wraith. There is hope, slim as it is.

I slow my pace to fall back to where he rides. He has said nothing for some hours now, but seems alert enough, if rather pale. Sometimes he seems to squint as he looks slowly about him; at other times his gaze is blank and dull. He gives no other sign of his suffering, though it must be great.

Perhaps one might say that I simply do not know my own skill as a healer. But I know better. All I have been able to do for Frodo has been to keep him as warm as possible and try to hurry toward Rivendell and safety while at the same time taking care that his wounded shoulder is not aggravated further.

It must be him, then. That is the only possible explanation. Whether because he is a hobbit, or because he is Frodo, I do not know; but in the end it makes no difference.

My mind turns back to Gandalf, and the day, some five months ago, when my wizardly friend had come down to the hidden Ranger outpost at Sarn Ford, to give me the news of how his business in the Shire had gone. We had arranged this meeting just before he had left me in Mirkwood; now that we had finally gathered all the facts there were to find, from Gollum and from Denethor's archives, he had taken on himself the task of visiting the Shire, confirming the identity of the ring we were certain now was none other than the One itself, and informing its current possessor of the choices before him. Will he or nil he, Frodo was now the crucial piece in the game; everything depended on what he did or did not do.

Although I knew much about him already -- Bilbo had often spoken fondly to me of his heir -- I wished to hear Gandalf's perspective on this Frodo Baggins, on whether he would be an asset to us or a hindrance.

"He is a hobbit," Gandalf replied, with a distinct crinkle of amusement about his eyes.

"So I have heard," I said patiently. Being well familiar with Gandalf's sometimes whimsical moods, I waited for him to go on, which he did after lighting his pipe and taking a long, contemplative pull.

"You have guarded the Shire's borders for many years, Aragorn. But have you ever actually met a hobbit, aside from Bilbo, that is?"

I shook my head.

Gandalf sighed, letting out a wreath of smoke. "Bilbo is a rather exceptional example of his race. So, too, is Frodo, in many ways. As one might expect of someone whom Bilbo chose as his heir. Yet still, he is a hobbit, and hobbits are, without a doubt, the most obscure and insular folk in Middle-earth. They are not stupid, but they are innocent and can be quite maddeningly naive at times." He puffed silently for a moment. "The fact that of all the people in all Middle-earth, the Enemy's Ring has managed to end up in the possession of a hobbit, and that that hobbit is Frodo, fills me both with great fear and great hope. Fear, for what awaits him -- after all, I have known him since his youth, and he is quite dear to me. Hope, for that very innocence of his is his greatest weapon, and therefore ours as well."

I was silent, pondering.

He glanced at me and smiled, a trifle grimly. "You have aided me greatly, Aragorn, and already far beyond any thanks I can give. I hope that you shall not need to take more of a hand in this than you already have. But my heart forbodes that you will. And so, if and when you should meet Frodo yourself, the only thing I can tell you is to prepare to be surprised."

And surprised I had been, from the moment I first saw Frodo, arriving at the Road from the downs with three companions rather than one. They were in the company of the strange being known to some as Bombadil. Another wonder: Bombadil rarely ventures now even to the borders of the region he considers home.

I followed the hobbits to the Prancing Pony, and there, Frodo inadvertently showed himself in a rather disastrously foolish light. My heart nearly stopped when he vanished in front of half the population of Bree. I think now that perhaps it wasn't Frodo's fault at all -- the Ring is treacherous, and takes advantage of any circumstance it can manipulate its way into. But I must admit that at the moment that it happened, my primary thought was that the fate of Middle-earth was in the hands of an idiot. I was hard put not to laugh at his attempts afterward to be cautious concerning me and my offer to join him: too little, too late.

Closer acquaintance over these twelve days of flight has taught me better. Frodo may have his moments of foolishness, but he is no fool. However, his is the mind of a scholar, not a warrior or adventurer. Any knowledge he has of the world beyond the bounds of the Shire, he has learned only through books and stories. Certainly he has never been hunted before. That is why I am needed.

We halt for the night at a suitable, if bleak, campsite consisting of a ring of stunted trees concealed behind a crop of boulders. I do a quick sweep of the area, and see no sign of prints from hoofs or boots. It is as safe here as anywhere else we could reach before sunset.

Returning to the hobbits, I lift Frodo down from the pony's back, settle him against a tree, and as gently as possible begin to unfasten the clothing on his upper body so that I can check his wound. Frodo makes no sound as I carefully remove his lifeless left arm from its sleeve. It is like an icicle. The wound is a small white scar on the shoulder, from which the cold seems to radiate like a pulse. There seems to be no change in his condition.

As I button up his clothing again, we watch the other hobbits going about their tasks of setting up camp and preparing food.

"They have become remarkably efficient," I comment. "One would think they had been doing this all their lives."

I am surprised to hear a soft snort from Frodo. "That is because they have," he says. At my look, he smiles faintly. "Merry and Pippin have been tramping over the Shire with me practically ever since they were each old enough to toddle after me. Sam not so often -- he is not a gentlehobbit of leisure, as we are -- or were," his lips twist wryly, " -- but enough. Despite what you may think, Strider, we do have some knowledge of how to survive outside without an inn in sight. We have simply never had to do so with Black Riders chasing us, that is all."

I smile. "My apologies, Master Baggins."

He inclines his head graciously. It is a gesture that should have seemed laughably incongruous coming from such a childlike figure, but on Frodo that air of nobility seems to sit naturally, as much a part of him as his blue eyes and dark hair. I am reminded that he is in fact at more or less the same stage in life -- on the scale of a hobbit's lifespan -- as I am, although one would never think so to look at him. He seems fresh-faced and in the bloom of youth, perhaps only a little older than Pippin (who, I am informed, is the youngest of the four hobbits, having five years yet before he "comes of age").

It is the Ring, I think, and wonder if Frodo knows this. I am inclined to believe he does.

"Strider?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

Frodo gazes up at me, calmly and steadily. "Has anyone ever lived after being stabbed by one of the Black Riders' knives?" he asks.

I look at him in astonishment. And dismay, for the unexpected directness of his question has forced me into a dilemma. To lie to him would be to insult him and dishonor myself. To tell the truth might create a self-fulfilling prophecy -- many times as a healer, I have seen that patients who believe they are going to die almost invariably do so.

"You have," I say at last.

Blue eyes search mine, the brows drawn together, weighing whether I am simply evading the question, and how much.

"And you will," I continue, mustering every ounce of persuasive earnestness I possess and pouring it into my voice, willing him to trust me, to take heart from it and from my words, and to think no more of these dark thoughts. They can do him no good. "You must not give up hope, Frodo. I know things look desperate, and I know you are frightened. But every step brings us closer to Rivendell, and there, Elrond will heal you. You must believe in that, and in yourself."

At that moment Sam brings Frodo his meal, and sits nearby to eat his own, keeping close in case his master should need him. The amount of food is meager compared to what hobbits normally prefer (Bilbo has explained much to me about his people), but there are no complaints, and little talk at all, in fact. I suppose this is a sign of how tired they all are.

Afterwards, however, Merry brings Frodo's bedroll and blanket, and together he and Sam unroll them and assist Frodo in lying down, as near the fire as possible. I sit, wrap myself in my cloak, and prepare to keep watch.

"I heard what you said to Frodo, Strider," Merry says casually as he climbs into his own bedroll. "You were right, but there's something you left out. Of course, that's understandable since you don't know the Shire, but do you want to know what it was?"

I lift an eyebrow as I fill my pipe. "Pray, enlighten me, Master Brandybuck."

"Well, the three of us -- Frodo, Pip, and I, that is -- are each representatives of the three most important families in the Shire: the Bagginses, the Tooks, and the Brandybucks. And each of these families are deservedly renowned for different things. The Bagginses, for example, are stuffy sticks in the mud -- "

"I still have one good arm, Meriadoc," Frodo interrupts dryly, from the other side of Pippin.

Merry goes on cheerfully. "The Tooks are madcap adventurers," (Pippin snorts but says nothing), "and the Brandybucks are exceedingly clever as well as handsome."

"I can hold him down while you pound him, Frodo," Pippin offers.

"But," Merry continues, "they all have one thing in common. They are all stubborn. Now, Pippin here only has Took blood, out of the three, so he's only a little stubborn." Pippin scowls, as if trying to decide whether to be insulted or not. "I'm a Brandybuck, but my mother was a Took, so I will admit to being twice as stubborn as Pip."

"Is there a point coming sometime tonight?" Frodo asks.

Merry grins at him. "And Frodo? He's the only one of us who's got all three in him. So you can just imagine how horribly pigheaded he is. That's what will keep him going until we reach Rivendell, Black Riders or no. He'll do it just to spite them."

This draws a chuckle from Pippin; even Sam seems to be hiding a smile. Frodo rolls his eyes, though his mouth is twitching.

"I see," is all I can think of to say.

After a long pause, just when I think they have all fallen asleep, I hear Frodo's voice. "Wasn't your great-grandmother a Baggins?"

There is only quiet, even breathing in reply.

I sit and watch over them, thinking to myself that if stubbornness is what is required to win through on this dark journey, then there is hope indeed. Stubbornness, and love. For love is the one thing the Enemy can neither fathom nor master, and it is what these hobbits have in abundance -- Frodo in particular. He undertook this journey for love of his land and kin. He inspires love in all who come to know him. And this includes me.

If by life or death I can save you, I will..