Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

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Chapter Five: Revelations

Barely an hour passed after the confrontation before Frodo returned. Sam heard him limping towards his cot and, though desperate to apologise, he squeezed his eyes shut, unsure of the reception he might receive.

“Sam?”

Frodo's voice was gentle, hesitant. It gave Sam enough hope to open his eyes. Finding his master watching him pensively from the edge of his cot, his courage grew, and he sat up.

“I'm sorry, Mr Frodo!” he began, his apology tumbling forth before the other hobbit could even continue. “I didn't mean to worry you, sir, or to be so thoughtless toward Gandalf when I left this morning. I just never thought, that's all. My head's not the best part of me – the Gaffer's always saying so. And I shouldn't have spoken to you all disrespectful-like, either.”

“No, Sam. It is I who should apologise!” replied Frodo softly. “I had no cause to berate you as if you were a naughty child. You were right, as I've just learned: the forest was deemed safe before camp was even set up here, and men are patrolling it regularly just in case. Either they missed you when they passed, or kept a discreet watch over you as you slept. Still, it would ease my mind if you would at least tell someone where you were going when you wander off.”

“Oh, I won't wander off again without your permission, sir,” declared Sam in relief, quick to reassure his friend. He was overjoyed that Frodo was speaking to him again, that he seemed to care.

Frodo's expression was not so carefree; in fact, it had turned blank, unreadable. “You don't my permission, Sam. Come and go as you will, just please tell someone so we don't have cause to worry.”

Sam winced. “I didn't mean it like that, sir ...”

“I met Aragorn during my own walk,” said Frodo, cutting him off. He turned on his heel and began slowly hobbling away. “He wants to check our bindings later, but asked us to join him first, after you've breakfasted. I think we both know why. I'll wait for you if you wish.”

Dismayed that their reconciliation had somehow floundered so badly, and that his dear master was seemingly withdrawing from him again, Sam sprang from his cot and rushed to his side. “Mr Frodo, please, I didn't mean to hurt you, sir. Please don't be angry with me!” he implored.

Frodo sighed. “You didn't hurt me at all. Quite the contrary: you saved me, Sam. How could I be angry with you?” He offered the younger hobbit a gentle smile, and even though it didn't quite reflect the reserve in his eyes, Sam took hope from it.

“Come, I found the cook's tent during my walk, though I haven't been in it yet: let us see what they have to offer a starving hobbit for breakfast.”

Grateful that they seemed to have reached a truce, tenuous though it felt, Sam accompanied Frodo from the beech-grove in search of his first meal of the day, careful to walk in a leisurely manner so he wouldn't outpace him.

Yet no matter how carefully he stepped, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking on eggshells.

And he hated it.

XXX

As it happened, upon reaching the cooks' tent, Sam and Frodo remained there less than a few minutes because the cooks – realising exactly who had come to them in search of food – converged upon them in a rush of greetings and well-wishes. Uncomfortable amidst so many Big Folk in such an enclosed space, they offered only a few civilities and 'you're welcomes' before grabbing a roll and some ham then swiftly departing.

“I'm sorry, Sam,” said Frodo, staring unhappily at the paltry breakfast his friend was shovelling down. “I ought to have realised they might be a little excitable.”

“That's all right, sir,” replied Sam through a mouthful of bread. “They're just happy the war's over, that's all. And I still got more food now than we've seen in a good while, 'cept for yesterday. Anyway, at least we managed to leave right quick-like. All those long legs stamping around us – why, you might have been trampled!”

He grinned at Frodo, though got no more than an absent nod in response: clearly his master's thoughts were elsewhere.

Returning his gaze to the roll, Sam took another bite, yet his thoughts remained with his companion: he was desperate to ask Frodo what was wrong. They walked in silence, skirting curious crowds as they made their way towards Aragorn's tent, and the gardener studied his friend from the corner of his eye.

Dare he ask what was bothering him? Normally if his master was distracted or melancholy, this wouldn't be an issue; but given their confrontation earlier, and the fact that he was reluctant to shatter the fragile understanding between them, Sam decided against it.

Besides, he thought, spying Merry and Pippin heading their way, there's just not the time at present. Maybe later, when we've another moment alone. Yes, later.

That decided, he polished off the last morsel of bread and the last mouthful of ham before greeting the younger duo, who were delighted to see that they had reconciled their earlier differences.

“It's about time you two turned up,” exclaimed Merry cheerily. “We thought we might have to drag you here.”

“By our teeth,” added Pippin, flashing his own with a laugh. “Did you get something to eat after all, Sam? I was going to bring you a tray, but I got a little distracted in the cooks' tent.”

“Distracted by a roast chicken, he means,” said Merry, scowling at the Knight of the Citadel. “He even snuck over to the river's edge to eat it in peace.”

“It was sunnier there. Besides, you're only jealous I didn't share it with you, Mer. I would have though, if you hadn't pinched my apple this morning.”

“I did not pinch your apple. I ate my own. Yours is still lying on the table under the beech-grove! You just refused it because it fell on the grass.”

Relieved that they chose not to discuss the unpleasant scene from earlier that morning, Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation as Merry and Pippin bickered all they way to Aragorn's tent. When it loomed into sight, he drew a deep breath, knowing what was expected of them once they entered. Stealing a glance at Frodo, he saw his master had fallen silent too.

“Don't worry, Mr Frodo. It'll be all right, you'll see,” he whispered as a guard, spying their approach, disappeared into the tent, then returned seconds later to hold open the flap for them.

Whether or not he heard the encouraging remark, Frodo had no time to acknowledge it, and the foursome entered the roomy structure to find it already occupied by half a dozen people.

Aragorn rose from his seat by a small desk littered with parchments, his face breaking into a warm smile, and he moved forward to greet them.

“Good morning, my friends. I hope you slept well?”

His healer's eyes swept the four, lingering on Frodo and Sam in particular.

“I see my hope may be in vain,” he remarked dryly.

“We slept well enough,” replied Sam staunchly, ignoring the incredulous looks his hobbit friends spared him.

“Then I am glad to hear it. As the feasting is over for the present, you should sleep even better tonight.”

Gandalf appeared from somewhere behind them, looking resplendent in his white robes and, after offering his own greetings, which they returned in kind, shooed Merry and Pippin into seats by the king's desk. A dark-haired elf was also sitting there: he stood briefly.

“Mae govannen,” he said in his silvery voice, bowing elegantly. Sam stared at him in astonishment as he resumed his seat and picked up a quill.

Why, that was Mr Elrohir, wasn't it? Or Mr Elladan. He could never tell the difference – Elrond's sons looked as much alike as two eggs in a basket to him (though infinitely grander. And much more verbose).

He gulped, feeling a little intimidated. The friendly face of Gimli - who sat on Aragorn's cot – made him feel a little better though. The dwarf was smoking his pipe, much to the obvious displeasure of Legolas and the other twin son of Elrond. After nodding at the newcomers in greeting, both elves returned their glowering eyes toward the cot. Gimli, however was either oblivious to their distaste or deliberately ignoring it.

“A fair morning to you, young hobbits,” he called between puffs.

“Hullo, Gimli!” said Pippin, abandoning the big chair he had been ushered into in favour of a seat next to the dwarf. Smiling up at his bushy friend, he withdrew his own pipe and was about to commence the stuffing of it when Gandalf intervened.

“This is hardly the time for the smoking of pipes, Peregrin Took! Put that away and rejoin your cousin,” growled the wizard.

“But Gimli's smoking! Why is it all right for him and not for me?” protested the youth, shooting the sniggering Merry a poisonous look.

“Yes, why is that?” demanded Elladan (or Elrohir), waving a shapely hand in front of his face to dissipate the stench of Longbottom Leaf.

“Gimli is not smoking. Not any more.”

“I beg to differ,” replied the dwarf, ignoring Gandalf's pointed stare. “I am indeed smoking, and enjoying it very … give that back!”

In one swift move, the wizard had lunged forward and snatched the pipe from his hand, leaving the dwarf spluttering in outrage as he tried to recover it.

“I recall saying that you were not smoking,” Gandalf drawled, knocking out the ash and pocketing Gimli's pipe thereafter. “Would you make a liar of me? Consider your answer carefully, son of Glóin, and do not forget that I have the power to turn you into a very large toad if it displeases me.”

Laughter filled the tent as Gimli, grumbling in displeasure, returned to his seat. Legolas and Elladan beamed at the wizard in approval.

“So,” said Gandalf, settling his gaze on Frodo and Sam, who stood yet before the assembled company. “I assume you know why you both are here?”

Frodo and Sam nodded in unison, resigned to the task ahead.

“And do you feel well enough to tell us what happened after the events at Cirith Ungol?”

The tension rolling off Frodo was almost palpable and, unwilling to submit his friend to the ordeal, Sam answered. “I'll tell you whatever you want to know, Gandalf, sir.”

The wizard acknowledged his reply with a gracious nod. “Thank you, Samwise. There are many more than those in this tent who are eager to hear of the bravery of you and your master. Still, it does not follow that you must stand as if before your executioner while relating your tales of derring-do, therefore you shall both be made comfortable, and then may begin in your own good time.”

So saying, he ushered them into seats, and Aragorn produced a stool, placing it under Frodo's leg, and cushioning his foot thereupon.

“I have asked Elrohir to act as scribe, that we may record the events as you relate them,” said the former Ranger.

Sensing their sudden apprehension, he added “Elrohir has also recorded the roles of Merry and Pippin in this manner -” Aragorn leaned forward to whisper “- Had we employed the services of a scribe from Minas Tirith, they might have been less able to tell absolute truth from wild Brandybuck and Took exaggerations. Thanks to my foster brother – who knows them better – we were able to achieve this more discreetly.”

Leaning back, he winked at them, and Sam laughed at his cheek.

“I swear you're part Brandybuck, Strider. And as crafty as any Took I've met.”

Even Frodo smiled now. “We will be happy for Elrohir to record anything he feels to be pertinent.”

Satisfied, Aragorn drew up a chair, Gandalf perched himself on the other end of the desk, and everyone waited expectantly for the story to begin. Frodo looked to Sam.

“If I may?”

Surprised, Sam nodded, listening with the rest as he resumed their story from the point of his capture.

“I don't recall much after she … after the spider bit me,” began Frodo quietly. “I know that poor Sam thought I was dead. He didn't realise I was still alive until the orcs captured me – I didn't even realise it until I awoke in the Tower of Cirith Ungol to find myself stripped of my belongings. I had no idea how I got there, or where Sam was, but I feared the worst. All I was certain of was that I was a captive, and that orcs were rummaging through my clothes. I was very afraid that they had found the Ring. But they hadn't.”

He paused for a moment to look uncertainly at Sam. Nodding, Sam explained how he, thinking his master was dead, had taken the Ring for safekeeping. The gardener then spoke of his indecision after Frodo was captured, of his resolve to rescue him, of the dark journey through the orc-passage and back again, of the terrible weight of the Ring when he wore it as he eavesdropped on the battle of the orcs in the Tower.

The company listened intently as he described that first sight of Mordor proper, of its deadly peaks and the burning pits of the Plains of the Gorgoroth. Flushing, Sam hung his head as he revealed the temptation of the Ring, how it had tried to conquer his will with promises of glory and fair gardens, and how the only thing which saved him was the need to rescue his beloved master.

“I don't know how you could stand it for so long, Mr Frodo,” he whispered, turning to his friend. “It couldn't have been more'n an hour that I stood there, fighting it, but it was the longest hour of my life.”

It was a painful admission, one which elicited an equally painful response.

“I did it for the same reasons you did, Sam: because I had to. Because I love my friends and my home. Because there was no other choice.”

A look of understanding passed between them before Sam continued. With a nod of thanks to his master, he revealed how the phial of Galadriel had seen him safely past the Watchers, thus allowing entry to the Tower. He described his rush through the sea of corpses to rescue Frodo, and of the song he sang which eventually led him to his master.

Frodo resumed the tale from there, describing the necessity of their foul disguises and subsequent flight from the Tower, the trek across the Gorgoroth, their discovery by the orc army and how they were made to march for miles before they could escape.

At this, Pippin gasped in terror, and Gandalf spared him a sympathetic look, knowing the revelation must have called to mind the younger hobbits' own capture at Parth Galen.

Frodo realised this too. “It's all right, dear Pippin. We escaped them as you did your captors.”

“I know. It's just difficult to hear about. I remember how awful the orcs were that captured us, and how they fought with each other at the slightest excuse. I hate to imagine you and Sam being treated like that.”

“Don't you worry, sir. Like Frodo says, we got away from them well enough. Them orcs might be cruel, but they're not too bright either, if you take my meaning, and that's what helped us in the end.”

Seeing Pippin's relief, Frodo resumed the story of their journey across the Black Land. Only when he reached the final stages of their journey – the ascent up Mount Doom – did he falter.

“Rest for a moment, my friends,” said Aragorn, sensing his discomfort. “I have some wine to refresh you. Only a little at present, I fear, for you are still recovering, but it will give you the strength to continue.”

Sam was grateful for the reprieve – not for his own sake, but for Frodo's. His master was clearly done in from all that talking about his ordeal and no amount of wine would change that. He was sorely tempted to tell Strider that the rest would have to wait for another day, then drag Frodo back to the beech-grove and force him to lie down, but he resisted. Best to get the whole story out now so they wouldn't dread the retelling of it later. Anyway, Mr Frodo could still rest where he was: Sam would simply spare him the trouble and tell the rest for him.

Accepting his wine, the gardener took a sip, determined to spare his master any further trials, though little did he realise how difficult that task would turn out to be.

XXX

Gandalf relinquished his perch on Aragorn's small desk, opting to pull up the last free chair instead. As he eased himself into it, he mulled over what they learned so far, marvelling that the two had managed to defy so many dangerous obstacles and win their way to Mount Doom at all. The sheer desperation of their trek across the Gorgoroth, fighting hunger, thirst and the call of the Ring all the way, smote at his heart, and he was deeply saddened to know they had suffered thus.

Yet what of Gollum's fate? All they knew so far was that the erstwhile Ring-bearer fled from Cirith Ungol after his confrontation with Sam, abandoning both him and his master to the mercy of Shelob.

He found out soon enough as Sam picked up the tale with the ascent of Mount Doom and revealed that Gollum had followed them across the Gorgoroth, carefully choosing the moment of his last assault, when he knew they would be at their most vulnerable. The air stilled as he spoke of the fight that ensued, of Frodo's flight into the Sammath Naur, and that final confrontation with their nemesis.

“I didn't mean to kill him,” Sam said, and though his voice was steady, his eyes glistened wetly. Gandalf straightened in his chair, his attention focused solely on the pale gardener. “He attacked me. He was going to kill me, and then he would've hurt Mr Frodo. I didn't even know if Sting would touch him because I couldn't see properly. But I had no choice. I had no choice.”

It was obvious how affected he was – and surprising, given that he'd shown nothing but contempt and suspicion of the river-hobbit so far. But the White Wizard was not as surprised as he might have been, knowing that Sam had better understood the pull of the Ring at that stage, and that it must have given him some sympathy for Gollum's plight.

“No one blames you, Samwise,” he said, speaking up for the first time. “You did what you had to do, no more no less. We all understand what it means to be placed in such peril; to have no time to ponder our options.”

“Aye, lad. Gandalf has the right of it. No doubt the sorry creature was the better off for being put out of his misery so swiftly – I doubt Sauron would have treated him to so tender a demise, had he caught him. Take heart, lad, and speak on.”

Sam glanced at Frodo, but the other was staring at his hands. Something flashed through the gardener's eyes then, some emotion that raced so swiftly Gandalf couldn't identify it; then, with a deep breath, the sandy-haired hobbit continued.

“I ran into the mountain: it was dark, I couldn't see a thing. So I took out the Lady Galadriel's Starglass. But it didn't work inside there. That place was so evil that even elvish magic couldn't touch it. I had to put it back in my bag, so's I didn't lose it. Not that it mattered in the end.”

Frodo cocked his head at the tone, and this time it was Sam who didn't notice.

“Mr Frodo stood at the edge of the volcano, and I called out to him to throw the Ring into it.”

Again he paused, and now both hobbits stared at each other intently.

“Tell them everything, Sam,” said Frodo softly.

“Mr Frodo ...”

“Everything.” Frodo's voice was firmer now. “Tell them how I claimed the Ring. Tell them what happened afterwards. Tell them everything.”

It was to the company's credit that no one gasped or cried aloud: no one was capable of it anyway. The entire company stared utterly transfixed at the two hobbits as they whispered furiously between themselves. Anticipation hung thick in the air, and even though Sam was clearly struggling how to explain what happened next, none dared interrupt them for fear they shied from further elaboration.

Not that anyone among them would blame Frodo in the slightest for succumbing to the sway of the Ring, thought Gandalf, as he watched them speculatively – who would dare when everyone present would have shied from holding it, let alone carry it so far and for so long.

Silently he tracked Frodo's hand as it reached for Sam's wounded one, squeezed it gently, then dropped away. The reassurance worked: with a final nod, Sam raised his head.

“It's nearly as Mr Frodo says,” he began again, ignoring the questioning look of his master to stare straight at Gandalf instead. “'Cept it was the Ring as claimed him not the other way about.”

“Sam ...”

“No, Mr Frodo! I'll not hear none of it! I know as you think I'm just trying to spare you, but I'm not – though I would if I had to. But I'm not. I'm saying it because it's true an' that's that!”

His tone was firm, leaving no room for arguments and it gave the wizard pause: he had never heard Sam speak to his master thus; and though he admired the loyalty behind it, it was getting in the way of the truth.

Deciding this had to made clear, he addressed the gardener solemnly. “Frodo has the right of it, Sam: the Ring cannot claim a person; the person must claim it ...”

“Begging your pardon, Mr Gandalf; you might have studied it, but you didn't hold it,” interrupted Sam stubbornly. “And you weren't there. In that cursed mountain, I mean. You didn't hear it speaking through Mr Frodo, or feel it glorying in all the strife it caused. So, meaning no disrespect, you'll have to forgive me if I disagree with you.”

Eyebrows flew up all around the tent. The White Wizard, however, made no objection to the gardener's unusual boldness.

“Perhaps you are right, Master Gamgee,” he replied, evenly, willing to entertain the possibility. “Perhaps not. If you elaborate further, I might yet gain a better understanding.”

Looking sheepish, Sam swallowed, then nodded. He took a deep breath and, with another glance at his master, began anew.

“The Sammath Naur was a terrible place, all red and black and burning hot. There was a dreadful wrongness about it, if you take me. Even the walls seemed bad. It was all smoky from the pit below and every breath was a labour 'cos of the poisons it belched. It was a hateful place and I wouldn't wish my worst enemy into it, let alone a friend. But there we were, Mr Frodo and I, in the very birthplace of the Ring itself – a ring that had just claimed my master. He spoke to me straight afterwards, told me to go home. I begged him to take it off and throw it away – said as Sauron surely knew it was here now, and would be coming right quick-like to get it. But he wouldn't, claimed that the Ring was his. His voice was all wrong, though; hard and cruel. Not anything like his normal gentlehobbit voice. And then it hit me: it wasn't Mr Frodo's voice at all! It was the Ring speaking through him. I was that upset, I was, 'cos I knew as Mr Frodo was still in there, knew he'd hate that the Ring was using him.”

Beside him, Frodo sat impassively, not acknowledging in any way that he registered what was being said.

“I knew I had to get the Ring off him then; I knew he wouldn't give it up without a fight. But I didn't want to hurt my master, I'd never do that! So I said to myself 'Sam Gamgee, you're just going to have to think of it as it is: it's not Mr Frodo you'll be hurting: it's the Ring'. And so I did. Seeing as he was all invisible, I had track his footsteps so's I could find him, and when I did … well ...”

Everyone was on the edge of their seats – even Elrohir had stopped writing to listen as the tale unfolded.

“Go ahead, Sam,” said Gandalf, encouraging him with a kindly smile. “What happened next?”

Drawing another deep breath, the gardener obeyed, his voice now emotionless, almost detached.

“We struggled over it. I tried to hold him down so's I could take it, though Ring-Frodo was having none of it. So we fought, and we hurt each other, and it broke my heart 'cos I knew that even though it was the Ring I was fighting, it was still Mr Frodo's body, and if we ever got out of there alive then he'd be the one hurting afterwards. But there was no time to dwell on that 'cos the Dark Lord might've turned up at any moment – or at least his servants might've – and there we were still fighting over the Ring! Things got pretty desperate while we struggled, and I had to … I had to use Sting to … to get Ring-Frodo off me at one point because he was trying to … well, that's how poor Mr Frodo got his sore leg, and how I got this -”

He tapped his shirt with his good hand, and the wizard nodded, knowing he was referring to the healing wound beneath it.

“Ring-Frodo was sorely hurt, so I tried to use that to separate him from it. That didn't work out as well as I planned, though. My hand got hurt badly during the struggle, and as I was trying to stop the blood he crept up behind me. Threw himself on me and put Sting at my throat. And all the time I could hear it - the Ring, that is. I could feel it.” Sam shuddered, but fury flashed in his eyes “It was laughing at us! It was almost singing with glee. That made me want to kill it! I wanted to kill it!”

The tension in the room was so thick that only Anduril could have effectively sliced through it. Sam heaved with emotion.

“When Ring-Frodo put his hand over my mouth to quiet me, I could feel it against my lips. I could almost taste it. And then I had the wild idea of … well, I couldn't do that. Not to Mr Frodo.”

Though he hadn't said it outright, it was painfully clear what the gardener had been debating. Leaning forward in his chair again, the Istar silently willed Sam to continue.

“But if I couldn't do that, then I had to do something else, and quick," the hobbit resumed, as if reading his mind. "What though? I couldn't think straight 'cos my head was whirling and Ring-Frodo was hissing in my ear and Sting was pressing into my neck - I thought I was going to die at any second. But for some reason, he just kept threatening me. He started the job, but he didn't seem to be in any great hurry to finish it, so I knew my master was still in there. He had to be! Mr Frodo would never hurt me, you see, so the only reason I wasn't dead yet was because he must've been fighting the Ring as fierce as he could. So I had to help. And if I couldn't do what I wanted to do, then I had to do something else. That's when it came to me: I might not be able to maim my master so easily, but maybe I could maim the Ring?”

“What did you do, Sam?” asked Gandalf, burning with anticipation.

Brown eyes flickered towards him, though they were vacant, as if their owner looked not upon the wizard but into the depths of his memory instead.

“My pack was nearby. I managed to open it with my good hand and pull out the Lady's Starglass. Right at that moment, Ring-Frodo decided he'd had enough of talking and started to pull Sting …”

Frodo went rigid beside Sam, though his friend didn't notice, so lost in memory was he.

“I prayed to the Lady Elbereth to give me more time, just enough time to do what I had to. And she answered me, 'cos at that moment the Nazgûl came soaring into the Sammath Naur!”

Pippin, terrified, cried aloud, and a pale-faced Merry drew his cousin towards him in comfort. But Gandalf barely noticed, so utterly transfixed was he.

“That was only thing that could've stopped Ring-Frodo at that moment, and it was all the distraction I needed. I grabbed the phial and fumbled with the stopper – I thought it would never come off!. When it finally did I emptied nearly all the water over the Ring.”

Stunned beyond speech, the White Wizard sagged back into his chair. Now he finally knew why the earth had shaken so, why the Dark Lord Sauron himself had stilled a full-scale battle with that dreadful cry of fury.

The Light of Earendil had corrupted his Master Ring!

There was little time to reflect on this astonishing revelation, for Sam had picked up his tale again.

“At first I thought as nothing had happened, but then Ring-Frodo began to wail and scream and yell.”

“But the Nazgûl, Sam? What about the Nazgul?” interrupted an ashen-faced Merry.

“Let him speak, lad, then we may all learn of them.” This from Gimli, who had abandoned Aragorn's cot and hovered almost protectively behind the younger hobbits.

“The Nazgûl couldn't move: they were screeching too, a terrible, high-pitched sound. Between them and Ring-Frodo, it was the most terrible noise I've ever heard. They swayed on them fell beasts of theirs, yelling about how rotten I was for doing what I did, and then I heard his voice too. I couldn't believe my ears!”

“Neither could we,” murmured Elladan wryly.

The gardener almost smiled, though it more a flicker of acknowledgement than an indication of genuine amusement.

“Well, there I was, begging Mr Frodo to take the Ring off before the Nazgûl found their legs again – or their wings, if you like - when suddenly the air ahead began to shimmer and then he appeared! Mr Frodo that is, not Ring-Frodo: he was gone forever. But there was my dear master, falling to his knees, clutching his poor maimed hand and screaming in pain! I'd taken his finger after all! Not that it was anywhere to be found; it was gone. Not severed, just gone. And on the ground next to him was the Ring, all tarnished and weak. I could feel that it was hurting, and it made me glad, but there was no time to think on it because as soon as they saw it freed from Frodo, the Nazgûl were able to move again. 'Course, they came flying up the chamber as quick as you like, and I knew I had to move fast. But just as I leapt towards the Ring, one of them fell beasts nipped the back of my shirt with its teeth -”

Merry and Pippin gasped in fright.

“- so I spun around and threw the rest of the Lady's water on it and its Rider. It let go right quick-like, I can tell you. After that, it was a matter of grabbing the Ring and throwing it down into the fire, and the rest of the Black Riders followed after it as quick as you please. Well they would, wouldn't they? Then me and Mr Frodo picked ourselves up and ran for it. It wasn't long before the mountain exploded; we had to run from the fire-river that followed, but we made it outside and found that big rock. We made it just in time to see the Black Tower falling, and then … well, that's all I remember until I woke up yesterday.”

Silence reigned for several minutes after he finished as everyone digested what they had heard. Relief was evident on his face as the gardener sat back in his chair, fatigued after his emotive narration.

After a few moments, the questions began, and both Sam and Frodo – who had remained silent for much of the time his friend spoke – clarified those events requested of them by Elrohir, the elf having resumed committing their tale to parchment. It was over two hours later when, exhausted by their ordeal, Aragorn escorted them back to the beech-grove to check their various bindings. Neither Ring-bearer spoke as they left; not with the other nor with anyone else. They simply obeyed the King, Frodo limping along quietly at his side, Sam plodding tiredly behind them.

Merry and Pippin moved to follow their friends, but Gandalf stopped them before they could leave, ordering them to have food sent to both the beech-grove and the King's tent.

“For the endless void that is a hobbit stomach must be fed, and so must our own,” he said with a smile. “After you have given the cooks their orders you will fetch Éomer and Imrahil before returning here. We shall all eat our lunch together.”

Pippin began to protest, but he silenced him with a look.

“Do as I ask, Peregrin Took! I know you wish to lend comfort to Frodo and Sam, but they are more in need of rest at present than they are of kind words.” The hobbits look distinctly unhappy, and, feeling a twinge of remorse, Gandalf added in a kinder tone, “Take heart, my friends. Your comfort will keep until later when rest has rendered it more welcome. Do as I bid, for their sakes.”

“Of course. You're right. They need rest,” said Merry, finally acquiescing. “We'll do as you ask and return as quickly as we can.”

With that, he took his cousin by the arm and led him out of the tent. Smiling, Gandalf followed them, stopping just outside to fill his pipe. There was time enough for a bit of 'fresh air' before the hobbits returned with their royal guests.

And much to dwell on while he waited.

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