~ 3 ~
Gandalf leads us towards a wide-open meadow surrounded by tall trees. I hear the sound of a distant stream and smile over at Sam.
“Everything looks so alive and beautiful,” I whisper to him.
“It does, after being so long in that dead land,” he replies. “It’s almost as good as bein’ home again.”
As we near the meadow I see hundreds of soldiers gathered, waiting for us. I have never seen so many Men in my life.
When they see us, they bow, and I hear a trumpet blowing in the distance. I gaze around, beginning to feel quite uncomfortable by all of their attention, feeling ready to bolt any moment and hide somewhere, but Gandalf, sensing my tenseness, puts his hands on my shoulders, urging me forward.
We continue on as they begin praising us in both Westron and Elvish. I feel my face get hot, and I see Sam blushing beside me.
There are three thrones at the end of the field; the one to the right bearing what I recognize as the standard of Rohan, a green background with a white horse; on the left, a standard bearing a silver swan-ship on a sea of midnight blue; and in the center, above the highest throne, the banner of Gondor, the white tree under a silver crown and the seven stars.
In the center throne sits Aragorn, clad in mail with his great sword across his knees. I smile as he meets my gaze and run to meet him, Sam right behind me.
Aragorn rises and I throw my arms around his waist. He smiles and pats my head gently.
“Well, if this isn’t the crown of all!” Sam exclaims. “Strider, or I’m still asleep!”
“Yes, Sam, Strider,” Aragorn says, with a laugh. “It is a long way, is it not, from Bree, where you didn’t like the look of me? A long way for all of us, but yours has been the darkest road.”
Dark indeed, I think. So very dark.
Suddenly, to our surprise, he bows to us, then leads us to sit on the throne, and shouts, “Praise them with great praise!” This they do, so willingly it almost deafens me.
And then a minstrel steps forward and begins a lay he had come up with entitled, “Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.” I sink down in my seat a little, trying to make myself as small as possible.
Sam is ecstatic. He’d said just before the eagles came to rescue us that he’d love to hear the tale told, as they had told us the tale of Beren and Luthien in Rivendell.
I smile at him, but as the lay goes on I am beginning to feel sick. I am not sure I like being the subject of a lay. Everything seems somehow grander than it truly was, and it makes me appear as some sort of warrior hero, which I most certainly am not.
Sam notices something is wrong, and grasps my wounded hand in his. “Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?” he whispers.
I nod. “I’ll be fine. I just didn’t feel well all of the sudden. I am all right now.”
Finally the lay is over, and Gandalf comes to retrieve us.
“Come, my friends, I have found you clean clothing to wear,” he says, leading us away to another tent as the host of people disbands and heads elsewhere.
He hands us each a set of well made clothing as we enter the tent. I finger the soft fabric gently, handling it as though it might break any moment and slip through my fingers.
Sam and I change quickly, Sam folding his clothing neatly, I throwing the horrid orc clothing as far from me as possible, then sighing and relaxing in the clean comfortable fabric.
Gandalf picks up the orc things and carefully folds them, placing them on top of Sam’s pile of clothes. He then goes out of the tent for a moment, and returns carrying an armful of swords, mail and elven fabric.
Carefully he lays them out on a nearby table, and I see it is my sword, mithril coat and elven cloak taken from me in the tower.
“Where did you get those?” I ask in wonder, lifting my cloak and hugging it to me.
He hands Sam a coat of mail and his elven cloak, all fixed and clean.
“That is a long story, for another time. Now, you must pit these things on and join Aragorn for the meal,” Gandalf says, lifting a sword belt.
“I do not wish for any sword,” I say, shrinking back from the blade a little.
“Tonight, at least, you should wear one,” Gandalf replies.
I try to protest, but he does not heed me, so I take Sam’s sword. Sam looks at me questioningly.
“Sting I gave to you, Sam,” I explain, looking at the shiny blade.
“No, master! Mr. Bilbo gave it to you, and it goes with his silver coat.”
I glance at the mithril coat, waiting to be put on, then back at Sam.
“He wouldn’t wish anyone else to wear it,” Sam concludes.
I hesitate another moment, then concede. “As you wish,” I say, going to pull the mithril shirt on.
Then Gandalf kneels and gently fastens the belts and swords around our waist, and sets silver circlets over our curls.
“I feel kind of silly in all this fancy clothing,” Sam says as Gandalf leads us back out. “Doesn’t feel natural.”
I smile at him. “I’m sure you don’t have to wear it all the time, dear,” I assure him.
Sam looks at me smiling. “I’m glad. Fits you, though,” he says. “I always said you looked like an Elf to me, and now you really do.”
I feel myself blushing a little.
He grips my hand and says, “I hope there’s something good to eat, I’m hungry.”
A/N: The stars were getting annoying. Some of the dialogue is taken directly from The Return of the King, The Field of Cormallen.