Rating: PG
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Summary/AN: This story is a blend of movie-verse and book-verse and of course, alternate universe. Movie-verse because it inspires me greatly and obviously inspired my recipient. And, I needed to have the story set in movie-verse for practical plot purposes. Book-verse, because, well . . . there are elements in this story that were not mentioned in the movie, but may be found in the LOTR trilogy and in The Silmarillion. However, the AU wins out over both, hands down. Also: Gandalf's quote below, courtesy of The Return of the King.
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.

Slowly rising from the depths of a heavy slumber, where all had been dark and quiet, Frodo dreamed.

Of a sapling, the lone living thing amid the stony slope of snow-laden Mt. Mindolluin. A silky-barked sapling, no more than three feet high and seven years old. As Frodo watched, it sprouted shapely leaves with silver undersides-a true child of Nimloth. A cluster of dewy white blossoms slowly unfurled atop the sapling's highest boughs, turning their petals toward the scanty sunlight.

A scion of the Eldest of Trees, Telperion.

And then Gandalf-dear Gandalf-appeared, robed strangely in snowy white. He spoke words that held little meaning: "Who shall say how it comes here in the appointed hour? For it is said, though the fruit of the tree comes seldom to ripeness, yet the life within may lie sleeping through many long years, and none can foretell the time in which it will awake. Remember this."

At long last the dream faded, and Frodo opened leaden eyelids to find himself bathed in dappled sunlight. Warm, clean bedclothes caressed his body; he was safe. He glanced overhead, at the ornate ceiling carved in relief, and then started as a chair creaked from the corner of the room. Footsteps approached, and Frodo turned to see a vision at the side of his bed. He swallowed against a dry throat.

"Gandalf?"

The wizard, much changed and yet the same, nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. "Yes, dear Frodo. I am here."

"Gandalf!" Frodo repeated, sitting up and ignoring his stinging side, his sore feet, and the strange ache that seemed to have taken over his heavily bandaged left hand. Yes, Gandalf seemed different-was much cleaner, for one thing! Clad in the same pure white that Frodo had dreamed of, he was, with beard and hair and nails washed and groomed.

Frodo scarcely had time to ponder more before two smaller figures bounded into the room.

"Merry! Pip!" Frodo grunted as his cousins rushed him but hugged them tightly, drinking in the beautiful sight of them. "Look at you both-so tall! What in Middle-earth have you two been eating?"

To Frodo's astonishment, Legolas and Gimli arrived next, followed by Frodo's beloved Sam. At that moment, Frodo felt like the luckiest hobbit alive, to be so surrounded by those he cared about. Way deep down inside he felt a twinge of sadness, of loss, but looking at the faces around his bed helped greatly to cure that.

But where was the one who had touched him and spoken to him through the dark void, calling him back?

For after his rescue, although Frodo had lacked even the strength to blink, he'd been aware of Aragorn's presence during all but the most profound sleep. He'd heard and responded to Aragorn's murmured entreaties and reassurances, he'd luxuriated in those gentle hands bathing the ash from his body, and he'd even quivered when the man pressed soft lips to his fevered brow. Everything else about that time remained murky, except for Aragorn's healing influence.

Try as he might to hide it, Frodo kept glancing surreptitiously toward the doorway. How could he not, when he had yearned for Aragorn's attentions every minute of every day since leaving Rivendell? Such longing had permeated every inch of his thoughts-a welcome distraction from the call of the Ring-late at night while Frodo lay ensconced in his bedroll upon the hard, unforgiving ground. And Frodo had reveled in Aragorn's touch when the man checked him for illness, or carried him upon Caradhras, or comforted him with tenderness unexpected from such a warrior.

Yet in all that time, Aragorn had never offered a sign that he harbored more than a deep, protective friendship for Frodo, such as he felt for Legolas or Gandalf. No doubt Aragorn, the heir of Isildur and rightful king of Gondor, had much more meaningful things to do than visit a simple hobbit in the Houses of Healing.

Gandalf's voice broke Frodo's train of thought. "All right, Frodo needs his rest. And Samwise does, as well. Everyone else out, please. You may return this evening if Frodo says he is up to it."

"Gandalf, are you going to tell them---"

"Quiet, Peregrin Took! Now off with you." Gandalf watched everyone bid Frodo goodnight and file out before turning to Frodo and Sam-who had made himself comfortable on the bed-with a troubled countenance. "Frodo. Samwise. I have something to tell you."

A sensation of nausea invaded Frodo's stomach at Gandalf's sober tone. "What is it, Gandalf? It sounds very serious."

Gandalf sighed and sat heavily in the bedside chair, suddenly looking ten years older. "It is. It is about Aragorn, Frodo. You no doubt wondered why he was not here to see you wake."

At another time, Frodo might have been embarrassed at Gandalf's ready ability to discern his emotions. However, fear clutched at him now, and his heart leaped with trepidation. Unable to stop himself, he reached over and grasped Sam's hand in a white-knuckled grip, nodding for Gandalf to continue.

Swiftly, Gandalf told both hobbits of the march on the gates of Mordor and Aragorn's subsequent healing of Frodo and Sam. Then he paused, exhaling loudly. "Aragorn is not well, Frodo. He collapsed two days ago while tending to patients here and now lies in the room across the hall, taken with fever."

Frodo sucked in a great breath. Beside him, Sam spoke up, eyes wide with worry. "What happened, Mr. Gandalf? Strider'll be all right, won't he?"

"He received an injury to his thigh, courtesy of an Orc scimitar, during the battle at the Black Gate. He neglected the wound for too long while caring for others and it festers now. I am not sure he even knew he had received such a serious injury until the collapse occurred. The healers are doing all that they can, know that. And Aragorn's Numenorean blood is standing him in good stead."

Gulping, Frodo asked the question he dreaded to hear the answer to; the question Gandalf had avoided answering from Sam. "But he will be all right, Gandalf? Is he . . . is he in danger of losing his leg?"

The wizard leaned forward, giving Frodo's shoulder a comforting rub. "The blood poison has spread beyond the scope of the leg now, therefore, surgery would be ineffective. As for the rest of it . . . the healers cannot say anything with certainty. But as Aragorn himself would say, there is always hope. He is the king of Gondor and the coronation was to take place the day after tomorrow. He will fight for that, Frodo. He has not come this far to succumb to a leg wound."

Frodo barely heard Gandalf's last words for the buzzing in his head. He clutched at his bed sheet, lying back with Sam's help as his eyes threatened to spill over. The elation he'd experienced moments earlier upon awakening had dissipated. Now he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a little ball and escape from the world. To escape from the possibility of Aragorn's dying.

"Here now, Frodo." Gandalf reached for two cups on the bedside table and filled each with juice. Carefully, he handed one to Frodo and one to Sam. "Drink this, and no arguments."

Making certain that Frodo and Sam drained the cups, Gandalf continued, briefly feeling Frodo's face to check for shock or fever. "Aragorn is conscious and has been asking after you. Yesterday I could barely compel him not to attempt to rise and return to you here."

Frodo sniffed, turning bleary eyes on Gandalf as he sat up, his jaw set with determination. "I want to see him."

"Frodo, you are still much too weak---"

"Please, Gandalf. I must." To reassure myself that he is yet alive.

"Very well, but only if you allow me to accompany you. Samwise, you are to return to your room-I will fetch you to see Aragorn later this eve."

Swinging his legs off the bed, Frodo placed shaky feet on the cold stone floor, wincing at the sensation on his sore, cracked soles. "Aragorn was willing to lay down his life for the good of Middle-earth, to see the Ring destroyed. He cannot die, Gandalf. I-we cannot lose him now."

"You are wrong, Frodo."

Frodo looked up, bewildered.

"You were not treated to the sight of Aragorn's face when Sauron's emissary brought out your mithril shirt and announced that you had been taken captive," Gandalf said. "Full of fury and passion all at once, it was. He willingly risked his life not for the quest, but for you."

For once, Frodo had no words.

Humming. Aragorn heard someone humming a lyrical tune close to his ear, even as careful hands wiped his face with a plush, athelas-soaked cloth. Something differentiated this touch from the healers'; it was not purposeful and practical, but caressing and tentative, much like the touch of a lover.

Even in his pain and exhaustion, Aragorn's lips curved up into a smile as he listened carefully and realized the humming voice belonged to no man or woman.

He coughed slightly. "Which hobbit are you?" he asked drowsily. "Because if you are Pippin, you should be on duty right now. If you are Merry, Eomer King is searching for you at this moment. If you are Sam, you should be soaking your feet at this hour, and if you are Frodo, then I personally am going to rise up and carry you back to your room, where I shall tie you to the headboard to keep you in bed."

A soft chuckle sounded. "I would gladly cut off another finger to see you try it."

"Give me a few moments."Aragorn opened his eyes, blinking, until Frodo's beloved face, somewhat pinched with strain and anxiety, swam into view just inches away. Aragorn had longed to see those eyes sparkling again, but now they reflected anxiety. When Frodo saw he was being watched, however, his expression softened, and he smiled.

"You knew it was me the entire time," Frodo accused. He pushed Aragorn's sweaty hair back. "How are you feeling?"

Aragorn shrugged. "I have felt better. But you . . . I meant what I just said. You should be resting, Frodo."

Frodo forced a laugh. "Always the healer, aren't you? I am fine, you know, thanks to you. A bit stiff and sore, but none the worse for wear, really."

Gingerly, Aragorn reached out and grasped Frodo's injured hand, enclosing it carefully within his own and rubbing the palm with his fingertips. "Have you much discomfort?"

"A little. I seem to feel pain in the missing finger, mostly. It's better when it is elevated. What about you?" He glanced down toward Aragorn's thigh, which, swollen and covered with poultices and bandages, made a frightful-looking mound under the sheet. "Aragorn, why did you tell no one about your injury?"

"I had other worries. And I have treated myself in the wild many, many times without complications. I assumed this time would be the same." He grimaced as a spasm of agony traveled up his thigh, hoping Frodo would not notice. "You must soak your hand when you leave here, Frodo. Ioreth will be bringing you a basin, on my order."

"Yes, Aragorn. Please, don't worry about me. You just concentrate on getting well."

Aragorn shifted restlessly, irritation and anger taking hold. "It galls me that I am laid low like an invalid," he ground out. "I should be caring for you and Sam. I should be overseeing the rebuilding of this city. And I so wanted to be there for you when you woke, Frodo." I so wanted to be there to hold you . . . to touch your soft skin and rejoice in this new beginning for all of us.

"Ssssshhh. Please, Aragorn, relax." Frodo turned to the bowl of athelas-infused water on the bedside table, re-wetting his cloth with one hand and wringing it out. "Gandalf told me that you worked tirelessly on Sam and me after our rescue." He bent close to Aragorn, pulling the man's nightshirt wide open at the neck and chest. "And he said it was you who decided to march on the Black Gate. That you charged forth without any heed for your own safety, to give Sam and me time."

Aragorn scrutinized Frodo as the hobbit leaned over and began to wipe his chest. He traced the curve of Frodo's jaw with his eyes, examined the tousled curls as they tickled a pointed ear, and glanced down to watch Frodo's cotton nightshirt pull aside as he moved, revealing smooth white flesh and a tiny glimpse of pink nipple.

He pulled his gaze away with effort, sighing. "Yes, and I would do it all over again in a heartbeat." He gently cupped Frodo's cheek in one hand. "When I heard that the Enemy had captured you . . . I felt a burning rage such as I have rarely felt. When I feared that you were lost . . . " He trailed off, suddenly very weary and beaten down by the dull throb in his leg and the queasiness in his belly.

Frodo instantly noticed. "This will help," he said, picking up a full mug from a nearby tray. "The healer said you were to drink this when the pain and fever returned. He wanted you to have a bit of broth and custard, as well."

"What is it? I am tired of the healers and I am tired of the healers' remedies. I want to get up and go about my business. And I am tired of broth, no matter how well-seasoned. Beef or chicken or lamb or even Orc if they have it; I am tired of all of it."

"My, and here I thought I was a stubborn patient." Frodo's eyes filled with mirth, as well as a little steel. "I don't know what this is, but it smells pleasant enough and I think it will help to ease your thirst. And if you do not drink it, I can always call Ioreth in to lecture you."

"Give it to me."

"I thought you would agree to drink it." Frodo gently eased Aragorn's head up and placed the cup to his lips. The liquid was pleasantly refreshing, if definitely touched with a hint of bitter herb, and Aragorn swallowed it down. He lay back upon his pillow, spent, and then spied Frodo's slumped shoulders as Frodo replaced the mug and bent to straighten Aragorn's bedclothes.

"As much as I enjoy your company, Frodo, I insist that you return to bed," Aragorn said. "I can barely stay awake and I could not abide it if you collapsed on my account."

Frodo shifted nervously, and how Aragorn enjoyed watching a blush creep over those high cheekbones.

"I rather wanted to stay here with you," Frodo muttered, idly picking at a loose thread on Aragorn's woollen blanket. "There is room enough in this chair for me to curl up here for a time, at least until you are asleep."

"No." With some effort, Aragorn tossed his blanket back and patted the empty space beside him. "You can lie comfortably here, next to me. That way I can be assured that you are resting. Come."

Frodo hesitated. "Are you quite certain? I will not kick you and cause you pain?"

"Of course not." Aragorn smiled, his eyelids growing heavy. "You will be sleeping on the side opposite my injury. And anyway, I am used to dodging those hobbit feet by now, I will have you know."

"Very well." Gingerly, Frodo hoisted himself upon the bed and crawled into the small place next to Aragorn, snuggling close so that his hair tickled Aragorn's chin and neck and pulling the covers over them both. Weak though he was, Aragorn managed to place an arm about Frodo, rubbing the thin back and inhaling Frodo's herbal scent. He sighed, wishing fervently that he were hale and lying with Frodo in the royal quarters after a session of rampant lovemaking, not lying ill and positively useless.

"You said you were used to hobbit feet," Frodo said, his voice low and musing. Aragorn was secretly grateful for the distraction from his current thoughts. " Does that mean you invite hobbits into your bed on a regular basis? Or are you perhaps used to raising their ire and getting the stuffing kicked out of you by such feet?"

"I will never tell. Both, probably."

"You are such a tease." Frodo paused, a small frown marring his features. "The healers have been coming and going, even while you were asleep. What will Ioreth say if she walks in and sees us thus?"

"I care not," Aragorn said. "I am soon to be king . . . I can do whatever I please here." With a smug smile, he drifted into a feverish sleep, and Frodo followed after.

Frodo woke abruptly, realizing that he was too hot. And as the last few hours came back to him, he remembered why: he lay against Aragorn's fever-ridden flesh, which had grown even warmer than before. Aragorn slept still, almost as one unconscious, the grayish circles under his eyes prominent and two high spots of color adorning his bearded cheeks. The arms that had previously encircled Frodo lay lax, and as Frodo sat up partway, a shudder wracked Aragorn's body.

"Aragorn?" Frodo felt the man's dry forehead, wincing at the high temperature. Aragorn turned his head toward the cool touch, murmuring, and opened glazed, slitted eyes. He stared at Frodo for long seconds before falling into unconsciousness once more.

Rubbing his own eyes, Frodo glanced about, noting a fresh, steaming bowl of athelas water sitting on the side table. Aragorn's covers had been pulled down and his nightshirt unfastened to the hips, revealing a toned, tanned belly with a fine smattering of hair that led to regions Frodo dared not think about now. He sighed wistfully . . . how wonderful it would be if only Aragorn could wake, completely healthy, and take Frodo in his arms. Frodo would press himself against that bare torso and rub his face against the warm, masculine flesh like a cat.

To Frodo's horror, the bandages had been removed from Aragorn's leg and now Frodo could see, in full view, the draining thigh wound, puffed up and streaked with red and darker colors. He gasped, suddenly feeling ill and faint.

The swish of robes sounded and Frodo turned to see Gandalf.

"I hope you were able to sleep undisturbed," Gandalf said, sitting heavily in the chair beside the bed. If he noted Frodo's proximity to Aragorn, he made no comment. "Healers have been in and out the last hour or two." He narrowed his eyes at Frodo. "The warden wishes to have a look at you as well, after you return to your room. Which I have promised you will do immediately, to receive food and medicine. Ioreth is bringing you a basin in which to soak your hand."

Frodo nodded absently, trying to avoid the sight of Aragorn's leg. "Aragorn looks sicker than he did just a few hours ago, Gandalf. And his skin feels much warmer."

"I am afraid that his condition worsens," Gandalf said, his face somber. "It seems the infection is spreading further, and even one so strong as Aragorn cannot fight it indefinitely." He rubbed his eyes, then closed them and bowed his head. "Would that Elrond were here."

Frodo lay back, putting his head upon the exact spot where Aragorn's nightshirt just opened and reveling in the sensation of Aragorn's scratchy skin against his cheek. What could it hurt? With Aragorn unaware, Frodo's usual reserve dissipated and he sought comfort however he could find it. "I am frightened, Gandalf," he said, tears prickling at the back of his eyes as he listened to the man's raspy breathing. "I cannot bear to lose him, not now."

"I know, dear boy."

"Would not Elrond journey here to tend Aragorn?"

Gandalf shook his head. "He would, but he could not possibly make it here in time, even if he rode non-stop on horseback all day and all night." He paused. "I am not even certain he is in Rivendell at the moment. With the destruction of the Ring, Elrond will now be preparing to sail to the uttermost West, along with his daughter."

"The Evenstar? But . . . in Rivendell, I gathered that she and Aragorn . . ."

"At one time, but no more. That relationship is ended. It ended before the quest began." Gandalf looked pointedly at Frodo. "She has decided to sail with her people, Frodo. Aragorn is no longer attached. If-no, when---he survives, he will have much recovering to do, and he will need your support."

If he survives . . .

But Aragorn had to survive. He had to. Frodo had guessed at the love between Aragorn and Arwen Undomiel and had half expected her to appear in Minas Tirith at any time. That she would not was something of a shock . . . and a relief, if Frodo were true to himself. Yes, now that he knew such information, Frodo wouldn't hesitate to tell Aragorn of his true feelings if the time ever came, for good or naught. He loved him. Yes, he loved the man dearly.

If he survives . . .

Suddenly, something preying earlier on Frodo's mind resurfaced. He frowned thoughtfully, still rubbing his face against Aragorn's skin. "Gandalf . . . I had the strangest dream before waking. I don't know what it might mean, if it indeed means anything at all. I would not even mention it, except that I saw you in it-as you are now, robed in white. And I had not even seen you yet when I dreamed this. I . . . I still thought you passed into the Halls of Mandos."

Gandalf's bushy brows rose. "I am well-aware of the fact that your dreams are occasionally prophetic, Frodo. Tell me of this dream."

"The White Tree in the court of the fountain is withered and dead, is it not?"

"Yes. It was prophesied by the twenty-fourth king of Numenor, Tar-Palantir, that when the White Trees withered, the line of the kings of Numenor would die out, as well. Such has happened. Aragorn himself has been looking for a sign to reinforce his ascension to the throne, but none has yet been found."

"But what if . . . what if such a sign did exist, waiting to be discovered? Gandalf, I saw such a sapling in my dream, in the hallowed path that only kings once dared to tread, up on Mt. Mindolluin." With much detail, Frodo told of his sleep-vision. "And afterward, I remembered the tale of the Akallabeth, which I borrowed from Elrond's great library while in Rivendell. And there, as you well know, lies the story of Isildur and the fruit that he stole from Nimloth, the White Tree of Numenor. He escaped with the fruit, but received a great many wounds---"

"'Then the fruit was planted in secret," Gandalf broke in, quoting, "'and it was blessed by Amandil; and a shoot arose from it and sprouted in the spring. But when its first leaf opened then Isildur, who had lain long and come near to death, arose and was troubled no more by his wounds.'" He paused, looking at Frodo hopefully. "Frodo, will you allow me to see into your thoughts the exact location of this sapling you speak of?"

Frodo sat up abruptly. "Is there a chance? Is there a chance such a thing might help Aragorn?"

"One time, not long ago, we had only a fool's hope of saving all the lands of Middle-earth from falling to darkness, Frodo. I am willing to trust to chance again. At the very least, it might lend Aragorn strength. I will go at once."

"Gandalf, I want to accompany---"

"No, you cannot, and that is my last word on the subject. You are not nearly fit enough to go traipsing up a snowy mountainside. And besides . . . your place right now is beside Aragorn. He needs you to help him fight."

Ash and flame. Horror and disbelief as Orodruin belched forth a streak of molten lava into the sky. Aragorn halted in the middle of battle, tears streaming through the grime and filth on his cheeks. Though the destruction of the Ring was evident, it suddenly held little meaning, for the one he'd sworn to protect, the one he loved above all others, was gone. His world had ceased to exist as he knew it.

Trembling, he sank to his knees and allowed the full force of the volcano's heat to sear his skin . . . so hot . . . so very, very hot . . . He tossed restlessly and groaned piteously, attempting to escape his confining blankets.

"Sssssh, Aragorn. You are all right. Rest, please. Just sleep."

"Frodo?" Aragorn whispered. He blinked several times, attempting to focus, but his surroundings remained partially blurry and distorted. But that melodic hobbit voice, such a balm to his fevered mind, as well as the cool hand petting his brow, all bespoke of Frodo's gentle touch. "Frodo?"

"Yes, it's me, dear Aragorn. And Legolas is here, as well."

"Save your strength and sleep, mellon nin," came Legolas's quiet admonition.

Aragorn spoke with effort, his parched mouth working. "Frodo . . . you are here? But . . . Mt. Doom . . . exploded . . ."

"You were merely dreaming, Aragorn. The eagles rescued Sam and me, remember? You tended to me yourself. I am here and well, thanks to you."

Swallowing hard, Aragorn blindly reached out, attempting to determine if this Frodo was, indeed, real. A hand-more delicate and much less callused than his own-caught his.

"Do you see, Aragorn? I am here, just as I told you." Frodo gently pressed his lips to Aragorn's knuckles before clutching the hand to his chest. "I am here and Legolas is here, and Merry and Pippin and Sam and Gimli are just a room away. We are all fine. You can stop worrying and sleep."

"I . . . you are here? I saw . . . saw Mt. Doom . . ."

"It's the fever working on your mind, nothing more. Here, drink this. It will make you feel better."

Aragorn felt his hand being disengaged and his head being lifted just slightly as Frodo placed a ceramic mug to his lips. He drank deeply of the cold juice-apple, was it?-eagerly, slightly reassured. Frodo was not dead; Frodo was alive and sitting beside him, watching over him. His dear Frodo. How he loved Frodo.

But perhaps Aragorn was dying. He felt wretched and only partially tied to the world . . . all was hazy and fuzzy and he found it increasingly difficult to breathe. He heard many, many voices from both far and near, some familiar, some not-but all somber. Footsteps came and went, and the scent of herbs and medicines wafted toward his nose. He was aware that healers had been performing various procedures upon him, some pleasant, such as being covered with cool towels, and some rather distasteful, even to a healer such as himself.

"Frodo . . ." he began, struggling to get the words out. He must tell Frodo of his love, and he must do so now, before the hour grew late. "I do not . . . do not fear death. But if I die, I need . . . must tell . . ."

"No, no, never say that. Hush, Aragorn. Save your strength."

He nodded, for blackness threatened to overwhelm him. Vaguely, he knew that Frodo leaned over him, gently smearing a soothing balm upon his lips before taking up his hand again and clutching it tightly. Spent and weary, Aragorn drifted off, the last sound before unconsciousness claimed him that of his dear Frodo crying.

At the sound of heavy footsteps, Frodo woke abruptly, still clutching Aragorn's hand. His neck ached from the uncomfortable position of having lain with his head upon the bed for the last few hours and he rubbed it, grimacing. Aragorn was now much too restless and ill for Frodo to lie in the bed with him, and Frodo would not, could not bear, to leave his side despite urging from others.

Legolas and Sam stayed in the room, bringing Frodo light foods that, in his anxiety, he barely choked down. Together, they worked at soothing Aragorn as they anxiously watched healers bathe and sponge him down, feed him herbal teas and broths and tonics, change his bedclothes, and perform all of the other necessities required to care for the very ill. Aragorn could barely keep even liquids down now, and Frodo feared the worst was still to come.

Frodo charged himself with moistening Aragorn's lips with a sweet-smelling orange-colored balm and with keeping Aragorn's long hair out of his eyes. It was a task, and he'd spent many long minutes earlier combing the dark, wavy strands to keep them from tangling so badly. Aragorn had beautiful hair, Frodo reflected, beautiful silky hair meant to caress a lover's face. And lax Aragorn might be with his grooming habits, but Frodo would see to it that they weren't neglected now.

"Frodo."

Frodo turned and gasped with relief to see Gandalf standing in the doorway, holding a well-wrapped bundle. The wizard strode into the room, his eyes never leaving Aragorn's pain-wracked body. "How is he?"

"Not good, Gandalf." Frodo bowed his head. In the corner of the room, Sam and Legolas sat listening, quiet and thoughtful. "It is sheer agony to see him thus. He has always been the strong one, the protector." He looked up at Gandalf. "When I discovered you had returned to us, I was elated. But now, must we give up Aragorn? Oh, Gandalf . . . I'm not sure I wish to go on without him." He grew silent for a long moment. "I do not think I can go on without him."

Gandalf moved close, massaging Frodo's thin shoulder with one hand before kneeling next to the hobbit's chair. He laid the linen-wrapped bundle across one knee as carefully as one would handle a newborn child. "It was as you foresaw, Frodo. A sapling, not seven years old and not quite yet three feet high. Who shall say how it comes here in the appointed hour? It might just be the miracle we need."

Frodo unloosed the wrappings, revealing a tiny tree covered in a silky bark with a soft sheen. He touched it reverently. "It has no foliage," he said, puzzled, for the tree he'd dreamed of boasted silver-toned leaves and bore large crystal-white blossoms.

Gandalf nodded. "You saw the tree as it will be, I think. For it is said, though the fruit of the tree comes seldom to ripeness, yet the life within may lie sleeping through many long years, and none can foretell the time in which it will awake. Such a tree cannot prosper while in the cold winter snow of a mountain pass. It needs warmth and sunlight to sprout and grow properly."

Sam and Legolas approached, gazing at the tree with awe. "What is that, Mr. Gandalf?" Sam asked, curious.

"It is a seedling of the White Tree of Numenor. It may lend Aragorn strength. We will plant it immediately in the small enclosed garden right off this room, for now. That shall be your task, Samwise. Let us hurry."

Sam nodded, leaving the room with Legolas as quickly as his healing feet could carry him, while Frodo turned back to soothe Aragorn, who moaned in his delirium.

Just a while now, Frodo thought. Perhaps just a while until Aragorn recovers . . . or he does not. But the latter thought was just too terrible to contemplate. "We shall not give up, Aragorn," Frodo said aloud, staring at the man's pale visage and the dark lashes lying upon his gaunt cheeks, and noting, with barely contained terror, that Aragorn's hands had grown clammy and a mild rash had appeared in places. "And I know that you will not give up. You shall show everyone what strength you possess."

Very soon, Legolas and Sam, along with Gimli and Merry and Pippin, returned with a garden spade and a small box that Frodo recognized as Sam's bit of earth, a gift from the Lady Galadriel while in Lothlorien. Exactly what Sam planned to do with it, Frodo was uncertain. Rising slowly, for Aragorn had drifted to sleep and lay somewhat calmly for the moment, Frodo hobbled over to the others.

A small flower garden, built so that patients could enjoy recovering in the sunshine, led off from Aragorn's room; a very private place enclosed by a tall wall made of aged, moss-covered stone. It was here that Sam bid Gimli to dig a hole exactly to his specifications.

"This may not help much, but it can't hurt," Sam said, opening the gift from Galadriel. He took two pinches of the fine gray dust within and sprinkled them into the hole before tenderly placing the sapling within. Gimli then filled in the space about the tree's roots with the moist, rich soil while Sam patted it down. After liberally watering, Sam stood back, hands on his hips. "It's done. It should take right to that spot."

Gandalf wrapped one gnarled hand about the tree's slender trunk and lowered his head, murmuring words that Frodo recognized as a blessing to the Valar. Everyone stayed quiet, listening to Gandalf and for any sounds coming from Aragorn upon the bed beyond. A healer came in and left quickly after examining Aragorn and studiously ignoring everyone in the garden, for which they were thankful.

Gandalf finally stopped speaking and looked up, meeting Frodo's eyes. "Place your hand upon its trunk, Frodo."

Tentatively, Frodo obeyed, surprised at the palpable river of life running within the sapling's veins. Suddenly, he felt the darkness and loss from the destruction of the Ring being sucked away, to be replaced by healing and light. "Oh," was all he managed, closing his eyes.

Gandalf's deep voice cut the silence, startling all. "Behold!"

Frodo looked up, shocked. Upon the sapling's highest branch sprouted one tiny silver-sided leaf, shimmering faintly in the sunlight. Before Frodo's very eyes, another appeared, and then another. Taking a deep inhalation of hope, he made his way back to Aragorn.

Aragorn journeyed in darkness. Whereas earlier he'd felt as hot as a Balrog's whip, he now felt as cold as a burst of Nazgul breath. Yes, he'd ventured close to the white shores beyond the bounds of Arda before, but he'd never actually set foot upon their pristine sands. Now, sea birds called and waves beckoned, and Aragorn knew that if he surrendered, all his pain would cease.

But he did not want to surrender. He'd felt pain before, intense agony no living creature should have to endure, and it had not killed him. He had not worked and sacrificed his entire life to simply give up now, so close to the goal. He was the rightful king of Gondor, by glory, and he would live to sit on the throne!

Somewhere beyond the void of unconsciousness he heard voices, dear voices, belonging to elf, dwarf, wizard, and hobbit. The voices grew clearer, entreating, and Aragorn detected flickering light through his closed eyelids. Warmth stole into his body, pleasantly seeping outward to thaw his frozen fingers and toes like the sun beaming down upon cruel Caradhras.

"Come back to us, Aragorn," Gandalf's deep voice intoned.

"Please, Aragorn. I need you . . ." Ah, there it was . . . a faint, faint whisper very close to his ear. His beautiful, courageous Frodo, for whom Aragorn would gladly have fought a thousand cave trolls and a hundred thousand Orcs. He'd been prepared to die to protect Frodo during the quest, but now he needed to survive for Frodo. For Frodo . . .

He tested his limbs, surprised to feel them growing fitter, and found his flaying hand caught and held by two smaller ones of surprising strength. Slowly, Aragorn took a deep, cleansing breath, amazed at how easily it came.

"I know which hobbit sits beside me," he murmured, caressing the bandaged hand holding his own. He smiled, not caring who else heard his next proclamation, and opened his eyes at last to see Frodo's tear-stained visage. "The hobbit with whom I am in love."

Frodo stiffened in shock, his mouth opening with a tiny intake of air. And then his lips curved upward, and the hope and affection in his eyes warmed Aragorn clear to the bone and dispersed the very last of winter's chill.

"As I am in love with you," Frodo said, a tear sliding down one pale cheek. "How are you feeling?"

Aragorn released Frodo's hands to tenderly cup the dimpled chin. They looked upon each other for many moments, then Aragorn tore his gaze away and eased himself up amidst his pillows, thrusting his blankets away to view his once-swollen thigh with wonder. Under the bandages, the leg seemed of a normal size. Aragorn carefully grasped the linen and unwrapped it completely, revealing bare, whole flesh.

The wound was completely gone, as if it never existed.

"It seems that I am well," he said with awe. "How did this come to pass?"

Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, and the other hobbits moved to the head of the bed, hugging Aragorn and delighting to find him well again.

"Welcome back, my friend," said Gandalf, squeezing Aragorn's shoulder. "And now I think we shall leave Frodo to tell you of what has transpired. Come," he said to the others, "let us leave these two alone." He looked at Aragorn. "Faramir has been ensuring your privacy from unwanted visitors these past few days. You and Frodo may stay here as long as you like, undisturbed."

After everyone left, Frodo clasped Aragorn's hand again and gently tugged. "Come, let me show you."

Aragorn rose and drank deeply of the cool water from the ceramic pitcher beside his bed, and then together, clad only in their nightshirts, he and Frodo strode out into the little enclosed garden. It was late afternoon, not yet approaching dusk, and the sun blazed high overhead. Nevertheless, a breeze wafted the linen of their shifts as they stepped outside. This time of year, the garden was just coming into its own, with young fuchsia and violet and crimson buds waving everywhere in a chorus of color.

At Frodo's side, Aragorn gasped, sinking to his knees before the newly planted sapling in the middle of the garden. "A child of Nimloth," he said in wonder, studying the exquisitely fine-veined leaves that shimmied in the wind and flashed silver below. Reverently, he ran his fingers up and down the thin bark.

Frodo nodded, telling Aragorn of his dream, Gandalf's trek up Mt. Mindolluin, and the subsequent planting of the tree. "The line of kings is indeed restored again, Aragorn. You were healed, as was Isildur, by the grace of this tree and the Valar."

"Again, you are a savior," Aragorn said, rising. "My personal savior, this time." He gestured toward an ornate stone-work bench a few feet away that rested in a bed of springy purple moss. "I know you are weary after keeping such a vigil at my bed. Come sit and talk with me."

"All right." Frodo's stomach fluttered a little, a good feeling, a nice feeling, after the tension of the past day. No, longer than that, he mentally corrected himself. Tension, agony, fear, despair, horror, and utter hopelessness had been his constant companions for months.

But perhaps, just perhaps, that time was past.

Aragorn sat and opened welcoming arms, and Frodo soon found himself ensconced upon the man's lap, wrapped in the protective circle of strong, sinewy limbs. Only the thin material of their nightshirts separated their bare flesh, and Frodo shivered, laying his head against Aragorn's shoulder. He couldn't imagine a moment more perfect-was his every wish coming true? About them, only the drone of insects shattered the silence.

"It is a beautiful day, isn't it?" Frodo finally said. "Everything is growing and new and just starting out. Just a couple of weeks ago, I never thought I'd live to see the springtime again."

Aragorn lowered his chin to rest atop Frodo's head. "You bore a terrible burden, for far too long. I wish I could have taken it upon myself and spared you every moment of such pain." He smiled, gazing off into the distance. "But even saying that, I would ask if you have the strength for one more burden."

"You know I will do whatever you bid, Aragorn."

"The coronation will take place very soon. Will you help guard my crown during the ceremony and bear it to Gandalf at the right time, so that he may place it upon my head? It is very heavy, I must warn you, and very ancient, wrought of pearl and silver with wings upon the side in the likeness of a sea-bird."

"I would be honored."

"I am very glad indeed to hear you say that. You are a good looking-afterer." Aragorn hesitated, and Frodo felt Aragorn's chest swelling out in a great inhalation. "Gondor's new king will probably need looking after, as well. I could use a hobbit such as yourself to stay here in Minas Tirith and do just that."

Frodo put on a mock frown. "Hmmm. What's in it for me?"

"Well . . . you would find yourself loved beyond anything you have ever known." Aragorn lifted his head and turned Frodo's face up to his own, so that their lips were mere inches apart. He stroked Frodo's soft cheek with one thumb. "I meant what I said, Frodo. I love you and I have for a long time. I am asking you to consider making your home here, with me."

"I love you, too, Aragorn, so very much. And yes, I think I'd quite like to stay here." Frodo, whispering the last word, wrapped his arms about Aragorn's neck and brought the man's shaggy head down for a thorough kiss. And a most thorough and satisfying kiss it was, deep and full of promise. It might have lasted an eternity had not a small white object floated into Frodo's lap, startling them both.

"It's . . . a petal." Frodo studied it while rubbing absently at his mouth, which burned a little from Aragorn's stubble. It was a sensation Frodo wouldn't have traded for anything, just like the feel of Aragorn's hard thighs under his bottom, or the man's breath warming his neck, or the near-to-bursting emotions inside him as they examined the petal together.

It was unlike any other Frodo had seen, pearly and waxy with an unbelievably sweet fragrance. He turned to look at the sapling, and he and Aragorn gasped in unison upon spotting a cluster of sunlit white blossoms perched proudly upon its top-most branch.

"It blooms." Frodo stared, unwavering, with wonder. "What will become of this tree, Aragorn? It is a thing of healing . . . a thing of purity and beauty. When I placed my hand on it just before it sprouted leaves, I felt as if the darkness I've carried for the last many months was sucked from my soul, at last." He looked up to see Aragorn's eyes grow moist at those words.

"We shall lay the dead tree to rest in honor in Rath Dinen and plant this one in the court of the fountain, so that it may continue to thrive," Aragorn said. He tightened his arms about Frodo as an afternoon breeze ruffled their hair and billowed the hems of their nightshirts. "This blooming tree is a sign, Frodo. A sign that we are both healed and whole and shall be very happy together for many, many long years. This is only the beginning."

"To new beginnings," Frodo said, and enclosed the fragrant petal in his fist for safekeeping.

The End