Recognizing that his skills as a healer would shortly be needed, Aragorn left the command of his troops to Elladan, Imrahil and Éomer, beckoning to Elrohir to join him, they hurried to the tent that had been hastily pitched for the healing of those injured in the battle before the Morannon. His fellow healers, seeing the tent set up, realized that their duties too would change, and began to find their way to the tent, intent on helping their King and his brother in their duty to the hurt and injured.
Slowly at first, the tent began to fill with the arrival of those injured in the battle, both Men of the West and the men of Harad and Rhûn. The beds began to fill, but Aragorn made sure there was a place for, he hoped, Frodo and Sam.
As the number of injured began to grow too great for the healers assembled in the tent, Aragorn sent a messenger to find his brother Elladan. Elrohir had always been more interested in healing that his older twin brother, and though not blessed with the Gift of Healing that Ilúvatar had given to Elrond and his adopted son Estel, Elrohir was still a mighty healer, and trained by Elrond to deal with the insults of battle and war. Elladan too was a competent healer, especially of battle-field wound, and with the numbers of injured coming into the tent, all hands were need to assist in giving aid where they could. Together they labored as the day wore on, treating as best they could the hurts they found among the men who had fought that day.
Gimli popped his head briefly into the tent of healing, to give Aragorn and his brothers the word that the battle was going well. “Hoi Aragorn,” Gimli joked, “I see that you have finally found something useful to do!”
Of course, only a member of the Fellowship could jest like this, and Aragorn did not mind, but he was mightily glad to see his comrade Gimli. “Gimli!” Aragorn said, “Have you seen Pippin?”
Gimli thought for a moment, and then realized he had not seen the young Hobbit since the first assault of Mordor. “No, Aragorn, I have not!”
“Then find him, please, if you will,” said Aragorn. “I fear in my heart that not all is well with our young friend.”
Without a word, silently, but with a determined look on his face, Gimli stomped out of the tent, intent upon finding Pippin upon the field of battle. Searching among the injured, men crying out in pain, and some no longer crying at all, Gimli sought for Pippin. Healers were moving among the men, soothing them as best they could, and carrying to the tent those for whom there was still hope of healing. Hastening as his fear grew, Gimli could find no trace of the Hobbit near the place he had last seen him, and he wondered if his search would prove fruitless. Crying out to the Valar in his need, Gimli hurried from one pile of the fallen foe to next, but he could see no trace of Pippin.
Suddenly, as a shaft of light from the setting sun fell upon a pile of the hurt, his eyes were drawn to the hulk of a huge troll, lying in a grotesque position upon what looked like several dead or injured men. Gimli glanced at the huge troll, marveling at its size, and then he saw what he sought, a small, naked foot, unencumbered by boots. The foot of a Hobbit, for only Hobbits walked barefoot, without shoes or boots. Gimli rushed up to the troll, and grunted with exertion, as even he could not move the huge mass of dead troll. Crying out in his fear that Pippin was mortally wounded, Gimli shouted for several others nearby to help him, and struggling with superhuman strength, Gimli and three healers cast the troll’s lifeless body aside, and Gimli saw Pippin lying, seemingly dead, covered in blood, alongside his friend Beregond.
Beregond had only been stunned, and was now regaining consciousness and his first glimpse was that of the apparently lifeless Pippin next to him. “Pippin!” Beregond cried, his own injuries forgotten. “Pippin!” he repeated.
His hand still holding his sword of Westernesse, the sword now dripping the blood of the dead troll, Pippin looked as if he had left the world forever. Grasping his beard, terror, grief, and pain in his eyes, Gimli cried out in rage. Gimli then gently lifted the young Hobbit, and then he saw a slight rise of Pippin’s chest. Suddenly, all haste was needed. Faster than his legs carried him upon the Plains of Rohan what seemed now like an eternity ago, Gimli ran to the healer’s tent, Pippin clutched gently but desperately in his hands. “Aragorn! Aragorn! Hoi, Aragorn!” shouted Gimli above the din, as he entered the tent. “I have found him! He is alive!”
Aragorn looked up from his work, and leaving the finishing of the sutures on the man he was healing to his helpers, he hurried to Gimli. “Let me see,” said Aragorn anxiously. Gently taking Pippin in his hands, Aragorn felt the weak and thready pulse, and the very slight intake of breath. He saw the huge lump on Pippin’s head, and the crusted blood around a gash on the Hobbit’s temple. He saw the bruising and the unnatural bend of Pippin’s sword arm. Gimli stared anxiously at Aragorn, as Aragorn carefully searched Pippin for injuries. Breathing a sigh of relief, Aragorn smiled at Gimli and said, “Thank you, Gimli, you have found him in time. His wounds, though grievous, are not life-threatening; his irrepressible fëa is not diminished by the hurts to his hröa. These I can mend. Will you stay with me and help me as I heal his wounds?” That was not a question that Gimli needed to answer; Aragorn knew full well that Gimli would do whatever was asked of him to aid in Pippin’s healing. And so he began, and Gimli stood by, gently caressing Pippin’s face in a most un-dwarf-like manner.
The setting sun lit up a field full of injured and dead warriors, farmers from the south of Gondor, herdsmen from the fields of Rohan far away, men from the Southlands. The sounds of battle were diminishing, but the work of the healers continued unabated. Amidst the painful cries of the injured, and the hustle and bustle of healers moving about in the tent of healing, Aragorn suddenly heard a familiar but surprising noise: the beating of large Eagle’s wings approaching. Glancing up from his work with the wounded, Aragorn rushed outside, hoping against hope that the Gandalf, riding upon the back of Gwaihir, had found what he sought.
Calling quickly to several healers to bring out two stretchers, Aragorn glanced up at Gandalf, who shouted to him “All haste is needed! They have almost gone beyond the veil!”
Indeed. Looking first at Frodo, and then at Sam, Aragorn realized that unlike Pippin, Frodo and Sam were deeply hurt, but less in their hröar, and more in their fëar. Aragorn saw the bloody hand of Frodo, but that was but a minor injury compared to the deathly pale, feeble visage. Sam appeared somewhat better off physically, but also appeared enervated, pale, and limp. “These are serious injuries,” thought Aragorn, “and will require my greatest effort to heal them, if I can.” Morosely lifting Frodo off the ground where the Eagle had gently deposited him, Aragorn took Frodo into the tent of healing, to a bed that he had already prepared, waiting to receive Frodo. Another healer picked up Sam, and carried him into the tent, to his own bed, next to Frodo’s. Tired from a long day’s fear, worry, and labor, Aragorn doggedly pushed all thoughts of his own exhaustion out of his mind, as he knew he would have to call upon all of his skills as a healer to recall Frodo from the great abyss. He wished that his Father were here to help in the healing, of all the healers in Middle-earth, Elrond still was one of the best, and his aid would have been a gift. Yet Aragorn knew too that Elrond has his own injured to look after, his foresight told him that all of Sauron’s battles were not fought before the Morannon. No, Aragorn would have to do this on his own, without his Father’s help. Looking again at Frodo and Sam, Aragorn saw that Frodo was most in need of his attention, and falling to his knees before Frodo’s bed, Aragorn began the healing of Frodo.
Just as in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, those who watched Aragorn saw a great internal battle going one, more intense, perhaps, than the recent battle upon the fields before the Gate of Mordor. Tired and in a weakened condition himself, Aragorn placed one hand upon the brow of Frodo, and the other upon his chest. Probing into Frodo’s fëa, Aragorn sought his friends presence, but it was not to be found. A deathly silence filled the space around Aragorn and Frodo, as Aragorn’s voice grew weaker, and his hands began to tremble with exertion. “Frodo,” called Aragorn, “Frodo…where are you Frodo?” Softer and softer became the sound of Aragorn’s voice, as though he bodily still remained beside Frodo’s bed, Aragorn himself was walking in some dark vale far away from the battle. Aragorn sought Frodo, but found only darkness and pain. From the Morgul blade thrust into him at Weathertop, to Shelob's sting, and Gollum’s bite, and the whiplashes he endured in the tower of the orcs, every one of Frodo’s wounds worked together to carry him from the world of the living. “Frodo…” cried Aragorn softly, feeling his own efforts failing him at last, “Frodo, you cannot leave us. It is not your time to go, Frodo. Please, I beg you, come back to us.” Despairing, feeling the overwhelming sense of loss and pain that he could not heal, Aragorn heard a mocking voice cry out to him, “Fool! You thought you could be King, and you cannot even heal your friend. It is not in your power to do so, and your hopes are in vain.” Tears formed in his eyes, as Aragorn’s shaking hands remained on Frodo. Suddenly, a warm glow began to spread throughout him. Without looking up, Aragorn knew that his brothers had come once again to his aid. With one hand on each of his shoulders, Elladan and Elrohir lent their strength to their younger brother, and Aragorn felt renewed. “No!” he thought, “Elrond has taught me well. I can do this…Frodo, come to me, Frodo, come to me!”
And through his darkness, somewhere, somehow, the little part of Frodo that remained on Middle-earth heard the desperate voice of someone calling him. Frodo could not recognize the voice, but it sounded strong, soothing, resilient and yet gentle. He turned in his thought from grief, from pain, from loss, and sought the voice that was so insistently calling him. Who was this voice, that called to him through the darkness of his despair? Whose voice could reach him so strongly, and call him back to the light from the black pit of death? Slowly Frodo turned, and began to seek the voice, to feel its warmth, and its strength. Slowly, ever so slowly, Frodo walked away from the dark and sought the light. He felt a quickening of his heart, greater depth to his breath, and saw the light growing through his closed eyelids.
Reaching down into the leather pouch that Bergil had given him, Aragorn took two leaves of Athelas, and, anticipating his need, a healer had already brought a bowl of steaming water to Aragorn. With his weakened hands, Aragorn tried to crush the two leaves, and Elrohir bent down to help Aragorn with his task and mix the leaves into the steaming water. Whether it was a gift of Eru, or the skill that had been taught to Aragorn by Elrond, or more likely both, a wholesome fragrance of dewy meadows in the morning Sun, of flowers opening to catch the first rays of sunlight, of clean soil, and fresh air, cool and stimulating, filled the air around Frodo.
Breathing deeply, Frodo stirred, and tried to open his eyes. It took great effort, but he was able to pry them open, and he looked upon the face of Aragorn, the voice, he now knew, that had called him from his black despair. Frodo saw tears upon Aragon’s face, and behind Aragorn stood Elladan and Elrohir, tears streaming down their faces as well. Frodo saw others behind them, and in the distance, he saw Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli, who had come to join the group huddled around Frodo’s bed. But where was Sam? Frodo tried to speak, but in his emaciated condition, no sound could he utter, but Aragorn saw him trying to speak, and knew what he wanted to ask. “Do not fear, Frodo, Sam is well, and resting in a bed nearby.” Glancing over to his side, Frodo saw indeed another bed, like his own. “I will go to him now, and do for him as I have done for you. He is weary, and like you, in deep need of rest and food. Do not worry, both you and he will be well tended.” And with this, Aragorn stood up, himself refreshed from the Athelas, and turned to Sam’s bed. Healers came to Frodo, and began to bandage his hand, and soothe his wounds with gentle salves.
Sam was worn, like Frodo, but fortunately had no bodily injuries to speak of. Like Frodo, Sam’s fëa was weakend by his efforts in the Black Land. Murmuring in his delirium, Sam spoke of Shelob’s sting, and the treachery of Gollum, of the burden of carrying the Ring when he thought that Frodo was dead, and of carrying Frodo up the slope of Orodruin. This Aragorn saw and heard as he knelt by the side of Sam’s bed. Sam tossed and turned in his unconscious state, but Aragorn knew that Sam’s wounds were not as deep as Frodo’s, although still requiring him to call Sam back to the living. Again placing his hands on Sam’s brow and heart, Aragorn called to Sam, and Sam heard his voice calling to him in the darkness.
Sam was searching, searching for Frodo, and he could not find him. Yet he heard a voice that he knew, it was Aragorn’s, and Sam thought that perhaps Aragorn could help him find Frodo. Aragorn, Sam knew, could do anything. Turning from his blind searching in the dark, Sam turned towards the light of Aragorn’s voice and slowly began to breathe more deeply and steadily. His tossing and turning were replaced with a gentle sleep. Sam felt as if he could sleep forever, and knowing that Aragorn was somewhere nearby, Sam did not have to worry, at least, about finding Frodo, because Aragorn would find his master. Suddenly smelling a fresh scent of apples and honey, Sam slipped into a deep slumber, comforted and at ease.
Aragorn stood up. His mind refreshed by the Athelas, he felt only a strong need to rest. Looking around him, he saw his brothers and nodded to them. He looked for Gandalf, Gimli, and Legolas, and seeing them nearby, he felt that his circle was complete. With a deep sigh, Aragorn turned, and walked out of the tent seeking some air and a moment to compose himself. He felt that he had done his best as a healer, and yearned only some time to rest. His thoughts turned to Arwen, far away in Imladris, and he hoped that she was thinking of him across the miles. The momentous events of the day faded for a moment, and he was himself, quiet, at peace, and thankful for the safe return of the true heroes of Middle-earth, two Hobbits from the distant Shire, who had made the greatest sacrifice imaginable for the good of Arda. He felt a hand upon his shoulder, and looking to his side, he saw that Gandalf had quietly walked up beside him. Without saying a word, Gandalf smiled at him, and in that smile, Aragorn saw thanks, and also an acknowledgment that Aragorn had done well. The world seemed dark, but both Estel and estel survived, and could look forward to a new dawn and a new day upon Middle-earth. The darkness had fled, for now, and the light could blaze forth, setting the world in order. Yes, it would be a good future, and the hope of all good living things could be renewed.