The last of the spell-induced fog cleared from Boromir’s mind when he saw Frodo -- someone he had sworn to protect -- lying at his feet, victim of a spear meant for him. He fell to his knees with a wail of grief and rage -- which gave way to a gasp of surprise. There was no blood on the small, unmoving form, and the spearpoint, undamaged, lay nearby. Somehow, the courageous hobbit had not been skewered like one of Gimli’s wild boars... could he yet live? With a shaking hand, Boromir touched a finger to Frodo’s throat. No blood, but... no heartbeat. In seconds, Boromir gathered up Frodo’s limp body and ran to to the shelter. He lay the hobbit down on one of the blankets, then knelt next to him and began to tear off the small shirt.
“Leave him be!” Sam screamed, rushing to Boromir’s side. “What are you doing to him? Can’t you see that he’s...”
“His heart was stopped from the blow,” Boromir explained urgently. “I have seen such a thing before. If I can coax it to start once again, there may still be hope. What...” He stared at the glittering mail that lay beneath Frodo’s shirt.
“Mithril!” Gimli said in wonder, coming to stand nearby.
“No spear could penetrate such a shirt,” Gandalf murmured. “Boromir, do what you can for him.”
Boromir lifted Frodo slightly to remove the mail shirt, and Sam gasped at the sight of the large, swollen bruise on Frodo’s back where the spear had hit with such force. Laying Frodo back down, Boromir began a swift, rhythmic compression on the small chest.
Sam, sobbing, grasped Gandalf’s hand tightly, watching the Man’s every move. Boromir tilted Frodo’s head back and blew several long breaths into the slack mouth, before resuming his frantic tries at pushing life back into the still heart beneath his hands. Again and again he alternately breathed and pressed, but Frodo did not stir.
Gimli sighed, shaking his head sadly. “Leave off, laddie,” he murmured. “There is naught else you can do.”
“No!” Boromir insisted. He pounded forcefully upon Frodo’s chest once, then again, until suddenly Frodo took a huge gasp of air. Then another.
“Frodo!” Sam cried, falling to his knees next to his friend. Frodo’s eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.
“He may not awaken right away, Sam,” Boromir said, relieved beyond words that Frodo’s life had not been traded for his own. He shook his head in dismay at the bruises already forming on the fair skin of Frodo’s chest. “I hope I have not broken any ribs.”
Just then, Legolas came running swiftly out of the jungle. “What has occurred?” he asked.
“We were attacked,” Gimli said. “If not for this, Frodo would surely be dead.” He stooped to pick up the mithril shirt and held it reverently.
“My vision was a true one,” Legolas murmured in amazement.
“Vision?” Gandalf asked.
Legolas nodded. “Before leaving home, I had a vision... or dream, if you prefer. “The halfling forth shall stand,” a voice whispered, and I saw a fair, dark-haired halfling wearing this.” He motioned to the mithril shirt. “This is an heirloom of my House, passed down through generations from the First Age.”
“Dwarves had the crafting of it,” Gimli declared. “It must have been meant for a prince, or a king.”
“I felt... I knew that I needed to bring it with me on this trip,” Legolas continued. “The moment I saw Frodo, I knew he was the halfling from my vision. When he told us that Saruman planned to draw away all of his ‘protectors’ until he was alone, I persuaded him to wear the shirt as protection.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sam said, his eyes never leaving Frodo’s face. “You saved his life. You... and Boromir.”
“And you saved mine,” Boromir said to Gimli. “I am in your debt.”
“Saruman believed us powerless because we would not seize the Ring for ourselves,” Gandalf muttered. “He has become a fool as well as a threat.”
“Aye,” Gimli agreed. “This villain knows nothing of friendship, or what comrades-in-arms will do for one another.”
Frodo moaned and opened his eyes, every breath an effort.
“Sam,” Boromir said quickly, “please heat more water. When Aragorn returns, he may be able to ease Frodo’s hurts with that special plant of his.”
“What...” Frodo gasped.
“Do not try to talk,” Legolas said, taking Frodo’s hand as Sam raced off.
“I heard Sam... crying...”
“Frodo,” Boromir burst out, “forgive me. I swear on my life that I saw---”
“I know,” Frodo whispered. “You are not to blame, Boromir.”
“Saruman is a formidable foe, and can manipulate both mind and matter.” Gandalf said. “I doubt he will attempt the same tricks a second time.”
“Tricks!” Gimli snorted.
“What... hit me?” Frodo murmured, clutching his chest.
“It was necessary,” Boromir sighed. “I am sorry to have injured you.”
“Is Frodo all right?” Merry begged, running up.
“He will be,” Legolas said. He stroked Frodo’s brow with one hand and began a soft song.
“Merry, are you all right?” Gandalf asked. “Where are the others?”
“A voice called to me, and I followed.” Merry hung his head. “I don’t know how I was so fooled. Pippin and Aragorn nearly died because of me.”
“What?” Sam returned from where he had been setting pots of water to heat. “Are they out there, hurt?”
“Pippin will need tending, but he was not seriously harmed,” Legolas said. He looked up and smiled. “Here they are.” Aragorn stepped out of the foliage, and everyone looked at him in amazement. The ranger was caked in some type of mud from his boots to above his waist. Pippin, shivering in his arms, was nearly totally covered in the sticky sand, and practically unrecognizable. Aragorn knelt next to the freshwater stream close to camp and settled Pippin against a large tree, before joining the others at the shelter. He listened intently while Boromir and Gimli filled him in on what had occurred.
“Merry, will you and Sam bathe all that muck off Pippin? Wrap him up warmly, and I’ll prepare something for his throat.” Aragorn knelt and quickly began to examine Frodo, his face grave, while Sam and Merry grabbed up blankets and towels and headed towards Pippin.
“Nothing broken,” Aragorn said at last with a relieved smile. Pulling one of the precious athelas leaves from his pack, he crushed it in his hands then dropped it into one of the pots of hot water. The fresh scent filled the shelter, and everyone felt their tensions and fears easing. Once the water had cooled slightly, Aragorn soaked a cloth in it. He eased Frodo onto his side, then bathed the ugly bruises, front and back. Frodo sighed as his breathing -- and the crushing pains -- eased. Legolas gently eased Frodo into a sitting position while Aragorn wrapped soft, padded cloths about his chest.
Aragorn looked up as Merry and Sam led Pippin to him, their young comrade now cleaned, and wrapped in several blankets. He sorted through the herbs in his pack, and prepared a tea.
“What happened to Frodo?” Pippin gasped.
“Saruman sent his minion again,” Gimli replied, “but he failed to achieve his goal.”
Aragorn handed Pippin a steaming mug, but the youngster shook his head. “I can’t,” he whispered, his throat raw from coughing. “I feel sick.”
“I know,” Aragorn said. “Drink very slowly; this will soothe your throat.”
“I want to hear what happened,” Pippin insisted, sitting down and beginning to take small sips. “You need a bath, too, Aragorn,” he observed.
Aragorn grinned. “I agree,” he said with a chuckle. He looked from Pippin to Frodo. “And I seem to be caring for the same two patients I started with a few days ago.”
“Sam, is that boar roasted yet?” Frodo murmured. “I’m hungry.” His eyelids fluttered closed, and he slowly relaxed against Legolas, drifting into sleep.
“By the time you wake, it will be,” Sam said softly. He looked up at Aragorn. “Is it normal to be sleeping, when he’s been so badly hurt?”
“It is not unheard of. We should take turns sitting with him until he wakes,” Aragorn said.
“Why?” Merry asked.
“His system has been through a great deal,” the ranger explained, checking the pulse point at Frodo’s wrist. “His heart stopped for a short time, not to mention the shock of the spear’s impact. It is just... prudent to watch his breathing, and make sure all is well.” At Sam’s look of dismay, Aragorn smiled. “Fear not, Sam. Frodo is made of stern stuff, with or without mithril.”
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