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When Frodo woke in the Houses of Healing, he kept his eyes shut tight. His whole body rang with pain—his shoulders constricted, his neck cramped, his every bone seemingly half broken. When he tried to move, he gasped, and found that breathing hurt as well. He opened his eyes, and the balmy light from the window was blinding. He closed them and opened them again, and by and by it grew more tender. He dared to turn his head, and waking up felt worth the effort when he saw, at the side of his bed, the hunching form of Gandalf. He wore all white, but there was no mistaking him.
The last time Frodo saw him was sliding into the abyss of Moria, whispering to them to fly. His heart squeezed hard enough to stem the flow of blood, and he nearly forget his pain. Gandalf’s lips were tight, and so were the furrows around his eyes, but soon the tension ebbed.
“Gandalf!” Frodo exclaimed.
“My dear Frodo!” the wizard cried, and every line of his face took flight in a smile. He had no time to say more, however, for just beyond the door came a scuffle, and Merry and Pippin came rushing in.
The cousins lost no time in jumping on the bed and crying out, “Blast it, Frodo! You’re alive!”—“Alive!”—“How many times have I though we were parted for good!”—“Here, let me just make sure!”
Small, clever hands grasped him by the shoulders, hands, and cheek. They jostled him about, redoubling his pain, but it did not matter. His chest felt full and he could hardly take a breath. He wanted to clasp them and hold on to them forever.
As they cavorted on the bed, the others of the Fellowship joined them. Gimli, with his voice warm and rolling, spreading wide his arms. Legolas, with his long limbs, and his smile like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Aragorn, whose face was not lined with cares for the first time since he met him. And finally Sam, who hung back by the door, but their eyes found each other across the distance. Sam’s smile was warm and hesitant and sweet, and it was like coming to know each other all over again.
Only one did not come, and when Frodo asked about him, Sam and Aragorn exchanged glances.
“He will come later,” Sam replied. By this time, he was at the side of the bed, with Frodo’s hand in his.
After a while, once the glee ran its course, the others left, saying they should let Frodo rest. Even Sam made an excuse, stating he wished to investigate the food: how to make Frodo’s first meal as nourishing as possible.
Frodo was left alone, and the heavy ache returned to his limbs. In spite of the soft bed, the gauzy light, and a settled-in warmth tinged with a breath of herbs, there was an emptiness in his chest. He felt spent and sad, and it was like his friends were never there.
He lay there quiet and breathed in the herby, sun-warmed air. Then came a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he called.
That’s when Boromir appeared. The door opened partway and he saw his face, angled forward. His mouth was slightly open and his forehead creased.
He pushed open the door, and spoke before he crossed the threshold.
“Fro-Frodo, how goes it with you?”
Frodo pulled himself up on the pillows.
“Quite well, Boromir.” He was surprised by how kind he sounded.
Not that he wished to be unkind, but he felt worse for Boromir than expected. He did not know exactly why. It was not just Boromir’s rounded shoulders, and the way he carried himself, his back just shy of straight. It was not his hesitant step, as if walking on ice, nor the way he angled his gaze downward.
“Have a seat,” Frodo said. Boromir descended onto the chair beside the bed.
“I never—” he stammered, “I never thought we would chance to have another meeting.”
“Nor I,” Frodo returned.
Boromir’s lips were firm, and he fixed his eyes on Frodo’s hands on the covers.
“So many things have come to pass that no one could have predicted,” said Boromir.
“Of course.”
For a while they were silent, until Boromir spoke again.
“Our last meeting was not a fortunate one,” he said. “And I come—I come to beg your forgiveness. You bore the greatest burden of us all, and though I swore to protect you, my love for my land and people turned into a poison. I could blame the Ring and its corruption all I wish. But the lips that spoke the words were my own, the limbs that sought to restrain you were my own.”
He clasped his hands over his thigh. He raised his sea-gray eyes, and the flesh was tight around them.
“There are no words I could speak that would even out the score—”
Frodo shook his head.
“No words are needed, Boromir.” His chest was heavy, but the words came easy and clear.
Boromir clasped his leg tighter. Frodo sat up a little more, wincing.
“You did not do what you did because your heart was weak,” he said. “You did it because it was full.”
Outside, a bird took up a tune that Frodo did not recognize. It was like two sticks rapidly knocked together.
Boromir lowered his head and did not speak. Time passed, and Frodo could not see his face, but his shoulders rose and tensed under his doublet. He lowered his head further and his hand floated to his eyes.
His breaths grew rapid and gasping. He sounded like a man running.
Frodo sat up and moved toward him with an effort. He extended a hand, reaching for his friend’s.
“What’s done is gone,” he said. “I do not hold it against you now. Not with how everything turned out. I will tell you everything someday.”
He also lowered his eyes. Boromir’s breath grew quiet, though his shoulders shook.
Together they sat in the sunlit room, hands linked, and it was some time before either spoke again.