The drops of rain ran down Frodo's face, seeping into his clothes, until he was well and truly drenched. Cold, yes, but Frodo was savouring every sensation, every feeling that had been torn from him whilst he carried the Ring. He heard a voice calling his name from a distance. He ignored it, listening instead to the sound the rain made against the stone.

Aragorn rushed to the small, still all too thin, figure standing in the rain. Frodo was still so weak, he had only been let out of his bed for a few hours, and now he was standing in the rain, "What are you doing?" Aragorn knew he sounded angry, but was desperate to keep Frodo out of the rain, away from any harm. It seemed that it was an impossible task with Frodo, he was proud and inquisitive and would not consent to just sitting in bed all day.

"Its been so long," said Frodo in a faraway voice, his eyes closed, his back to Aragorn, "since I felt the rain. The Ring, you see, it eats away all your memories until you become a shell consumed by it, and I forgot, Aragorn. I forgot the taste of food, the sound of birds, how grass felt beneath my feet. I forgot rain, lost in the heat and fire of Mordor, the Eye ever upon me, burning me. If I had carried it any longer it would have even taken my name,"

"But," replied Aragorn in desperation, "the Ring is destroyed, surely you can remember all those things now?"

"Yes, yes I can remember, but it is like remembering a dream. It drifts in and out of focus," Frodo finally turned to face Aragorn, "I need to learn how to live again, how to," he held up his hand, stared at the stump where his finger once was, "how to move on, and I'm starting with rain."

"Well," said Aragorn, kneeling down beside Frodo, "any help you want, Frodo, anything at all, you have it, but perhaps it would be better if you were to start with something that is less likely to make you ill?" Frodo smiled, content, and walked inside with Aragorn.