Summary: The War is over, but the Ringbearer still suffers from deep scars. An unexpected accident provides a possible solution, but is it really a remedy, or just another wound?

Disclaimer: I owned Lord of the Rings once. I really did! But then I woke up…

Medical disclaimer: Basically, don't try to heal anybody using any methods in this fic. I did some brief Googling for this chapter, but I'm certainly not a medical professional, and all of the websites seemed to disagree with each other…

My apologies to all readers for the looong delay in updating. I've been out of town a whole lot, and when I returned after my first trip, my computer had died. :( As I do all my writing on it, I didn't write anything until I (finally) got a new one hooked up. I am going out of town again this weekend, but hopefully there won't be nearly as long a delay in updating.

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Breon Briarwood - Thanks for yet another kind review! Yes, I'm afraid I made it rather easy to guess what's coming next. Oh well…cliffies are cruel, anyway. :D

BraellyraLeatherleaf - Thank you! Hope you like this chappie too!

Fili - Creepy? Yes, I guess it might be, haha. I find it difficult not to insert creepy and/or mysterious stuff into my writing. Guess I've read too many fantasy books. :)

monet3 - Yes, it is a slightly different twist…makes the story a bit more interesting. Intriguing? High praise, thank you.

Frodo Silverlune - Thank you so much for your compliments! Never been put on anyone's favorites list before…:D

Anawey - Thank you! Sorry for the rather lengthy suspense I put you through. Well, hopefully I'll update a bit quicker next time.

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Chapter Two

"Mushrooms!" Merry announced in surprise and delight, rushing toward a vendor's stall where he had caught sight of the long-coveted morsels. Pippin and Sam hastened after him, and Aragorn and Gandalf strode along behind with a chuckle.

Upon reaching the stall, the hobbits stared worshipfully at the idolized mushrooms. Pippin reached out a hand reverently and touched one. "This is a Chantarelle…it's your favorite kind, Frodo." Upon not receiving a response, he frowned and turned. "Frodo?"

Suddenly his eyes grew wide and his face paled. "Frodo, look out!" he shouted urgently. Whirling around, Gandalf, Aragorn, Merry, and Sam were just in time to witness an escaped work horse deliver a swift, powerful blow to Frodo's head with its flying hoof. Frodo swayed for a brief moment and then collapsed.

The group rushed over to the fallen hobbit, followed closely by several of the men who had been working on the wall. Sam already had tears streaming down his face as he flung himself to the ground beside his master. "Mr. Frodo, Mr. Frodo, are you all right?" An anguished look passed over his face when Frodo didn't respond. Gandalf put a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, worry shining in his own ancient eyes.

Aragorn knelt beside Frodo, pulling his eyelid back gently. "He's unconscious," he murmured. He let go of the hobbit's eyelid, which slid immediately shut. Feeling around the base of his skull, he noted the extensive swelling and added, "I believe he may have a concussion."

"Oh, no," Merry moaned.

"Is there anything we might do, sir?" asked one of the workers, wringing his hands.

"No…no. Thank you for the offer, however. Just see to it that the horse is caught," Aragorn responded distractedly.

"Why isn't he waking up? Shouldn't he be conscious by now?" Pippin demanded, voice and lips quivering with his trepidation.

"No," Aragorn murmured, trying to keep his tone steady to soothe the young hobbit. "Do not be overly concerned just yet. The recipient of a concussion may sometimes remain unconscious for over thirty minutes." He stood up, pulling the insensible Frodo gently into his arms. "We must return immediately, though. I will take him to the Houses of Healing, for there are herbs there that I will use to aid him."

Aragorn began moving swiftly in the direction from which the party had come. Gandalf strode beside him, urgency speeding his moves. The hobbits followed as well, almost forced to run to keep pace with the two Big People. Distress was still written plainly upon their countenances.

Aragorn himself was praying as he moved. A concussion might not always present great danger to one whose health flourished, but to one like Frodo, who was already beset with numerous physical and emotional difficulties, it might prove far more perilous. The blow had also clearly been a very strong one. Please, please, don't let him be hurt too badly.

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After what seemed like an eternity, the group arrived at the Houses of Healing. Aragorn, leading the others, hastened through the cool stone hallways toward a small room near the back. He had long since removed his hood, and several Healers scurried out of his way respectfully as he passed. One, an elderly woman named Gileth, called out to him. "My Lord, do you require assistance?"

"Yes," Aragorn responded after a moment's thought. "The Ringbearer has sustained a concussion. Please bring me a yarrow tea, diluted as would be a child's dose. Also, bring me a tincture of skullcap and a spare nightshirt." Gileth obeyed immediately.

Moving onward, the group soon reached their destination. Pushing the door aside with his foot, the king entered the room and carefully laid Frodo upon the bed. The others crowded around anxiously.

"What's those herbs and things you asked for supposed to do, Strider?" Sam asked, twisting the fabric of his shirt in his hands nervously.

"The yarrow tea will reduce the inflammation, bruising, and pain. The skullcap tincture will calm and nourish his nervous system," Aragorn replied. He placed a soothing hand on Sam's golden curls. "Let us hope for the best, Sam. When Frodo awakens, he will need your support and composure."

The king did not give voice to his own deep concern, however. Such a strong blow to the head was known to often cause memory loss and sometimes even permanent brain damage. There was no point in presenting these possibilities and upsetting the hobbits further until Frodo awakened and the truth of his condition was ascertained, though. Still, as Aragorn caught Gandalf's eye, he could see that the old wizard shared his worry.

Several minutes later, Gileth came hurrying through the doorway, carrying the items that Aragorn had requested. The king reached out and took the small nightshirt that was draped over her arm. She then set down the tea and tincture on a table beside the bed. "The tea was diluted as you requested, my Lord King," she said. "Will you require any assistance in your care of him?" She nodded at the Ringbearer.

"No, that will be all. I shall care for him. Thank you for your help, Gileth," Aragorn replied, smiling at the woman. She curtsied and exited the room.

The king gestured to Sam. "Sam, I am going to give him the tea now. Could you please hold him in an upright position against your chest?" Sam nodded quickly and moved to take his friend in his arms.

Aragorn picked up the cup of tea from the bedside table and turned back toward Frodo. Tilting the hobbit's head back slightly with his free hand, he poured a sip of tea into Frodo's mouth and gently stroked the small throat until the hobbit swallowed. He continued in this manner until the contents of the cup were gone.

"Could you hand me the tincture now, Pippin?" the king asked. The young hobbit compliantly reached for the tiny bottle and passed it to the man.

Aragorn placed a drop of the tincture inside of Frodo's mouth and stroked the hobbit's throat again. "I will continue giving this to him for the next several days," the man murmured, "for I have always found it highly beneficial to patients with injuries such as his."

Handing the bottle back to Pippin, the king reached toward Sam, taking the unconscious hobbit from him. He gently removed Frodo's clothes and placed the clean nightshirt on him, taking care not to jar his head. Smoothing the covers of the bed back, he laid Frodo inside and pulled the coverlet up to his chin. He then turned to face the others.

"I will stay with him now. I know that all of you— especially you, Master Gamgee—require rest. You are not yet fully recovered, Sam, and I have no doubt that your exertions today have tired you." Sam indeed had an air of exhaustion about him, but a stubborn look crept onto his face at the king's words.

"I'll not be leavin' my master anytime soon, Strider," he said quietly, but with hidden steel in his tone.

Aragorn nodded his understanding. "I know you don't wish to go, Sam," he said softly," but you do need to retire for at least a short time. There is nothing more we can do for Frodo right now. I promise to notify you the moment he awakens, however."

Sam still looked hesitant, but Pippin, concerned for the gardener, tugged on his arm. "Come on, Sam. You do need to rest. Aragorn will tell us when Frodo needs us again." With a final longing look toward the bed that held his heart's best earthly treasure, Sam allowed himself to be pulled from the room.

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The tiny being in the bed gradually returned to awareness, struggling to open deep blue eyes that seemed to be permanently fastened shut. After blinking rapidly several times, he was finally successful. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling, for several long, silent minutes.

The being very slowly became aware of his extreme discomfort. Everything was blurry, as though he was viewing the world through a thick sheet of ice. His head pounded; he was quite certain he had never had such a monumental headache in all his life. His stomach churned, threatening the imminent loss of its contents. But worst of all was the empty, hollow ache at the center of his chest. He didn't understand it, didn't know what it was or how it had gotten there.

Now that he thought about it, where was he? An even worse question, nagging at the back of his mind for the past few minutes, rushed to the fore on a wave of utter panic. Who was he? He couldn't remember, and trying to think made his headache worsen. He couldn't recall anything, anything at all, except for—

His voice croaked out in a hoarse whisper. "Sam?" He closed his eyes. Sam, I need you. He moaned softly. Please…

The sound of his voice alerted a tall figure who was sitting in a chair near his bedside. The hobbit, who had not noticed the man, shrank back in fright at the figure's sudden movement. The man looked concerned for a brief moment at the hobbit's reaction, but then he smiled. "How do you feel, Frodo?" he asked quietly.

Despite his efforts to suppress it, a small whimper of fear escaped the hobbit's mouth. "Who…who…?" he muttered, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

The tall man's smile faded. "Do you not remember me, Frodo?"

The hobbit finally opened his eyes, shaking his head and wincing at the movement. Is that my name, then? Frodo? "No," he finally managed to reply. Locking eyes with the man, he asked in a rush, "Who…who are you? And I? What is this place? Why can't I recall? Has something happened to me?" His questions tumbled over one another in his anxiety.

The man let out a sigh, then gave an encouraging pat to the hobbit's shoulder. "Try to calm yourself. You've been in an accident, and you received a concussion. It's not unusual for memory loss to accompany such an injury. I am hopeful, though, that your memory will soon reassert itself." He smiled again tenderly. "My name is Aragorn. We have been friends and companions for something less than a year now. We are in the Houses of Healing in the white city of Minas Tirith. You have many other friends here as well; they have been deeply concerned for you."

"Sam?" The hobbit breathed longingly.

Aragorn felt a strange rush of both melancholy and relief. "You can remember Sam, then?" Somehow, the king was not surprised.

"Yes," Frodo murmured. "He…he takes care of me. May I see him now?"

"First, please tell me how you feel," Aragorn asked softly.

"My head…it hurts so very badly. And my stomach feels dreadful—" As if to confirm his words, Frodo's face suddenly paled as a wave of nausea swept over him. Aragorn quickly reached for a nearby basin and supported the hobbit's back as he retched weakly into it, expelling the few contents of his stomach. Frodo gave a soft moan as he collapsed back onto the bed, trembling ever so slightly. A cold sweat was visible on his brow.

"I'm sorry, little one," Aragorn said soothingly, regret evident in his voice. "You will soon feel better, though; these effects will only remain for a day or two. Do you feel badly in any other way?"

"Yes," the hobbit murmured. He clutched a hand to his chest, directly over his heart.

Aragorn looked puzzled. "Your chest hurts?"

The hobbit seemed saddened and confused as he turned a woeful look upon the king. "No…it…it doesn't hurt, exactly, it's just that—" he broke off his speech and sighed. "It's like…there's something important that has gone missing. I just can't remember—"

Light dawned upon Aragorn suddenly. He misses the ring, the man thought miserably and with a touch of bitterness. Dredging up a façade of cheerfulness, the king again patted Frodo's shoulder. "Do not fear; we shall deal with all your pains in due time."

"Could I see Sam, please?" the hobbit asked again, more plaintively this time.

"I think it is best for you to rest a while longer," Aragorn replied after a moment's thought. "Once you awaken again, though, I will certainly bring him in to see you."

"Thank you…Aragorn. I…I need him…," the hobbit whispered, his eyes drooping shut once more as he departed for a place where the bewilderments of his life would no longer trouble him for a time.

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Aragorn sighed to himself as he headed away from the Houses of Healing toward the dwelling of the Fellowship. He had requested that one of the young apprentice healers sit with Frodo while he was gone so that he could speak to the others without as great a time constraint. He was not looking forward to imparting the news to them, though.

Upon reaching the house, Aragorn knocked quietly at the door. It was hastily opened by Gandalf, who eyed the king with concern. "Has he awoken?" the wizard asked. "How is he doing?"

Aragorn looked sad. "He has awoken, but he doesn't feel well, of course. And," he swallowed, "as we both feared might happen, he cannot remember…"

"Oh, no," Gandalf murmured. Sweeping the door wide open, he gestured for Aragorn to enter. "We must tell the hobbits."

Aragorn stepped through the door and entered the house's sitting room, where Merry and Pippin sat staring into the dancing flames of the fire. The two hobbits glanced up and immediately jumped to their feet, bombarding the man with questions.

"Did he wake up?"

"How is he?"

"Will he be all right?"

"Can we go see him now, Strider? Please?"

Aragorn held up a hand, and the storm of questions abated. "Yes, he awoke. He is sleeping again, though, so you cannot visit him now." He looked around. "Where is Sam?"

"I'm here, sir," the hobbit in question responded, slipping into the sitting room and rubbing sleep from his eyes. Looking into the king's face, he spotted some deep emotion that Merry and Pippin had failed to see, and his own body went still. "Strider?" he asked quietly, his face paling.

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair. "I was just telling them—" he nodded at Merry and Pippin, "about Frodo." He took a deep breath. "There is something that we must discuss."

"What is it, Strider?" Pippin asked nervously.

"Well, Frodo will likely be suffering from the effects of his concussion for a day or two; namely, he will experience dizziness, nausea, and a terrible headache. But his injury has also presented another problem."

"What? Tell us!" Merry demanded. Pippin nodded his head rapidly in agreement. Sam remained perfectly still, though a muscle in his jaw twitched slightly.

Aragorn sighed heavily. "Such a powerful blow to the head is often known to cause amnesia, which is when a person, well, loses the whole or a part of his memory." He paused. "Frodo cannot remember us right now."

"What?" Pippin wailed. Aragorn was about to respond when he noticed the extreme pallor of Sam's face and realized that the hobbit was about to faint. He swiftly guided him to a chair.

"Breathe, Sam," he said softly. With an effort, the hobbit drew a few ragged breaths in and out and finally glanced up at Aragorn. His eyes were full of tears. The king hugged him tightly, resting his chin atop the hobbit's head.

Merry glared at Aragorn fiercely. "Why didn't you tell us something like this could happen?"

"Merry," Aragorn said patiently, "I did not know whether this would come to pass or not. There was no point in causing you further concern until I was certain."

"He will remember everything eventually, though. Of course he will. Won't he?" Pippin asked miserably.

Aragorn nodded at him. "I have great hopes that it is only a temporary problem and that he will recover quite soon. It is very rare for such memory loss to be permanent. Also," he said, glancing at the hobbit snuggled against his side, "he already remembers Sam. That is a good sign." Sam looked up at him in surprise, eyes shining with hope and an even deeper feeling that the king could not fully fathom.

Aragorn continued. "At the present, Frodo's mind is merely partaking of the weakness of his body. It is likely that both body and mind will mend together." He looked around at the wizard and hobbits. "He will probably not awaken again until the morning. By that time, Legolas and Gimli will have returned, so we will all go to the Houses of Healing together to…introduce ourselves." The king managed a weak smile. "We must be calm and supportive. Do not pressure him to recall anything, for he is both upset and confused." The others nodded.

The king pulled in a deep breath. "There is one final matter. We must not mention anything to him of the ring, or the Quest, or the Dark Lord. We must not."

"Why?" Pippin asked.

"As I said, he already feels terribly lost and bewildered. A sudden forced recollection of these evil memories may break his mind completely and drive him forever past the point of recovery. If he is to remember these things, he must do it in his own way and his own time." Aragorn looked down at his hands for a moment. "However, I believe that he yet retains many of these memories— at least subconsciously. When he woke—" the king swallowed, "When he woke, he was missing the ring terribly— though he didn't truly know what he was missing."

"Oh, Frodo," Merry whispered, tears filling his eyes. The others looked heartbroken as well.

"Why?" Sam asked quietly. The others looked at him. "Why'd this have to 'appen to him?" He glanced at the king, eyes full of a barely contained rage that almost frightened the man in its intensity. "It ain't right, Strider."

"No," Aragorn said softly. "No, it's not. Take heart though, Sam. Perhaps this unfortunate turn of events will lead to good for your master in the end. It may even bring him the emotional healing he needs so badly."

As the king continued to comfort the hobbits, he privately and despondently reflected on the grim situation. May my words to them only be proved true, he thought bleakly to himself.