There he was, Aragorn a strong man nearly dead on the floor. Panic struck upon Frodo as he flung on the rest of his clothes not caring what aches he had. Checking the pulse in AragornÂ’s neck: Hard to find but it was there, beating, beating: but slow.

Running out of the room, Frodo thanked the skies above that no one was around and ached his way off down a passage.

Sam with a beaming smile opened the door,
“Come on Sir, it is the ban” he stopped in his words and rushed to the rangerÂ’s side. Shaking the great man led on the floor he called out for help as seeing as now: Frodo had gone, sheets were thrown off and his clothes vanished, he hoped he hadn’t wished that it was not so.
AragornÂ’s eyes slowly opened as he coughed and spluttered his way to wakefulness.
“Strider, you’re alright”, Sam sitting him up and then helping him stand as he could tell Strider was trying to do so, hoped he wasn’t going to say what he feared.

At the banquet, Aragorn sat across from Arwen near the head of the table, unfortunately by Elrond. The scene that had happened earlier on that day only he and Sam knew about. He had the thought of Frodo in the back of his mind and thought he kept seeing that little hobbit tottering about, running here and there among the pillars, but all it was, was an image from his mind. Feet playing with ArwenÂ’s, Aragorn wished that Elrond would move knowing the disapprovement he had of them, how he longed for peace for them but no such hope would he have until Elrond left the shores.

Sitting quietly among Merry and Pippin, Sam tried to keep focus off of where Frodo was supposed to be sitting. He looked further up towards the table to where Aragorn was sitting and noticed the red finger bruises which had been left on his skin but no question was apparently asked about such things. The ranger had noticed too what Sam had seen and nodded to tell him of his viewings. What was Frodo doing or why was he doing what he was.