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Frodo's eyes flickered, and he groaned. There was color in his cheeks. Aragorn had fought his fiercest battle in bringing Frodo back, had battled the yellow-sick tint of Frodo's face that signaled impending death, had battled the labored breathing that threatened always to give out, had sung to him, bathed his wounds, called ever to the faint light that flickered in his heart.
Frodo's eyes opened, and he looked around the room, confused. Gandalf waited, afraid to breathe. Long ago in Bag End Frodo had demanded why Gandalf did not force him to destroy the Ring, and Gandalf had answered that it would break his mind. Was his mind broken? Aragorn had healed his body -- but only now would they know if Frodo's mind had escaped unscathed.
Frodo fixed his gaze on Gandalf, and his eyes were clear and blue like the sky above the White City now cleared of Mordor's noxious clouds. He looked incredulous and he whispered, "Gandalf!" Gandalf released his breath with relief. Frodo began to laugh -- and it was like merry music, just as it had been when he had run to the road to greet Gandalf just before Bilbo's one hundred and eleventh birthday party, before the Ring had ever fallen into his hands. Gandalf could never resist the music of Frodo's laughter, and before long they laughed in duet as they had always done as long as they had known one another.
Gandalf's heart told him that Frodo would not be long for Middle-earth, but as long as there was laughter, there could be a sort of healing.