(no subject)
Disclaimer: Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make money off ‘em
Story Notes: This TLTW takes place a month and a half before Ellohir is born.
Frodo lay between Aragorn’s legs, resting against his chest. They were lying on a grassy patch beside the Anduin. They could see the distant Tower of Ecthelion gleaming in the sun, though they were far off the main road that led into the city. Nearby, Aragorn’s horse wandered within whistling distance, ate grass, and seemed content to relax in the early March sun. Aragorn’s hands rested on Frodo’s round belly and when Frodo released a deep sigh of contentment, the Man chuckled softly.
“Are you at last satiated?”
“That was delicious,” Frodo said with a smile. Not a scrap was left of the delicate sandwiches filled with cold meats and fresh herbs, fruit salads, mushrooms cooked in butter, small cakes with rich frosting. They had washed their cutlery and plates in the river, but they were letting them dry in the sun now, and they were perched rather precariously on various rocks and boulders near the river. “And thank you for taking me out of the city.” Frodo craned his neck around to meet Aragorn’s gaze.
“Um…” Aragorn closed his eyes. “My pleasure.”
“I mean it. You know I adore Minas Tirith, but sometimes the stones and steps and Big People everywhere, it all closes in and I just want to feel earth under my feet and grass between my toes.”
Aragorn opened his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was low. “You miss the Shire.”
“Yes.” Frodo sighed again, relieved that Aragorn understood, that he did not feel threatened by Frodo’s longing for his home. “I would dearly like to go back…to visit, that is.”
Aragorn rubbed Frodo’s round and taut belly. “I know. I promise we shall go after the baby is born.” He chuckled lightly. “It is high time I see to those small wooly-footed troublemakers under my rule.”
Frodo managed a small laugh, but a sharp and sudden melancholy had fallen over him. The sun slipped behind a small cloud, and the air chilled. Aragorn continued to massage Frodo’s belly.
“Perhaps I shall never see the Shire again.”
Aragorn’s hands stopped moving. “Do not speak of such things.”
“Aragorn…” Frodo eased himself up and turned fully to face Aragorn. “It is a valid concern. If I do not survive-“
“Hush!” Aragorn’s fingers dug into Frodo’s belly, unknowingly digging deep and hard.
“Please…” Frodo’s throat filled and though the sun had come out again, he could not believe how quickly his previously fine mood had deteriorated. Images assailed him -- the green Shire, Bag End, Sam planting flowers, joyous hobbit children chasing butterflies. Then an image came to him of a small boy with furry hobbit feet wandering around the cold stone corridors of the Citadel, lost or frightened. A group of cruel human boys laughed at his feet…he was nearly run down by a pair of hurrying guards…Aragorn brushed by him with barely a word, so hurried was he in his duties.
“Frodo, I will not listen to nonsense.”
“If I am not here, I want him to live in the Shire.”
“It will not come to that,” Aragorn said, hastily kissing Frodo’s ear. He then forced a smile. “Do you still believe it will be a boy?”
Frodo did not smile back, and he kept his voice stern. “Promise me. I know he will be the heir to Gondor, but there will be time enough to tutor him later. Let him spend his early youth in a place where he will be loved by many.”
“I would promise you anything. But you should know that it will not come to this. He will go to the Shire indeed, but you shall be with him, and it shall be only a visit, as I could not bear to be separated from you for long.”
Frodo sighed, turning again so that he could sink into Aragorn’s arms. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“But it will not come to that,” Aragorn repeated. In the distance, the sun again caught the Tower, and it sparkled in the sun.