(no subject)
Title: Ranger From the North
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: R (mild)
Summary: In the autumn after Bilbo leaves, Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk. Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.
Halbarad in The Return of the King
Chapter 5
By the time Frodo reached Bag End, twilight had fallen over Hobbiton. The gate creaked as he swung it open, and his heart lifted to see Sam’s shadowy figure bent over still in the garden, trimming the grass.
“Sam,” Frodo called out quietly.
Sam jumped, startled, and then stumbled to his feet, dropping his shears.
“Where have you been, Mr. Frodo? I was getting worried.”
“I’m sorry you worried, Sam.” Frodo climbed the path to the front door, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed. “I am all right.”
Sam followed him inside, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches. He stomped his feet to rid his feet of any dirt that might have gotten caught in the curls of his foot hair. “Can I get you some tea? My, there’s a chill coming in - you didn’t sleep in the woods last night, with naught on but your cloak, did you?”
Sam looked so concerned that Frodo could not help but burst into laughter. When Sam’s face clouded with hurt, his smile faded. “No, Sam.” Frodo thought back to the night before, about how far from cold he had been, with Halbarad’s arms tightly fixed around him. His cheeks heated. “And tea sounds mighty fine.”
“Well.” Sam’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “I just hope you didn’t catch a chill.” He set to work lighting a fire in the hearth. Frodo rubbed his hands near the snapping flames. A nostalgic ache filled his throat. How he longed to go back in time, when he was sitting on a fur rug, warm and secure, fire surging through his blood, with the attentive gaze of the Ranger on him.
Frodo had awakened that morning to an empty cottage. There had been no note, no sign that the night before had even occurred. But for the oversized tunic that he had slept in, it may have been a dream.
Frodo took off his cloak, letting it drop to the floor with a silent promise to hang it up when he went to bed, and sank into his favorite chair.
Sam returned with tea, a sandwich, and Frodo’s pipe. “I thought you might want this, sir. You look right weary.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Frodo gratefully accepted the pipe. “Will you not stay for tea?”
Sam shook his head regretfully. “No, sir. Ma’s expecting me home for supper. She’ll be relieved to know you’re all right.”
Frodo smiled. “Then go on home.”
“Are you sure you won’t be needing anything else?”
Frodo shook his head and closed his eyes until he heard the light patter of Sam leaving the room, followed by the closing of the door with a gentle click. The fire had built to a pleasant, warming roar. Frodo inhaled deeply from his pipe and attempted to blow a smoke ring. Bilbo had been so patient, laboring on many a summer eve in an effort to teach him how - it was a matter of twisting his tongue in just the right way - but he had so far not caught on. Tea, a pipe, and a roaring fire - all that he lacked was someone with whom he could laugh and share tales.
If Halbarad were here, Frodo would lead him to the oversized chair that Gandalf used whenever he visited. His long, muscled legs would stretch out over the ottoman. Frodo would pull off his worn boots and Halbarad would let out a contented sigh.
Ah, men had such rugged features - grizzled faces, long powerful fingers. And then -- what couldn’t those hands do! Frodo imagined dangerous hands - rough and coarse from wielding swords - groping him under his clothing and over his bare stomach, fingers tweaking his nipples, pinching them until he gasped in the most pleasurable of pain. Hot breath would herald the ravishing of his neck by untamed lips, even less trained in kissing than laughing.
Frodo clenched his teeth, sucking in a hissing breath as he hardened. His trembling hand drifted inside his breeches to encircle himself. He stared at the ceiling, letting out hurried gasps as he rubbed his length with frantic need. Halbarad’s formidable stare burned in his mind and he pictured him suddenly kneeling before him and ripping his shirt open with and ravaging his pale neck skin before kissing him until his lips were swollen and he could not breathe. Then he would fall on him, all his heavy, muscled weight, crushing him without hurting him, filling him so deep and hard that the craving for more would cause tears to roll down his cheeks.
Frodo gave a final gasp and withdrew his hand, now wet with sticky warmth. For a long moment he could not move at all. He lay panting, still feeling Halbarad’s lips on his with such vividness that his lips tingled.
At last he reached for his pack and took out the forest-green tunic that Halbarad had given him. He held the soft fabric to his nose, taking in a deep sniff, reveling in the rugged scents of leather, pipeweed, faint perspiration, and under that, a distant scent of lemon.
Frodo had to find him again.
Surely if he wandered to the same part of the woods in which he had nearly drowned, he had at least a small chance of running into Halbarad again. Or he could return to the lodge. His cheeks heated at the thought. But what in the world could he offer as an excuse for his presence?
He froze, clutching the already beloved fabric. Why of course - he would simply use returning the tunic as an excuse. Perhaps Halbarad would think it odd that Frodo had not left the tunic there after his own clothing had dried, but perhaps, if Halbarad were as unhappy and lonely as he appeared, perhaps it would cease to matter.
Of course there was always the danger that Halbarad had gone away, perhaps for a long journey, perhaps even for good. Frodo could not account for walking all that way every day until he just happened to run into him. And however would he explain it to Sam, who would certainly relate it to Merry and Pippin? His dear cousins would only murmur to each other about how restless Frodo had grown since Bilbo’s departure and they would meddle in his affairs all the more.
And by all means, he could never, ever allow his cousins to catch wind of what Frodo wished would happen between himself and the Ranger in that dingy cottage in the woods.
***
Halbarad strode through the woods, nearly silent on his worn boots. He was a mute shadow in his browns and greens among the warm autumn red, amber, and orange leaves shrubbery. His feet crunched on broken twigs and his ears were tuned into every thud his feet made on the dirt path. The halfling had spoken the truth. Halbarad had believed in his stealth for so long that he had never truly listened to himself. Tiny forest creatures scuttled out of his path. Squirrels rushed up trees, birds fluttered away, and moles darted into holes under dead leaves. He felt the woods shudder under his enormous strides. It was no wonder he had never met one of the Shire-folk before Frodo.
And now he could not rid his mind of Frodo’s smile and his exquisite blue eyes, which held in them mischievous promise and innocence all at once. He had laughed last night for the first time in many years. Then after the halfling had fallen asleep, nuzzled in his arms, he had nearly wept. Never in recent years had he realized how he longed for friendly banter and laughter. Nearly twenty years had passed since his beloved Gilwen had died in a long and agonizing childbirth that had left both mother and son dead. He had not realized how thick and enduring were the thick clouds that pressed in on his heart.
TBC
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: R (mild)
Summary: In the autumn after Bilbo leaves, Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk. Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.
Halbarad in The Return of the King
Chapter 5
By the time Frodo reached Bag End, twilight had fallen over Hobbiton. The gate creaked as he swung it open, and his heart lifted to see Sam’s shadowy figure bent over still in the garden, trimming the grass.
“Sam,” Frodo called out quietly.
Sam jumped, startled, and then stumbled to his feet, dropping his shears.
“Where have you been, Mr. Frodo? I was getting worried.”
“I’m sorry you worried, Sam.” Frodo climbed the path to the front door, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed. “I am all right.”
Sam followed him inside, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches. He stomped his feet to rid his feet of any dirt that might have gotten caught in the curls of his foot hair. “Can I get you some tea? My, there’s a chill coming in - you didn’t sleep in the woods last night, with naught on but your cloak, did you?”
Sam looked so concerned that Frodo could not help but burst into laughter. When Sam’s face clouded with hurt, his smile faded. “No, Sam.” Frodo thought back to the night before, about how far from cold he had been, with Halbarad’s arms tightly fixed around him. His cheeks heated. “And tea sounds mighty fine.”
“Well.” Sam’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “I just hope you didn’t catch a chill.” He set to work lighting a fire in the hearth. Frodo rubbed his hands near the snapping flames. A nostalgic ache filled his throat. How he longed to go back in time, when he was sitting on a fur rug, warm and secure, fire surging through his blood, with the attentive gaze of the Ranger on him.
Frodo had awakened that morning to an empty cottage. There had been no note, no sign that the night before had even occurred. But for the oversized tunic that he had slept in, it may have been a dream.
Frodo took off his cloak, letting it drop to the floor with a silent promise to hang it up when he went to bed, and sank into his favorite chair.
Sam returned with tea, a sandwich, and Frodo’s pipe. “I thought you might want this, sir. You look right weary.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Frodo gratefully accepted the pipe. “Will you not stay for tea?”
Sam shook his head regretfully. “No, sir. Ma’s expecting me home for supper. She’ll be relieved to know you’re all right.”
Frodo smiled. “Then go on home.”
“Are you sure you won’t be needing anything else?”
Frodo shook his head and closed his eyes until he heard the light patter of Sam leaving the room, followed by the closing of the door with a gentle click. The fire had built to a pleasant, warming roar. Frodo inhaled deeply from his pipe and attempted to blow a smoke ring. Bilbo had been so patient, laboring on many a summer eve in an effort to teach him how - it was a matter of twisting his tongue in just the right way - but he had so far not caught on. Tea, a pipe, and a roaring fire - all that he lacked was someone with whom he could laugh and share tales.
If Halbarad were here, Frodo would lead him to the oversized chair that Gandalf used whenever he visited. His long, muscled legs would stretch out over the ottoman. Frodo would pull off his worn boots and Halbarad would let out a contented sigh.
Ah, men had such rugged features - grizzled faces, long powerful fingers. And then -- what couldn’t those hands do! Frodo imagined dangerous hands - rough and coarse from wielding swords - groping him under his clothing and over his bare stomach, fingers tweaking his nipples, pinching them until he gasped in the most pleasurable of pain. Hot breath would herald the ravishing of his neck by untamed lips, even less trained in kissing than laughing.
Frodo clenched his teeth, sucking in a hissing breath as he hardened. His trembling hand drifted inside his breeches to encircle himself. He stared at the ceiling, letting out hurried gasps as he rubbed his length with frantic need. Halbarad’s formidable stare burned in his mind and he pictured him suddenly kneeling before him and ripping his shirt open with and ravaging his pale neck skin before kissing him until his lips were swollen and he could not breathe. Then he would fall on him, all his heavy, muscled weight, crushing him without hurting him, filling him so deep and hard that the craving for more would cause tears to roll down his cheeks.
Frodo gave a final gasp and withdrew his hand, now wet with sticky warmth. For a long moment he could not move at all. He lay panting, still feeling Halbarad’s lips on his with such vividness that his lips tingled.
At last he reached for his pack and took out the forest-green tunic that Halbarad had given him. He held the soft fabric to his nose, taking in a deep sniff, reveling in the rugged scents of leather, pipeweed, faint perspiration, and under that, a distant scent of lemon.
Frodo had to find him again.
Surely if he wandered to the same part of the woods in which he had nearly drowned, he had at least a small chance of running into Halbarad again. Or he could return to the lodge. His cheeks heated at the thought. But what in the world could he offer as an excuse for his presence?
He froze, clutching the already beloved fabric. Why of course - he would simply use returning the tunic as an excuse. Perhaps Halbarad would think it odd that Frodo had not left the tunic there after his own clothing had dried, but perhaps, if Halbarad were as unhappy and lonely as he appeared, perhaps it would cease to matter.
Of course there was always the danger that Halbarad had gone away, perhaps for a long journey, perhaps even for good. Frodo could not account for walking all that way every day until he just happened to run into him. And however would he explain it to Sam, who would certainly relate it to Merry and Pippin? His dear cousins would only murmur to each other about how restless Frodo had grown since Bilbo’s departure and they would meddle in his affairs all the more.
And by all means, he could never, ever allow his cousins to catch wind of what Frodo wished would happen between himself and the Ranger in that dingy cottage in the woods.
***
Halbarad strode through the woods, nearly silent on his worn boots. He was a mute shadow in his browns and greens among the warm autumn red, amber, and orange leaves shrubbery. His feet crunched on broken twigs and his ears were tuned into every thud his feet made on the dirt path. The halfling had spoken the truth. Halbarad had believed in his stealth for so long that he had never truly listened to himself. Tiny forest creatures scuttled out of his path. Squirrels rushed up trees, birds fluttered away, and moles darted into holes under dead leaves. He felt the woods shudder under his enormous strides. It was no wonder he had never met one of the Shire-folk before Frodo.
And now he could not rid his mind of Frodo’s smile and his exquisite blue eyes, which held in them mischievous promise and innocence all at once. He had laughed last night for the first time in many years. Then after the halfling had fallen asleep, nuzzled in his arms, he had nearly wept. Never in recent years had he realized how he longed for friendly banter and laughter. Nearly twenty years had passed since his beloved Gilwen had died in a long and agonizing childbirth that had left both mother and son dead. He had not realized how thick and enduring were the thick clouds that pressed in on his heart.
TBC