Heart's Journey 4
Title: Heart’s Journey 4
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: varies, this chapter rated PG13
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn romance on the quest. For Alchemilla…;-), who said she enjoyed a lot of UST with her F/A…:-)
The earth squished between the hobbits’ toes, and it wasn’t long before they found themselves following Strider into a bog. Newly irritating insects buzzed around them, nipping their bare skin. The air was so humid and rank that Frodo’s sleeves clung unpleasantly to his arms like a second, slimy skin. He longed to pull off his jacket, but he did not dare set his backpack down in the swamp. Far ahead, Strider treaded through the mire as if it bothered him not at all. Of course, not only did he did have boots, which offered him at least some protection, but his height was a clear advantage in the deeper puddles of muck.
Frodo wondered if Strider would be moved to help Frodo clean his feet at nightfall. They would surely be filthy enough by day’s end. He smiled a bit as his thoughts drifted to Strider’s large but gentle hands, massaging his feet and gently plucking burrs from his hair. Those same hands were callused from gripping his sword with such force, from wandering for years in the wild, from surviving alone with no home.
Merry waved a cloud of little flies out of his face and nodded to Frodo. “I’m beginning to think it might have been better to risk Riders on the road.”
“I don’t wonder,” Frodo said, glancing at Strider. That morning before they had set off, Strider had scarcely looked at him. He had been brisk and grim, and he seemed more anxious than ever to press on.
Flies continued to buzz around them in a miserable haze, the gloom pressed in, and the humid, rank air choked them and sent dribbles of sweat down their faces. A swarm of midges had crawled under his sleeves and behind his neck, nipping and itching. Frodo’s skin became raw from slapping at them.
“What do they live on when they can’t get hobbit?” Sam asked with a scowl, scratching the back of his neck.
That night, their camp area was damp and miserable and they could not get a fire going. An irritating chorus of insects shattered their last nerves until Sam gritted his teeth and put his hands over his ears. “Neek-breek, neek-breek…Neekerbreekers, that’s what I’d call them.”
“They don’t need your help, Sam,” Merry said, his voice unusually sullen.
The hobbits sank into a nearly silent gloom. The insects squeaked on…neek-breek, breek-neek, neek-breek…Now that Sam had pointed out their sound, Frodo could not seem to ignore them. He pressed his hands against his ears, digging his toes into the soft ground. He wished someone, Pippin perhaps, would break into merry song, but he was not inclined to do so himself. Pippin pulled the hood of his cloak over his face and hunched forward with a frustrated grunt. Merry threw a stone toward a tuft of reeds from whence a particularly loud chorus of the Neekerbreekers sounded. It missed the mark.
They shivered miserably, unable to say much of anything. Only Strider looked unruffled. He sat on a stone, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, staring into the distance in contemplation.
When the moon was high in the sky, Strider spoke the grim silence. “If I were you, I should climb inside your bed rolls. Even if your clothes are damp, the heat of your body will keep you warm as long as you stay inside.”
Frodo was too miserable to answer or to follow Strider’s advice. He shivered from head to toe, clutching his cloak to him. He managed a small smile, wondering what it would be like to slip inside Aragorn’s bedroll with him, pressing against his expansive chest. He was certain it would be toasty warm in his arms.
“To come to the end of a day like this and have nothing warm to eat.” Pippin sighed pitifully. Frodo agreed. The dried fruit had barely been enough to feed one of the Neekerbreekers. His stomach growled.
“We should have but one more day of journey through the marsh,” Strider answered. His eyes darkened as he scanned the horizon. “At any rate, this is our best chance of taking the Riders off our trail.”
While the others took out their bedrolls, Frodo began to unbutton his cloak, but Strider grabbed his shoulder. “Leave it on.”
Frodo’s shoulder tingled under Strider’s touch, but he shook his head. “It will be warm inside the bedroll and I would rather not wear my cloak out with unnecessary use.”
“You’ll need it to ward off the damp chill.”
Frodo held his gaze as he took off his cloak. “I will be all right.” He shivered as the thought passed through him that if Strider so desired, he could force the cloak back on him. He imagined rough hands yanking the cloak around his shoulders and frantic fumbling at the button, his fingers brushing against Frodo’s soft throat. His eyes would gleam with dangerous triumph. Frodo’s groin warmed.
Instead, Strider shrugged and moved away to unpack his own bedroll. Frodo stood for several moments, watching him with quickened breath, until someone grabbed his elbow. He startled, nearly losing his balance.
“Sorry, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, steadying Frodo so that he did not tumble to the ground. “I was wondering if you’d be needing anything before sleep. I don’t know how I’ll sleep a wink tonight with the Neekerbreekers and all, but I’d like to try.”
“Oh…” Frodo flushed. He hoped that Sam hadn’t noticed his dazed stare in Strider’s direction. He managed a weary smile. “No, Sam. I don’t need anything. And we should all try to sleep the best we can.”
When Frodo crawled into his bedroll, he thrust his hand into his breeches, biting back his shuddering breaths. He stroked up and down his slick member, first with slow, careful caresses and then moving faster with growing urgency. He imagined big, rough hands on him, clutching him, groping, ripping his shirt open, slipping under his clothing and into his breeches, everything with a dangerous smile. Frodo smothered his gasps as he hovered close to the edge and then plummeted over it, leaving his hand sticky-wet.
The next morning, they set off early, trekking over the treacherously uneven swamp. Nobody had gotten enough sleep, and although Strider had promised just one more full day of the marshes, they seemed to stretch on forever. When Pippin tripped and fell, nobody thought much of it. He clutched his ankle, but he stumbled back to his feet, waving them all to move on. For one hopeful moment, the sun peeked from behind a thick clump of clouds. Perhaps Strider was right in that they might soon pass out of this gloom of heavy air and midges.
Frodo looked back several moments later to see that Pippin and Merry had slipped far behind. Pippin leaned against Merry, limping in obvious pain.
“Strider!” Frodo called. Strider stopped and looked back, his face impassive. “Pippin is hurt. We must stop.”
Strider turned and walked briskly to meet Merry and Pippin. “Here, lad,” he said in a gentle voice. He put a steady arm around Pippin’s shoulders and led him to a large rock. “Have a seat here and let me take a look at your ankle.”
He examined it, moved it gently from side to side, which emitted a slight hiss of pain from Pippin, who was trying so hard to be brave. “It’s not broken,” Strider said, standing. “You’ll have to carry on the best you can and rest it well tonight."
“We can’t go on,” Frodo said, glancing wildly from Pippin to Strider. “He needs rest.”
“It’s all right,” Pippin said, rising to his feet. “I don’t want to slow us down. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You won’t,” Frodo said, taking his own pack from his shoulders and setting it down on the ground beside Pippin’s rock. “Because we are taking a rest. Sit down, Pippin. Sam, help him keep his foot off the ground. He needs to keep it raised.”
Merry and Sam looked from Frodo to Strider.
“Go on, Sam,” Frodo said in a rare stern tone.
“Yes, sir,” Sam said and moved to help Pippin with his foot.
Strider walked to Frodo with frightening swiftness and grabbed his shoulders. “This is no hobbit walking party where ale and food fix all ills at the end of the day. We must walk on.”
Frodo’s heart thudded, and he did not wince as Strider’s fingers dug hard into his arms. He kept his voice steady. “You go on then. We will manage. I have a map.” His heart sped until he could scarcely breathe. If Strider did leave them, they would be in a mess, because although he did indeed have a map, he still had little idea of where they were in the marshes and how best to exit them and where to go afterwards.
“Now see here,” Sam said, drawing his little sword and waving it at Strider. “You let go of him now --”
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Frodo said. He brought his fists straight up and thrust his arms outward, knocking against the inside of Strider’s forearms, thus releasing himself from his grip. Strider stumbled back in surprise.
Frodo gave him a last withering look before plopping down on the rock beside Pippin. Strider dropped his pack on the ground, his anger barely contained behind his impassive mask.
TBC
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: varies, this chapter rated PG13
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn romance on the quest. For Alchemilla…;-), who said she enjoyed a lot of UST with her F/A…:-)
The earth squished between the hobbits’ toes, and it wasn’t long before they found themselves following Strider into a bog. Newly irritating insects buzzed around them, nipping their bare skin. The air was so humid and rank that Frodo’s sleeves clung unpleasantly to his arms like a second, slimy skin. He longed to pull off his jacket, but he did not dare set his backpack down in the swamp. Far ahead, Strider treaded through the mire as if it bothered him not at all. Of course, not only did he did have boots, which offered him at least some protection, but his height was a clear advantage in the deeper puddles of muck.
Frodo wondered if Strider would be moved to help Frodo clean his feet at nightfall. They would surely be filthy enough by day’s end. He smiled a bit as his thoughts drifted to Strider’s large but gentle hands, massaging his feet and gently plucking burrs from his hair. Those same hands were callused from gripping his sword with such force, from wandering for years in the wild, from surviving alone with no home.
Merry waved a cloud of little flies out of his face and nodded to Frodo. “I’m beginning to think it might have been better to risk Riders on the road.”
“I don’t wonder,” Frodo said, glancing at Strider. That morning before they had set off, Strider had scarcely looked at him. He had been brisk and grim, and he seemed more anxious than ever to press on.
Flies continued to buzz around them in a miserable haze, the gloom pressed in, and the humid, rank air choked them and sent dribbles of sweat down their faces. A swarm of midges had crawled under his sleeves and behind his neck, nipping and itching. Frodo’s skin became raw from slapping at them.
“What do they live on when they can’t get hobbit?” Sam asked with a scowl, scratching the back of his neck.
That night, their camp area was damp and miserable and they could not get a fire going. An irritating chorus of insects shattered their last nerves until Sam gritted his teeth and put his hands over his ears. “Neek-breek, neek-breek…Neekerbreekers, that’s what I’d call them.”
“They don’t need your help, Sam,” Merry said, his voice unusually sullen.
The hobbits sank into a nearly silent gloom. The insects squeaked on…neek-breek, breek-neek, neek-breek…Now that Sam had pointed out their sound, Frodo could not seem to ignore them. He pressed his hands against his ears, digging his toes into the soft ground. He wished someone, Pippin perhaps, would break into merry song, but he was not inclined to do so himself. Pippin pulled the hood of his cloak over his face and hunched forward with a frustrated grunt. Merry threw a stone toward a tuft of reeds from whence a particularly loud chorus of the Neekerbreekers sounded. It missed the mark.
They shivered miserably, unable to say much of anything. Only Strider looked unruffled. He sat on a stone, the hood of his cloak pulled over his head, staring into the distance in contemplation.
When the moon was high in the sky, Strider spoke the grim silence. “If I were you, I should climb inside your bed rolls. Even if your clothes are damp, the heat of your body will keep you warm as long as you stay inside.”
Frodo was too miserable to answer or to follow Strider’s advice. He shivered from head to toe, clutching his cloak to him. He managed a small smile, wondering what it would be like to slip inside Aragorn’s bedroll with him, pressing against his expansive chest. He was certain it would be toasty warm in his arms.
“To come to the end of a day like this and have nothing warm to eat.” Pippin sighed pitifully. Frodo agreed. The dried fruit had barely been enough to feed one of the Neekerbreekers. His stomach growled.
“We should have but one more day of journey through the marsh,” Strider answered. His eyes darkened as he scanned the horizon. “At any rate, this is our best chance of taking the Riders off our trail.”
While the others took out their bedrolls, Frodo began to unbutton his cloak, but Strider grabbed his shoulder. “Leave it on.”
Frodo’s shoulder tingled under Strider’s touch, but he shook his head. “It will be warm inside the bedroll and I would rather not wear my cloak out with unnecessary use.”
“You’ll need it to ward off the damp chill.”
Frodo held his gaze as he took off his cloak. “I will be all right.” He shivered as the thought passed through him that if Strider so desired, he could force the cloak back on him. He imagined rough hands yanking the cloak around his shoulders and frantic fumbling at the button, his fingers brushing against Frodo’s soft throat. His eyes would gleam with dangerous triumph. Frodo’s groin warmed.
Instead, Strider shrugged and moved away to unpack his own bedroll. Frodo stood for several moments, watching him with quickened breath, until someone grabbed his elbow. He startled, nearly losing his balance.
“Sorry, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, steadying Frodo so that he did not tumble to the ground. “I was wondering if you’d be needing anything before sleep. I don’t know how I’ll sleep a wink tonight with the Neekerbreekers and all, but I’d like to try.”
“Oh…” Frodo flushed. He hoped that Sam hadn’t noticed his dazed stare in Strider’s direction. He managed a weary smile. “No, Sam. I don’t need anything. And we should all try to sleep the best we can.”
When Frodo crawled into his bedroll, he thrust his hand into his breeches, biting back his shuddering breaths. He stroked up and down his slick member, first with slow, careful caresses and then moving faster with growing urgency. He imagined big, rough hands on him, clutching him, groping, ripping his shirt open, slipping under his clothing and into his breeches, everything with a dangerous smile. Frodo smothered his gasps as he hovered close to the edge and then plummeted over it, leaving his hand sticky-wet.
The next morning, they set off early, trekking over the treacherously uneven swamp. Nobody had gotten enough sleep, and although Strider had promised just one more full day of the marshes, they seemed to stretch on forever. When Pippin tripped and fell, nobody thought much of it. He clutched his ankle, but he stumbled back to his feet, waving them all to move on. For one hopeful moment, the sun peeked from behind a thick clump of clouds. Perhaps Strider was right in that they might soon pass out of this gloom of heavy air and midges.
Frodo looked back several moments later to see that Pippin and Merry had slipped far behind. Pippin leaned against Merry, limping in obvious pain.
“Strider!” Frodo called. Strider stopped and looked back, his face impassive. “Pippin is hurt. We must stop.”
Strider turned and walked briskly to meet Merry and Pippin. “Here, lad,” he said in a gentle voice. He put a steady arm around Pippin’s shoulders and led him to a large rock. “Have a seat here and let me take a look at your ankle.”
He examined it, moved it gently from side to side, which emitted a slight hiss of pain from Pippin, who was trying so hard to be brave. “It’s not broken,” Strider said, standing. “You’ll have to carry on the best you can and rest it well tonight."
“We can’t go on,” Frodo said, glancing wildly from Pippin to Strider. “He needs rest.”
“It’s all right,” Pippin said, rising to his feet. “I don’t want to slow us down. I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You won’t,” Frodo said, taking his own pack from his shoulders and setting it down on the ground beside Pippin’s rock. “Because we are taking a rest. Sit down, Pippin. Sam, help him keep his foot off the ground. He needs to keep it raised.”
Merry and Sam looked from Frodo to Strider.
“Go on, Sam,” Frodo said in a rare stern tone.
“Yes, sir,” Sam said and moved to help Pippin with his foot.
Strider walked to Frodo with frightening swiftness and grabbed his shoulders. “This is no hobbit walking party where ale and food fix all ills at the end of the day. We must walk on.”
Frodo’s heart thudded, and he did not wince as Strider’s fingers dug hard into his arms. He kept his voice steady. “You go on then. We will manage. I have a map.” His heart sped until he could scarcely breathe. If Strider did leave them, they would be in a mess, because although he did indeed have a map, he still had little idea of where they were in the marshes and how best to exit them and where to go afterwards.
“Now see here,” Sam said, drawing his little sword and waving it at Strider. “You let go of him now --”
“Don’t worry, Sam,” Frodo said. He brought his fists straight up and thrust his arms outward, knocking against the inside of Strider’s forearms, thus releasing himself from his grip. Strider stumbled back in surprise.
Frodo gave him a last withering look before plopping down on the rock beside Pippin. Strider dropped his pack on the ground, his anger barely contained behind his impassive mask.
TBC