Heart's Journey, 1/?, Frodo/Aragorn, PG
Title: Heart’s Journey
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: varies
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn romance on the quest. For Alchemilla…;-)
Thanks, trianne for some beta work!
Frodo hunched his shoulders forward, and he had already inched as far forward as he could to the edge of the hard wooden bench. He kept his gaze into his mug of ale, keeping his eyes averted from the throngs of boisterous Big People in the Common Room. It seemed rather foolish to try to make himself smaller than he already was. Most men of Bree were familiar with hobbits, lived among them, but few had encountered hobbits from the Shire, and so already Frodo and his friends had attracted more attention than Frodo would have liked.
Months ago, during Gandalf’s last visit, Frodo had taken Gandalf’s warning to leave behind the name of Baggins too lightly. Now, it seemed an unwieldy responsibility, in which a slip of the tongue from him or any of his young friends could bring deadly consequences. With every suspicious, leering glance in their direction, Frodo grew more uncomfortable. He now wished they had stayed in their room.
Frodo met Sam’s glowering gaze, and he saw his own discomfort mirrored there. Sam was more fearful of the Big People than Frodo. These men of Bree, ordinary woodcutters and bakers and tailors - they were not the Enemy, and Frodo knew this. He did not fear that any of them would reach down his shirt and yank the Ring from its chain. He did not fear that the Black Riders would be welcomed at the Prancing Pony. No - it was their awe-striking size, against which Frodo felt so powerless. As soon as Frodo and his friends had entered this grim, rainy village with its enormous sharp-angled cottages and buildings - some of them over one story high, he had felt shrunken and ineffectual, utterly at the mercy of the kindness of strangers.
Pippin and Merry had adapted quickly and were quite happy to sit at the bar and chat with anyone who talked to them. Frodo only hoped that they knew when to stop the flapping of their tongues.
Gandalf will be here, Frodo had earlier told Sam, more to give himself comfort than anything, but as the evening passed, he had a sinking feeling that if Gandalf was not here now, that something dreadful had happened to delay him. Anything that could delay a wizard must be abominable indeed, and fear clutched at Frodo’s heart. He forced his thoughts away from it, for it would do him little good. He needed a clear heart and mind. He had maps with him, and although he yearned for Gandalf’s protection and guidance, he vowed to get his young friends safely to Rivendell.
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispered, keeping his head ducked low. Frodo followed his eyes to the back corner, where the stranger continued to stare at them. Gleaming black eyes were bent on them from under the hood of a worn forest-green cloak. Unlike most of the men in the inn, he was silent and subdued, and he seemed to prefer to sit alone, smoking a curved pipe, which glowed orange while smoke danced about his shadowed face. He was not short and thick, like the other men. His legs were long, and he wore leather boots covered in mud.
Butterbur waddled in their direction, and Frodo reached out, stopping him by grabbing his tunic. Butterbur leaned down, and he seemed somewhat put out that he had been interrupted.
“Yes? Can I get you hobbits anything more?”
“That stranger in the corner? Who is he?” Frodo whispered.
Butterbur cast a fearful glance toward the hooded stranger. “Oh…he’s one of them Rangers. Dangerous folks they are, wandering the wild. What his right name is, I don’t know. But around here we call him Strider.” He nodded and then leaned in, as if he were going to tell them a secret. “Coming from the Shire and all, you’ll not be knowing who to trust, but I would suggest you not have anything to do with that one.”
“Thank you,” Frodo said faintly as Butterbur bustled away again. He felt more disquiet than before. A Ranger. Frodo had a vague memory of Gandalf or perhaps Bilbo telling him about a mysterious people who could sometimes be seen wandering on the edge of the Shire. Gandalf had not warned against them, but he had said that the Enemy could come in many guises. Frodo could not imagine what business a Ranger of the Big Folk would have with a Shire hobbit. He fidgeted, casting restless glances back toward the Ranger, who continued to stare. Frodo’s natural tendency was not to be shy, and he was beginning just a little to recover from his shock of encountering so many people who towered over him. He considered walking across the room and demanding to know why this stranger kept his eyes on him all night. But Butterbur had said he was dangerous. Might he harm one so much smaller for sport - or to teach a lesson? If so, would any of the decent folk in the inn come to his aid - or were they all afraid of this grim stranger? Nobody had spoken to him at any rate.
The Ranger’s burning gaze made him suddenly and fiercely protective of the Ring. He had to hold it, to prove that it was still his, that he possessed it when nobody else could. It was his, all his, and nobody could take it from him. He wrapped his fingers around it, releasing a shuddering sigh. Everything was right when he held it. Nothing mattered - not the Big People, not this Ranger, not Gandalf’s absence, and not the dangers they had faced so far on the road. All was right.
Baggins
He would feel even better if he could put it on. The itch would be relieved if he could just slide it over his finger. Gandalf had warned him not to, but he had not anticipated that Frodo would be alone in such a rough situation. Surely he would have wanted Frodo to use it for his protection. The fit would be warm and slippery, and of course it would have the added benefit of making him invisible to the prying eyes of this Ranger. Frodo nearly laughed, imagining how shocked the Ranger would be to see a hobbit disappear before his eyes.
“Frodo Baggins! He’s my cousin right there-“
Frodo had nearly forgotten about the young Took, and when he heard his true name, he turned in horror to find Pippin cheerfully chattering away to about two or three men. The men gathered around him, hanging onto his every word, casting looks of amused scorn in Frodo’s direction. Frodo did not think; he stumbled to his feet and pushed his way through the hostile crowd.
“Pippin,” he cried, but before he could grab his errant cousin and shuttle him out of the Common Room, he stumbled over a boot and found himself tumbling backwards, the Ring that he had clutched in his fingers with such care, flying into the air.
***
Ripping it from his finger extinguished the fire and cruel laughter, but before he could take in one shaky breath, he had been lifted and slammed against a wall. The grim Ranger stooped over him, his face dark with rage, saying something about him attracting attention to himself. Before Frodo could catch his breath to reply, he was twisted around and flung up the stairs as if he weighed nothing at all. Nobody had come to his aid, and he expected nobody would. After all, these same men had laughed as he stumbled and fell backwards when any number of them could have reached out an arm to keep him from hitting the floor.
The Ranger opened a door and pushed Frodo to the floor. Frodo shielded his head, expecting to hit the far wall, but he landed just shy of it. A buzzing, trembling energy filled his limbs, and his mouth dried. He barely felt himself leap to his feet and spin to face his much larger and armed attacker. He had no weapon of his own, and even if he did, he was no match for this grim stranger. He hoped that his young friends would get help and would not put themselves in danger to try to save him. Frodo was certain this man could slay them all in seconds.
Frodo reached for the poker by the fireplace and held it outward. He was ashamed that his hand trembled so fiercely that he could not hold it steady. “What do you want?”
“Put down your weapon,” Strider said with a brief and grim smile. “I am not here to harm you. I want a little more caution from you is all. That is no trinket you carry.”
Frodo’s heart sank deep inside. The Ranger had seen the Ring as it had flown up in the air when Frodo fell. Now this rascal would rob him, and there would be nothing he could do about it. And all because of his foolishness. What had made him take it in his hands in the first place? He had thought he was protecting it, but perhaps it had been the Ring itself that had willed it so. Frodo felt sick with betrayal. Gandalf had warned him that the Ring wanted to be found; it wanted to get back to its Master.
Frodo waved the poker at the Ranger when he tried to step closer. “Stay away!”
The Ranger put his hands out, palms up, showing he meant no harm. “I have no intention of taking it from you, Frodo Baggins, and if I did, that weapon of yours would not stop me. Put it down. We have much to discuss.” Then the Ranger squeezed out the flames of some of the candles and threw back his hood, revealing a shaggy head of dark hair flecked with gray and what would be handsome face if not for it being weathered from years of wandering, or so Frodo surmised.
Trickles of sweat ran down Frodo’s back. He slowly lowered his hand wielding the poker and let it fall to the floor with a hollow clang. He now noticed that the Ranger’s eyes were not black as he had thought in the Common Room, but the gray of the sea as he had dreamed of it in the house of Tom Bombadil. “Who are you?”
At that moment, the door burst open, and with the speed of a striking snake, the Ranger had drawn his sword and whirled to face the door. Frodo’s friends burst in, wielding candles, chairs and other weapons. Frodo stepped forward, ready to grab the Ranger’s elbow and beg him not to harm his friends, but the Ranger had already sheathed his sword.
“You are brave, my hobbits, but it is not enough. They are coming.”
“Who?” Frodo asked, determined to play ignorant. “And still you have not told us who you are.”
The Ranger suddenly smiled, and it lit his careworn face. “The people of Bree call me Strider.”
“Strider…” Frodo said. “What business of ours concerns you so and why were you watching us all evening?”
“Ah,” Strider said. “I was waiting for the proper moment to beg leave to accompany you to Rivendell.”
There was a silence, and Frodo felt his heart drop deep inside and become ice in his stomach. Was there nothing secret? How many others new of the “trinket” he carried and where he planned to go?
“Now, wait here just a moment,” Sam began, stepping forward, cheeks red with ire. Merry and Pippin just glanced at one another. “You pushed my master around, we don’t even know your real name, and you want to come with us? I don’t think so. I want you to leave us in peace now, or I’ll…” he faded out and flushed, clearly not quite sure what he could threaten the Ranger with.
“Please hear me out.” Strider said, laughing. “It is wise that you at last show some caution. But do not do so at the price of foolishness.” His smile faded and he became grim and frightening again. “You will not make it to Rivendell, not by the main road. The Enemy knows you’re here and knows where you plan to travel. They will come upon you in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish that? They are terrible.” Strider clutched the hilt of his sword until his fingers paled.
“We made it this far,” Sam said. “And we’ll stay off the roads.”
“It will not be enough. I can take you on roads that have been long forgotten. I know the wilderness between here and Rivendell.”
“We’ve already had bad luck with short cuts,” Pippin broke in.
“Ah,” Strider laughed. “But you had not me with you then.”
“You are serious in wanting to come with us?” Frodo asked. Now that the initial shock of being flung against his will into this room had begun to fade, he was left weakened and more than a little angry. How dare this stranger grab him, just because he was larger, and throw him into a room and force himself into their company! He surely considered hobbits to be wayward children who could not take care of themselves.
He no longer feared Strider as someone who would harm or rob them or try to take the Ring. He already knew about the Ring, and if he had wanted it, he could easily take it, even now. He did not need to lead them into the wilderness to do so. A servant of the enemy would have surely come across not as harsh and somewhat violent, as Strider had, but as charming and kind.
“We have made it this far,” Frodo said, although he felt his resistance begin to ebb. “And our friend Gandalf will arrive soon.”
“Gandalf will not come,” Strider said. “This you must know by now.”
Frodo startled and looked at him. Again, he seemed to know much more about their business than he was revealing.
“What do you know of Gandalf?” Sam burst and then turned to Frodo’s clinging to his arm. “I don’t like this one bit, Mr. Frodo. As for him coming with him, I’d say no. He’ll likely murder us in our sleep.”
“Hush,” Frodo said quietly, but he had to admit, Strider’s casual reference to Gandalf made him feel uneasy. He looked back at Strider. “Who are you really, I ask again. You are not just a Ranger of the wild who happened to come upon us and who happened to offer us his protection. How do you know my true name and business and what do you know of Gandalf? Do you know why he is delayed?”
Strider settled onto a stool so that he was closer to eye level with Frodo. He looked suddenly weary. “I know I have given you no reason to trust me, Frodo, but still, I shall try. Gandalf is a dear friend and I am concerned about his absence. Months ago, we met and he told me to keep watch for you, and I have. Bree is no place for you to stay with no protection. The servants of the Enemy have already been here and there are many spies and men of Bree who would sell you to them for a gold coin.”
Frodo watched his face and suddenly he felt sorry for this man who wandered the wild with no friends.
Frodo could not promise to take him along with them, but he could at least listen to his story with patience and compassion. After all, Strider must grow weary of always being an outcast with never a friendly glance offered in his direction.
Later, Frodo would tell his companions that it had been Gandalf’s letter -- that Butterbur had nearly forgotten to give him -- that had opened his heart to Strider. Yes, the letter had put his mind at ease and sent the last of his doubts crumbling. But even before he read it, he had sensed comfort and solid strength, something of an Elvish air in him.
Sitting now in front of the hearth beside Strider while his companions slept, he felt short of breath and far from the sleep that he knew he should get. Strider said nothing. His eyes darted with keen watchfulness at every sound and shadow, and he occasionally poked at the fire with the very poker Frodo had wielded against him earlier. Casting shy glances at Strider’s grim countenance, the tense muscles in his thick forearm, his eyes of gray, he derived new strength and hope. If this Ranger was truly willing to help, then there was a chance that they might make it to Rivendell even without Gandalf.
Sam was still grumpy with suspicion, and even more so when Strider suggested they not return to their hobbit room that night.
“Now wait just a moment,” Sam had broke in. “Mr. Frodo, this just doesn’t sit right with me.”
Frodo hushed him and asked Strider in a quiet voice, “Why should we not return to our room?”
“Because the hobbit rooms are close to the ground and it will be the first place they will seek you. Do you wish them to find you, Master Samwise? As brave as you are, you will be no match against them in the night.”
“We will stay,” Frodo had said, glancing at Sam to end the matter.
The fire crackled, and outside the sky grew ever darker. Frodo took a breath, intending to ask Strider where he came from, how he had come to know Gandalf, but Strider met his eyes then and said, “Get some sleep, Frodo. Our journey here on out will not be kind. You must take advantage of a real bed.”
Frodo nodded and rose to his feet, stretching. He still felt too nervous to sleep, but Strider was right. This bed may be the last his tired bones would lie on for a long time. He peeled off his vest and braces before crawling under the cover beside Pippin. Pippin murmured in his sleep and threw his arm over him.
Strider left the fire burning all night. The hobbits crowded together in the bed while Strider sat propped against the door, as if guarding it, smoking his pipe with quiet watchfulness. Frodo thought that he might never fall asleep, but he fell into a rapid and thick sleep nearly immediately.
Screeching, the thudding of hooves, and an eerie chill up his spine woke Frodo up with a gasp. Outside it was still dark. The other hobbits still slept, thankfully unaware.
“Hush.” Strider was still awake, but now he stood beside the window, peering out into the street, and his finger was at his mouth. The other hobbits were still asleep. Frodo trembled wildly.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“They’re here,” Strider said. “Do you not feel it?”
“I am chilled to my bone.”
“Come back to the fire. Fear not. The servants of the Enemy do not bear any love for the dwellings of people. They are far more dangerous in the wild where there is no help.”
Which was, of course, exactly where they would be while making their way to Rivendell. Frodo swallowed and asked, “What do you know of them?”
He slipped out of bed and padded over to the rug before the hearth again, but this time he trembled so hard that Strider put his own cloak around him before settling on the floor beside him. Frodo nodded gratefully.
When they got the dark news the next morning that their ponies had been stolen, Frodo felt crushed, so much so that he could scarcely utter a word. His friends were none too happy either, especially Merry, and they glowered over breakfast. Strider studied them, his eyes muddy with thoughtfulness. Frodo noted a slight curl to his lip, scarcely hidden and perhaps not even conscious, and he knew that Strider saw soft creatures who had never known hardship.
“How much are you four prepared to carry on your backs?” Strider finally asked. “We are unlikely to get a pony at this hour. And we must make haste to leave Bree as soon as we can.”
“As much as we must,” Frodo said.
“My back’s sturdy,” Sam said. “I can carry as much as need be.” He cast Strider a dark look, clearly unhappy with Frodo’s decision to accept him as their guide.
Up in the room, Frodo dumped the contents from his backpack onto the bed. The other hobbits had gone off on various errands and were expected back at any moment. Frodo sorted through his belongings, trying to decide if there was anything he might leave behind. After all, if they could find no pony, the burden on their backs would be extreme. Even walking through the Shire had been a bit of a toil, and they had added more to their supplies in Crickhollow.
“There will be little to hunt from here until Rivendell,” Strider said harshly, making Frodo jump. Frodo had not heard his approach, which spoiled his perception that Big People walked about like Oliphaunts. “I would not take up any room with such frivolities.”
He lifted Frodo’s pipe, the sack of pipe-weed, a notebook, quill and bottle of ink.
Frodo flushed, incensed by Strider’s tactlessness. Frodo had led his small group from Buckland, and while that had nearly taken several disastrous paths, he found it somewhat difficult to swallow that another guide had taken over the decision-making.
“I will take this,” Frodo said, holding Strider’s gaze and putting the pipe and pipe-weed deliberately inside his pack. “And I imagine you’re not leaving your pipe behind, Strider.”
“It is your back,” Strider said. “Do not expect anyone else to cover your load if you grow weary.”
“Hobbits are more resilient than you may think,” Frodo said. “I can take much more.”
“I am counting on that. I shall certainly be filling it with more.”
Frodo let out a sharp laugh, meant to show his utter disdain at Strider’s attitude toward him. He did not know what to make of him. He was grim, frightening at times, quite unlike his preconceived notions of Big People as being loud, stupid, and bumbling. “Besides, I should think we should all be as worn from travel as you, after a time in the wild.”
“It would take more than a few weeks,” Strider said with a harsh laugh. “And you would die first, unless you be made of sterner stuff than you appear.”
Frodo closed his mouth and turned away. No, he could not understand this Strider at all. There was something in him that reminded him a little of Gandalf, only more caustic. Last night there had been pale concern for their safety, he had spoken to them in a kind, low voice. But now his harsh and imperious mask made Frodo flustered and clumsy. He dropped several items as he tried to stuff them back into his pack.
He did not know how to speak to Strider. His hobbity light-heartedness only seemed to irk him, and his sometimes dreamy, drawn-out way of speaking that he had learned from Bilbo seemed only to make him impatient.
And this stranger, Gandalf’s friend or not, had forced himself upon them, had taken over as “guide” on their quest. If Frodo did not show him now that he would not be ordered about like a scullery maid, then he had no right to later complain.
“Perhaps there is much you do not know about me,” Frodo said in a cool voice. But Strider did not look to be paying attention. He sat on the other side of the bed, bent over his own pack, a mask of concentration on his face. Frodo dared to study this countenance. Even with the grim clenching of his jaw, Frodo had to admit that it was a handsome face with its keen gray eyes and smooth jaw line. Strider turned back suddenly to meet his gaze, and Frodo strode to him, taking advantage of his seated position to speak straight into his eyes. “Perhaps there is much you do not know about me.”
“I heard you the first time,” Strider said. Frodo stood so close to him that Strider’s hot breaths hit his neck, and this sent a shiver down his arms. Strider’s heavy hands fell on Frodo’s shoulders, making him gasp, but Strider said, “Hush” in a surprisingly tender voice, and he rubbed Frodo’s arms in a vigorous manner. “You were chilled. No good starting a journey already chilled.”
They stared at each other, and Strider’s hands paused, gripping Frodo’s upper arms, his breaths still warming his skin of his neck, and now Frodo was no longer chilled at all, but warm from his belly down to his…oh. His cheeks heated as he crossed his legs, hoping that Strider would not look down. He had never had something like that happen, er…not since few years back when he and Merry had crawled under the covers in his bed in Bag End and touched each other, just to see how they felt about it.
The other hobbits entered, chattering and laughing, as if they were not about to walk into danger. Their packs, filled with extra supplies from Nob in compensation for their stolen ponies, were already on their backs. Strider released Frodo’s arms and stood, gathering up his belongings.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frodo said with a decisive nod, stuffing his hands in his pocket to hide the unseemly bulge that someone was apt to notice soon. How he would ever explain that to the other hobbits, he had no idea, so best that they never got an eyeful.
Strider raised his brows, and Frodo flinched and flushed, thinking that maybe Strider had guessed his secret, but then he saw that the ranger was staring at Frodo’s belongings still scattered on the bed.
“Er..no,” Frodo finished, flushing, and scrambling to stuff the last of them inside his pack.
Strider turned away. “I want us on the road within the hour.”
At last they were on the road outside of Bree. The hobbits struggled to keep up with Strider’s pace. Strider seemed to want to keep ahead of them for the most part, but he did not get so far ahead as to lose them.
“I don’t think much of this Strider,” Merry said. “He seems rather to not respect hobbits at all.”
“I do not know what to think of him,” Frodo said, and his cheeks heated, remembering Strider’s hands on his arms, stroking, rubbing warmth back into them. “He spoke one way when we first met him and then his tone changed. I do not know what he wants or his purpose. I suppose he thinks he’s doing Gandalf a great favor.”
“I’m not so sure he’s really Gandalf’s friend, Mr. Frodo, so keep an eye on him.” Sam glowered after Strider, and Frodo knew that he would not sleep a wink while Strider was on watch.
“We have no choice but to trust him,” Frodo said. “Even if we were to divert off the path and set off on our own, away from him, he could certainly track us. Besides, I should think that an enemy would seem more fair than foul.“
“He’s foul enough,” Merry said, and Frodo noticed far ahead that Strider’s shoulders flinched.
“We must watch our tongues,” Frodo said under his breath.
That night, Strider built a fire, and after they shared a scanty meal of dried fruit and meat, Frodo shielded his face with his hood, glancing surreptitiously at Strider, at the prickly hair on his jaw line and his broad shoulders tense with feral watchfulness. He could not see in the heavy darkness, but he wondered if Strider’s eyes were dark and gleaming or murky, like the gray sea on a rainy day. Again, his mind turned to strong hands clasping his arms, hot breath on his neck, and his tender concern that Frodo should not be chilled. His groin warmed again.
“How about a song?” Pippin asked. “We could all use something to cheer our hearts.”
Frodo smiled weakly. “A song would be pleasant.”
“You’ve got the best voice of us here, Frodo.” Merry said. “I should very much like to hear something from home. This place is cheerless.”
“Oh…I don’t think so,” Frodo said, flushing, glancing at Strider. He felt suddenly shy about singing in front of him. “I’m not much in the mood for singing myself.”
“But Bilbo taught you all those songs,” Pippin said. “Come on, cousin. What about the bath song?”
“Peregrin Took, you know just as many songs as I do.”
Strider broke in. “Perhaps song would not be the best idea tonight. There is a foul feel to the air.”
Frodo shivered, immediately sobered. “What do you mean?”
“The Enemy is near.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come so far off the road then,” Sam said, leaping to his feet with an indignant scowl. “Just whose idea was that?”
“They are on the road,” Strider said tersely, lighting a torch from the fire. He handed it to Sam. “Now stay close to the fire and stay still. They do not love fire. Frodo, I want you to come with me.” Sam stepped toward them. “Do not leave this campsite. You will be safe.”
“Don’t worry, Sam.” He imagined that Sam would follow anyway, keeping a safe distance behind.
Frodo followed Strider deep into the woods, until they could barely see the flicker of the campfire. Once when Frodo stumbled, Strider caught his arm, but he did not say anything at all. At last he stopped.
“I wanted you away from your friends before I asked you this, but you must be truthful. Was this Gandalf’s notion, that you should bear such a burden alone?”
Frodo looked at him, puzzled, for a moment before slowly answering. “Yes…well, no.” He shook his head, remembering that long ago spring day when he and Gandalf had talked long about the Ring. “I knew I had to leave the Shire, and Gandalf suggested I make for Rivendell.”
“Gandalf sent you alone, unaided?”
“It is not his fault,” Frodo said. “I delayed. I should have gone at once, but I did not realize the danger. He planned to come back. He should have come back, but he didn’t and we had to leave. I did not mean to take my friends with me into danger, but they will not have it any other way.”
Strider gestured toward him. “Gandalf…I cannot imagine what he must have been thinking to send a soft gentlehobbit with the Enemy’s Ring to Rivendell with the Nine abroad.”
Frodo felt the sting of his words as if Strider had slapped him hard on the cheek. A soft gentlehobbit who had never faced danger, that was how Strider saw him. Someone who had to be watched and protected constantly.
“Perhaps I’m not as soft as you seem to think,” Frodo said, and he turned around and marched toward the campfire.
TBC
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: varies
Summary: Frodo and Aragorn romance on the quest. For Alchemilla…;-)
Thanks, trianne for some beta work!
Frodo hunched his shoulders forward, and he had already inched as far forward as he could to the edge of the hard wooden bench. He kept his gaze into his mug of ale, keeping his eyes averted from the throngs of boisterous Big People in the Common Room. It seemed rather foolish to try to make himself smaller than he already was. Most men of Bree were familiar with hobbits, lived among them, but few had encountered hobbits from the Shire, and so already Frodo and his friends had attracted more attention than Frodo would have liked.
Months ago, during Gandalf’s last visit, Frodo had taken Gandalf’s warning to leave behind the name of Baggins too lightly. Now, it seemed an unwieldy responsibility, in which a slip of the tongue from him or any of his young friends could bring deadly consequences. With every suspicious, leering glance in their direction, Frodo grew more uncomfortable. He now wished they had stayed in their room.
Frodo met Sam’s glowering gaze, and he saw his own discomfort mirrored there. Sam was more fearful of the Big People than Frodo. These men of Bree, ordinary woodcutters and bakers and tailors - they were not the Enemy, and Frodo knew this. He did not fear that any of them would reach down his shirt and yank the Ring from its chain. He did not fear that the Black Riders would be welcomed at the Prancing Pony. No - it was their awe-striking size, against which Frodo felt so powerless. As soon as Frodo and his friends had entered this grim, rainy village with its enormous sharp-angled cottages and buildings - some of them over one story high, he had felt shrunken and ineffectual, utterly at the mercy of the kindness of strangers.
Pippin and Merry had adapted quickly and were quite happy to sit at the bar and chat with anyone who talked to them. Frodo only hoped that they knew when to stop the flapping of their tongues.
Gandalf will be here, Frodo had earlier told Sam, more to give himself comfort than anything, but as the evening passed, he had a sinking feeling that if Gandalf was not here now, that something dreadful had happened to delay him. Anything that could delay a wizard must be abominable indeed, and fear clutched at Frodo’s heart. He forced his thoughts away from it, for it would do him little good. He needed a clear heart and mind. He had maps with him, and although he yearned for Gandalf’s protection and guidance, he vowed to get his young friends safely to Rivendell.
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispered, keeping his head ducked low. Frodo followed his eyes to the back corner, where the stranger continued to stare at them. Gleaming black eyes were bent on them from under the hood of a worn forest-green cloak. Unlike most of the men in the inn, he was silent and subdued, and he seemed to prefer to sit alone, smoking a curved pipe, which glowed orange while smoke danced about his shadowed face. He was not short and thick, like the other men. His legs were long, and he wore leather boots covered in mud.
Butterbur waddled in their direction, and Frodo reached out, stopping him by grabbing his tunic. Butterbur leaned down, and he seemed somewhat put out that he had been interrupted.
“Yes? Can I get you hobbits anything more?”
“That stranger in the corner? Who is he?” Frodo whispered.
Butterbur cast a fearful glance toward the hooded stranger. “Oh…he’s one of them Rangers. Dangerous folks they are, wandering the wild. What his right name is, I don’t know. But around here we call him Strider.” He nodded and then leaned in, as if he were going to tell them a secret. “Coming from the Shire and all, you’ll not be knowing who to trust, but I would suggest you not have anything to do with that one.”
“Thank you,” Frodo said faintly as Butterbur bustled away again. He felt more disquiet than before. A Ranger. Frodo had a vague memory of Gandalf or perhaps Bilbo telling him about a mysterious people who could sometimes be seen wandering on the edge of the Shire. Gandalf had not warned against them, but he had said that the Enemy could come in many guises. Frodo could not imagine what business a Ranger of the Big Folk would have with a Shire hobbit. He fidgeted, casting restless glances back toward the Ranger, who continued to stare. Frodo’s natural tendency was not to be shy, and he was beginning just a little to recover from his shock of encountering so many people who towered over him. He considered walking across the room and demanding to know why this stranger kept his eyes on him all night. But Butterbur had said he was dangerous. Might he harm one so much smaller for sport - or to teach a lesson? If so, would any of the decent folk in the inn come to his aid - or were they all afraid of this grim stranger? Nobody had spoken to him at any rate.
The Ranger’s burning gaze made him suddenly and fiercely protective of the Ring. He had to hold it, to prove that it was still his, that he possessed it when nobody else could. It was his, all his, and nobody could take it from him. He wrapped his fingers around it, releasing a shuddering sigh. Everything was right when he held it. Nothing mattered - not the Big People, not this Ranger, not Gandalf’s absence, and not the dangers they had faced so far on the road. All was right.
Baggins
He would feel even better if he could put it on. The itch would be relieved if he could just slide it over his finger. Gandalf had warned him not to, but he had not anticipated that Frodo would be alone in such a rough situation. Surely he would have wanted Frodo to use it for his protection. The fit would be warm and slippery, and of course it would have the added benefit of making him invisible to the prying eyes of this Ranger. Frodo nearly laughed, imagining how shocked the Ranger would be to see a hobbit disappear before his eyes.
“Frodo Baggins! He’s my cousin right there-“
Frodo had nearly forgotten about the young Took, and when he heard his true name, he turned in horror to find Pippin cheerfully chattering away to about two or three men. The men gathered around him, hanging onto his every word, casting looks of amused scorn in Frodo’s direction. Frodo did not think; he stumbled to his feet and pushed his way through the hostile crowd.
“Pippin,” he cried, but before he could grab his errant cousin and shuttle him out of the Common Room, he stumbled over a boot and found himself tumbling backwards, the Ring that he had clutched in his fingers with such care, flying into the air.
***
Ripping it from his finger extinguished the fire and cruel laughter, but before he could take in one shaky breath, he had been lifted and slammed against a wall. The grim Ranger stooped over him, his face dark with rage, saying something about him attracting attention to himself. Before Frodo could catch his breath to reply, he was twisted around and flung up the stairs as if he weighed nothing at all. Nobody had come to his aid, and he expected nobody would. After all, these same men had laughed as he stumbled and fell backwards when any number of them could have reached out an arm to keep him from hitting the floor.
The Ranger opened a door and pushed Frodo to the floor. Frodo shielded his head, expecting to hit the far wall, but he landed just shy of it. A buzzing, trembling energy filled his limbs, and his mouth dried. He barely felt himself leap to his feet and spin to face his much larger and armed attacker. He had no weapon of his own, and even if he did, he was no match for this grim stranger. He hoped that his young friends would get help and would not put themselves in danger to try to save him. Frodo was certain this man could slay them all in seconds.
Frodo reached for the poker by the fireplace and held it outward. He was ashamed that his hand trembled so fiercely that he could not hold it steady. “What do you want?”
“Put down your weapon,” Strider said with a brief and grim smile. “I am not here to harm you. I want a little more caution from you is all. That is no trinket you carry.”
Frodo’s heart sank deep inside. The Ranger had seen the Ring as it had flown up in the air when Frodo fell. Now this rascal would rob him, and there would be nothing he could do about it. And all because of his foolishness. What had made him take it in his hands in the first place? He had thought he was protecting it, but perhaps it had been the Ring itself that had willed it so. Frodo felt sick with betrayal. Gandalf had warned him that the Ring wanted to be found; it wanted to get back to its Master.
Frodo waved the poker at the Ranger when he tried to step closer. “Stay away!”
The Ranger put his hands out, palms up, showing he meant no harm. “I have no intention of taking it from you, Frodo Baggins, and if I did, that weapon of yours would not stop me. Put it down. We have much to discuss.” Then the Ranger squeezed out the flames of some of the candles and threw back his hood, revealing a shaggy head of dark hair flecked with gray and what would be handsome face if not for it being weathered from years of wandering, or so Frodo surmised.
Trickles of sweat ran down Frodo’s back. He slowly lowered his hand wielding the poker and let it fall to the floor with a hollow clang. He now noticed that the Ranger’s eyes were not black as he had thought in the Common Room, but the gray of the sea as he had dreamed of it in the house of Tom Bombadil. “Who are you?”
At that moment, the door burst open, and with the speed of a striking snake, the Ranger had drawn his sword and whirled to face the door. Frodo’s friends burst in, wielding candles, chairs and other weapons. Frodo stepped forward, ready to grab the Ranger’s elbow and beg him not to harm his friends, but the Ranger had already sheathed his sword.
“You are brave, my hobbits, but it is not enough. They are coming.”
“Who?” Frodo asked, determined to play ignorant. “And still you have not told us who you are.”
The Ranger suddenly smiled, and it lit his careworn face. “The people of Bree call me Strider.”
“Strider…” Frodo said. “What business of ours concerns you so and why were you watching us all evening?”
“Ah,” Strider said. “I was waiting for the proper moment to beg leave to accompany you to Rivendell.”
There was a silence, and Frodo felt his heart drop deep inside and become ice in his stomach. Was there nothing secret? How many others new of the “trinket” he carried and where he planned to go?
“Now, wait here just a moment,” Sam began, stepping forward, cheeks red with ire. Merry and Pippin just glanced at one another. “You pushed my master around, we don’t even know your real name, and you want to come with us? I don’t think so. I want you to leave us in peace now, or I’ll…” he faded out and flushed, clearly not quite sure what he could threaten the Ranger with.
“Please hear me out.” Strider said, laughing. “It is wise that you at last show some caution. But do not do so at the price of foolishness.” His smile faded and he became grim and frightening again. “You will not make it to Rivendell, not by the main road. The Enemy knows you’re here and knows where you plan to travel. They will come upon you in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish that? They are terrible.” Strider clutched the hilt of his sword until his fingers paled.
“We made it this far,” Sam said. “And we’ll stay off the roads.”
“It will not be enough. I can take you on roads that have been long forgotten. I know the wilderness between here and Rivendell.”
“We’ve already had bad luck with short cuts,” Pippin broke in.
“Ah,” Strider laughed. “But you had not me with you then.”
“You are serious in wanting to come with us?” Frodo asked. Now that the initial shock of being flung against his will into this room had begun to fade, he was left weakened and more than a little angry. How dare this stranger grab him, just because he was larger, and throw him into a room and force himself into their company! He surely considered hobbits to be wayward children who could not take care of themselves.
He no longer feared Strider as someone who would harm or rob them or try to take the Ring. He already knew about the Ring, and if he had wanted it, he could easily take it, even now. He did not need to lead them into the wilderness to do so. A servant of the enemy would have surely come across not as harsh and somewhat violent, as Strider had, but as charming and kind.
“We have made it this far,” Frodo said, although he felt his resistance begin to ebb. “And our friend Gandalf will arrive soon.”
“Gandalf will not come,” Strider said. “This you must know by now.”
Frodo startled and looked at him. Again, he seemed to know much more about their business than he was revealing.
“What do you know of Gandalf?” Sam burst and then turned to Frodo’s clinging to his arm. “I don’t like this one bit, Mr. Frodo. As for him coming with him, I’d say no. He’ll likely murder us in our sleep.”
“Hush,” Frodo said quietly, but he had to admit, Strider’s casual reference to Gandalf made him feel uneasy. He looked back at Strider. “Who are you really, I ask again. You are not just a Ranger of the wild who happened to come upon us and who happened to offer us his protection. How do you know my true name and business and what do you know of Gandalf? Do you know why he is delayed?”
Strider settled onto a stool so that he was closer to eye level with Frodo. He looked suddenly weary. “I know I have given you no reason to trust me, Frodo, but still, I shall try. Gandalf is a dear friend and I am concerned about his absence. Months ago, we met and he told me to keep watch for you, and I have. Bree is no place for you to stay with no protection. The servants of the Enemy have already been here and there are many spies and men of Bree who would sell you to them for a gold coin.”
Frodo watched his face and suddenly he felt sorry for this man who wandered the wild with no friends.
Frodo could not promise to take him along with them, but he could at least listen to his story with patience and compassion. After all, Strider must grow weary of always being an outcast with never a friendly glance offered in his direction.
Later, Frodo would tell his companions that it had been Gandalf’s letter -- that Butterbur had nearly forgotten to give him -- that had opened his heart to Strider. Yes, the letter had put his mind at ease and sent the last of his doubts crumbling. But even before he read it, he had sensed comfort and solid strength, something of an Elvish air in him.
Sitting now in front of the hearth beside Strider while his companions slept, he felt short of breath and far from the sleep that he knew he should get. Strider said nothing. His eyes darted with keen watchfulness at every sound and shadow, and he occasionally poked at the fire with the very poker Frodo had wielded against him earlier. Casting shy glances at Strider’s grim countenance, the tense muscles in his thick forearm, his eyes of gray, he derived new strength and hope. If this Ranger was truly willing to help, then there was a chance that they might make it to Rivendell even without Gandalf.
Sam was still grumpy with suspicion, and even more so when Strider suggested they not return to their hobbit room that night.
“Now wait just a moment,” Sam had broke in. “Mr. Frodo, this just doesn’t sit right with me.”
Frodo hushed him and asked Strider in a quiet voice, “Why should we not return to our room?”
“Because the hobbit rooms are close to the ground and it will be the first place they will seek you. Do you wish them to find you, Master Samwise? As brave as you are, you will be no match against them in the night.”
“We will stay,” Frodo had said, glancing at Sam to end the matter.
The fire crackled, and outside the sky grew ever darker. Frodo took a breath, intending to ask Strider where he came from, how he had come to know Gandalf, but Strider met his eyes then and said, “Get some sleep, Frodo. Our journey here on out will not be kind. You must take advantage of a real bed.”
Frodo nodded and rose to his feet, stretching. He still felt too nervous to sleep, but Strider was right. This bed may be the last his tired bones would lie on for a long time. He peeled off his vest and braces before crawling under the cover beside Pippin. Pippin murmured in his sleep and threw his arm over him.
Strider left the fire burning all night. The hobbits crowded together in the bed while Strider sat propped against the door, as if guarding it, smoking his pipe with quiet watchfulness. Frodo thought that he might never fall asleep, but he fell into a rapid and thick sleep nearly immediately.
Screeching, the thudding of hooves, and an eerie chill up his spine woke Frodo up with a gasp. Outside it was still dark. The other hobbits still slept, thankfully unaware.
“Hush.” Strider was still awake, but now he stood beside the window, peering out into the street, and his finger was at his mouth. The other hobbits were still asleep. Frodo trembled wildly.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“They’re here,” Strider said. “Do you not feel it?”
“I am chilled to my bone.”
“Come back to the fire. Fear not. The servants of the Enemy do not bear any love for the dwellings of people. They are far more dangerous in the wild where there is no help.”
Which was, of course, exactly where they would be while making their way to Rivendell. Frodo swallowed and asked, “What do you know of them?”
He slipped out of bed and padded over to the rug before the hearth again, but this time he trembled so hard that Strider put his own cloak around him before settling on the floor beside him. Frodo nodded gratefully.
When they got the dark news the next morning that their ponies had been stolen, Frodo felt crushed, so much so that he could scarcely utter a word. His friends were none too happy either, especially Merry, and they glowered over breakfast. Strider studied them, his eyes muddy with thoughtfulness. Frodo noted a slight curl to his lip, scarcely hidden and perhaps not even conscious, and he knew that Strider saw soft creatures who had never known hardship.
“How much are you four prepared to carry on your backs?” Strider finally asked. “We are unlikely to get a pony at this hour. And we must make haste to leave Bree as soon as we can.”
“As much as we must,” Frodo said.
“My back’s sturdy,” Sam said. “I can carry as much as need be.” He cast Strider a dark look, clearly unhappy with Frodo’s decision to accept him as their guide.
Up in the room, Frodo dumped the contents from his backpack onto the bed. The other hobbits had gone off on various errands and were expected back at any moment. Frodo sorted through his belongings, trying to decide if there was anything he might leave behind. After all, if they could find no pony, the burden on their backs would be extreme. Even walking through the Shire had been a bit of a toil, and they had added more to their supplies in Crickhollow.
“There will be little to hunt from here until Rivendell,” Strider said harshly, making Frodo jump. Frodo had not heard his approach, which spoiled his perception that Big People walked about like Oliphaunts. “I would not take up any room with such frivolities.”
He lifted Frodo’s pipe, the sack of pipe-weed, a notebook, quill and bottle of ink.
Frodo flushed, incensed by Strider’s tactlessness. Frodo had led his small group from Buckland, and while that had nearly taken several disastrous paths, he found it somewhat difficult to swallow that another guide had taken over the decision-making.
“I will take this,” Frodo said, holding Strider’s gaze and putting the pipe and pipe-weed deliberately inside his pack. “And I imagine you’re not leaving your pipe behind, Strider.”
“It is your back,” Strider said. “Do not expect anyone else to cover your load if you grow weary.”
“Hobbits are more resilient than you may think,” Frodo said. “I can take much more.”
“I am counting on that. I shall certainly be filling it with more.”
Frodo let out a sharp laugh, meant to show his utter disdain at Strider’s attitude toward him. He did not know what to make of him. He was grim, frightening at times, quite unlike his preconceived notions of Big People as being loud, stupid, and bumbling. “Besides, I should think we should all be as worn from travel as you, after a time in the wild.”
“It would take more than a few weeks,” Strider said with a harsh laugh. “And you would die first, unless you be made of sterner stuff than you appear.”
Frodo closed his mouth and turned away. No, he could not understand this Strider at all. There was something in him that reminded him a little of Gandalf, only more caustic. Last night there had been pale concern for their safety, he had spoken to them in a kind, low voice. But now his harsh and imperious mask made Frodo flustered and clumsy. He dropped several items as he tried to stuff them back into his pack.
He did not know how to speak to Strider. His hobbity light-heartedness only seemed to irk him, and his sometimes dreamy, drawn-out way of speaking that he had learned from Bilbo seemed only to make him impatient.
And this stranger, Gandalf’s friend or not, had forced himself upon them, had taken over as “guide” on their quest. If Frodo did not show him now that he would not be ordered about like a scullery maid, then he had no right to later complain.
“Perhaps there is much you do not know about me,” Frodo said in a cool voice. But Strider did not look to be paying attention. He sat on the other side of the bed, bent over his own pack, a mask of concentration on his face. Frodo dared to study this countenance. Even with the grim clenching of his jaw, Frodo had to admit that it was a handsome face with its keen gray eyes and smooth jaw line. Strider turned back suddenly to meet his gaze, and Frodo strode to him, taking advantage of his seated position to speak straight into his eyes. “Perhaps there is much you do not know about me.”
“I heard you the first time,” Strider said. Frodo stood so close to him that Strider’s hot breaths hit his neck, and this sent a shiver down his arms. Strider’s heavy hands fell on Frodo’s shoulders, making him gasp, but Strider said, “Hush” in a surprisingly tender voice, and he rubbed Frodo’s arms in a vigorous manner. “You were chilled. No good starting a journey already chilled.”
They stared at each other, and Strider’s hands paused, gripping Frodo’s upper arms, his breaths still warming his skin of his neck, and now Frodo was no longer chilled at all, but warm from his belly down to his…oh. His cheeks heated as he crossed his legs, hoping that Strider would not look down. He had never had something like that happen, er…not since few years back when he and Merry had crawled under the covers in his bed in Bag End and touched each other, just to see how they felt about it.
The other hobbits entered, chattering and laughing, as if they were not about to walk into danger. Their packs, filled with extra supplies from Nob in compensation for their stolen ponies, were already on their backs. Strider released Frodo’s arms and stood, gathering up his belongings.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” Frodo said with a decisive nod, stuffing his hands in his pocket to hide the unseemly bulge that someone was apt to notice soon. How he would ever explain that to the other hobbits, he had no idea, so best that they never got an eyeful.
Strider raised his brows, and Frodo flinched and flushed, thinking that maybe Strider had guessed his secret, but then he saw that the ranger was staring at Frodo’s belongings still scattered on the bed.
“Er..no,” Frodo finished, flushing, and scrambling to stuff the last of them inside his pack.
Strider turned away. “I want us on the road within the hour.”
At last they were on the road outside of Bree. The hobbits struggled to keep up with Strider’s pace. Strider seemed to want to keep ahead of them for the most part, but he did not get so far ahead as to lose them.
“I don’t think much of this Strider,” Merry said. “He seems rather to not respect hobbits at all.”
“I do not know what to think of him,” Frodo said, and his cheeks heated, remembering Strider’s hands on his arms, stroking, rubbing warmth back into them. “He spoke one way when we first met him and then his tone changed. I do not know what he wants or his purpose. I suppose he thinks he’s doing Gandalf a great favor.”
“I’m not so sure he’s really Gandalf’s friend, Mr. Frodo, so keep an eye on him.” Sam glowered after Strider, and Frodo knew that he would not sleep a wink while Strider was on watch.
“We have no choice but to trust him,” Frodo said. “Even if we were to divert off the path and set off on our own, away from him, he could certainly track us. Besides, I should think that an enemy would seem more fair than foul.“
“He’s foul enough,” Merry said, and Frodo noticed far ahead that Strider’s shoulders flinched.
“We must watch our tongues,” Frodo said under his breath.
That night, Strider built a fire, and after they shared a scanty meal of dried fruit and meat, Frodo shielded his face with his hood, glancing surreptitiously at Strider, at the prickly hair on his jaw line and his broad shoulders tense with feral watchfulness. He could not see in the heavy darkness, but he wondered if Strider’s eyes were dark and gleaming or murky, like the gray sea on a rainy day. Again, his mind turned to strong hands clasping his arms, hot breath on his neck, and his tender concern that Frodo should not be chilled. His groin warmed again.
“How about a song?” Pippin asked. “We could all use something to cheer our hearts.”
Frodo smiled weakly. “A song would be pleasant.”
“You’ve got the best voice of us here, Frodo.” Merry said. “I should very much like to hear something from home. This place is cheerless.”
“Oh…I don’t think so,” Frodo said, flushing, glancing at Strider. He felt suddenly shy about singing in front of him. “I’m not much in the mood for singing myself.”
“But Bilbo taught you all those songs,” Pippin said. “Come on, cousin. What about the bath song?”
“Peregrin Took, you know just as many songs as I do.”
Strider broke in. “Perhaps song would not be the best idea tonight. There is a foul feel to the air.”
Frodo shivered, immediately sobered. “What do you mean?”
“The Enemy is near.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have come so far off the road then,” Sam said, leaping to his feet with an indignant scowl. “Just whose idea was that?”
“They are on the road,” Strider said tersely, lighting a torch from the fire. He handed it to Sam. “Now stay close to the fire and stay still. They do not love fire. Frodo, I want you to come with me.” Sam stepped toward them. “Do not leave this campsite. You will be safe.”
“Don’t worry, Sam.” He imagined that Sam would follow anyway, keeping a safe distance behind.
Frodo followed Strider deep into the woods, until they could barely see the flicker of the campfire. Once when Frodo stumbled, Strider caught his arm, but he did not say anything at all. At last he stopped.
“I wanted you away from your friends before I asked you this, but you must be truthful. Was this Gandalf’s notion, that you should bear such a burden alone?”
Frodo looked at him, puzzled, for a moment before slowly answering. “Yes…well, no.” He shook his head, remembering that long ago spring day when he and Gandalf had talked long about the Ring. “I knew I had to leave the Shire, and Gandalf suggested I make for Rivendell.”
“Gandalf sent you alone, unaided?”
“It is not his fault,” Frodo said. “I delayed. I should have gone at once, but I did not realize the danger. He planned to come back. He should have come back, but he didn’t and we had to leave. I did not mean to take my friends with me into danger, but they will not have it any other way.”
Strider gestured toward him. “Gandalf…I cannot imagine what he must have been thinking to send a soft gentlehobbit with the Enemy’s Ring to Rivendell with the Nine abroad.”
Frodo felt the sting of his words as if Strider had slapped him hard on the cheek. A soft gentlehobbit who had never faced danger, that was how Strider saw him. Someone who had to be watched and protected constantly.
“Perhaps I’m not as soft as you seem to think,” Frodo said, and he turned around and marched toward the campfire.
TBC