Heart's Journey, 2/?, Frodo/Aragorn, PG13
Title: Heart’s Journey
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 remainder of the night was strained. Strider and the hobbits continued to hear the bone-chilling calls of the Ringwraiths, answered by screeching echoes. The wraiths seemed to be hemming them in from every direction, moving closer with every screech. Frodo, who considered himself rather a scholar of languages, could discern the cadence of speech within the drawn-out shrieks, a dark tongue that should never have been heard so far from Mordor. The hobbits huddled as close to the fire as they dared without singeing the hair from the top of their feet, and nobody was in the mood to talk or sing. The night dragged on and on.
Frodo shivered. He was on last watch. He still felt the sting of Strider’s last words to him. Strider saw them as soft, foolish hobbits who had never had to lift up a hand or sword to fight. Frodo felt especially annoyed and defeated because as far as he could see, this was true. Should the Ringwraiths come upon them right now, he did not know what he would do to save himself, his friends, and the Ring.
At last the night ended, and never had Frodo felt so relieved to see the sky turn from violet to silver and finally to blue. With sunlight, the screeching calls faded, replaced by the much more pleasurable twittering of birds.
“Now that’s not a night I’d like to repeat,” Sam said, shaking his head and wiping his bleary eyes. “I hardly got a wink last night.”
“It will only get worse, I’m afraid,” Frodo said, straightening his stiff shoulders. “We’re still so far from Rivendell.”
“A fortnight still,” Strider added. “Let us set off at once.”
“We’ve not had breakfast,” Pippin said. He looked shaken from the fearsome night, and so young, and once again, Frodo’s heart sank that he had allowed his young friends to accompany him into such dark danger.
“We must eat while walking,” Strider said, lifting his pack that possibly weighed as much as two hobbits together. “We can linger here no longer.”
“Some of us,” Merry said, poking Pippin’s ribs until his younger cousin managed a weary grin, “can stand to walk a fair bit with no meals.”
Frodo packed while his cousins bantered back and forth. His back ached from being so tense the previous night and carrying so much on his back, but he would never speak of it, especially to Strider, who had already warned him to leave unnecessary items behind in Bree.
“Not Cousin Frodo here,” Pippin said, teasingly. “He’s as thin as a willow wand and certainly twice the hobbit he was since we left The Shire.”
Frodo laughed. “That’s pretty funny, considering there’s actually a great deal less of me. If the thinning process continues, I shall become a wraith.”
Strider’s voice barely curbed his irritation. “Do not speak of such things, even in daylight.”
“Hmph,” Frodo muttered.
After they set off, it was not long before Strider walked considerably ahead of them again on the path. The hobbits clustered together.
Sam glowered after Strider. “I don’t like how he speaks to you, Mr. Frodo, not one bit. If I thought it would do any good, I’d give him a big talking to.”
“And I shall,” Merry said. “if he does it again.”
Frodo shook his head. “Let us not retort to his rudeness,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s not had our advantages. Where must he have been raised to behave so boorishly?”
“In Rivendell, Master Frodo,” Strider said from far ahead. The hobbits looked at each other in dismay at the Ranger’s hearing. After all, what else must he have overheard? Frodo flushed and bit his lower lip, his heart pattering alarmingly.
The Ranger said no more, but Frodo continued to fret. He hoped he had not angered the Ranger into perhaps leaving them in the wilderness to fend for themselves. But surely he would do no such thing. He was a friend of Gandalf’s. He might not enjoy the company of hobbits, he might consider it a tiresome duty for a friend, but he would bring them safely to Rivendell if it were in his power to do so. And speaking of Rivendell, he wondered if Strider had been truthful about being raised in Rivendell and if so, why. And again, if so, why was he not merry and wise like the Elves?
“Are all the Big People like that, I wonder?” Merry finally asked in a whisper. “Glowering and scowling all the time? He looks as though he has never smiled in his life.”
“I don’t wonder,” Frodo said under his breath. “We should be grateful indeed that our Shire has been safe for so long, that we have been able to be merry…and genteel.”
By midday, the hobbits had nearly forgotten about how frightening the night had been. Black Riders seemed far away under the blue autumn sky. Even Frodo’s heart lightened, and he found himself joining Pippin in a well-known tavern song. Strider said nothing more to them.
When they stopped again at dusk, Sam and Strider started a small fire and then Strider left them to search the area for roots and berries. Pippin rubbed his feet, and Merry gnawed thoughtfully on an apple.
“Good riddance, I say,” Sam said after Strider left, his brows knitted. “I hope you brought a good map of the Outside, Mr. Frodo, because I don’t wonder if he’ll leave us in the lurch out here, just for sport.”
“He’ll be back, Sam,” Frodo said. His feet and legs ached miserably. He looked at his feet in disgust. Never had his foot hair looked so ragged. Burrs had gotten caught in tangles, his toes looked filthy, he had several broken toenails. Oh, how he longed for a bath! A nice, warm bath such as they had had in Crickhollow that last night before they had set off.
At last Strider returned, carrying roots that he had washed in a nearby stream. Frodo nodded to him, but he avoided his company. While the younger hobbits sat around the fire, chattering to one another, and Sam started a pot of boiling water, Frodo sneaked curious glances at Strider as he sat on a broken log and sliced the roots. His eyes were intense on his project, his breathing even, as he sliced, sliced, sliced --
Suddenly the knife slipped, and Strider cried out, dropping the knife and clutching his bleeding finger.
Frodo ran to him in concern, clutching his muscled shoulder. “Let me see it.”
Blood seeped between Strider’s fingers. “Fetch me a cloth, please, if you will.”
Frodo called out to Sam. “Dip one of your cooking cloths in the boiling water you started for dinner.” He turned back to Strider. “We must clean your wound. The knife is dirty.”
When Sam brought him the wet cloth, Frodo waved him away so he would not block out the moonlight. “Strider, open your hand.”
Surprisingly, Strider obeyed him with neither fuss nor scorn.
Frodo sat beside him on the log. “You are lucky you didn’t cut the whole thing off.” Frodo felt braver and just a little impudent now that Strider did not seem to be resisting his care. He held Strider’s enormous hand steady and cleaned the wound. “Your knife has a sharp bite.”
“I’ve had worse bites.” Strider looked down, meeting Frodo’s gaze, and offered him a meek smile. “Thank you, Frodo.” It was the first time Frodo had seen Strider smile, and it clutched at his heart. He smiled back, feeling lighter inside than he had since reaching Bree.
“It does nothing to repay the debt of you helping us to Rivendell. Now you must sit still and hold that cloth still until the bleeding stops.”
Strider nodded. Frodo trotted to the nearby stream to wash off Strider’s knife. Afterwards, he continued Strider’s task of cutting the roots, careful not to cut his own fingers.
“You have a good heart, Frodo,” Strider murmured, still holding the bloodied cloth to his hand, and Frodo startled, nearly dropping the knife. Heat crept up his cheeks. Strider must have been watching him for some time.
Frodo regretted more than ever that Strider had overheard him call him a boor. “I want to…About today while we were walking-“ But Strider hushed him with a raised hand.
“It is natural when such different folk come together that there should be misunderstandings on both sides. There is much I do not know about your people, too.”
Frodo nodded, his cheeks still hot, and took the roots to Sam who had stirred in some herbs of his own findings into the broth.
“I’m afraid you’ve been right,” Frodo said when he returned to sit beside Strider again. He had lifted one foot on the log and had begun to pick at the burrs in his hair, which would, by Shire standards, be considered extremely rude. A gentlehobbit never groomed in public. But confound it, he was not going to walk another day with his feet looking so ragged.
“May I help?” Strider asked, startling him again.
His cheeks reddened. “Oh, no. You must tend to your finger!”
“I’ve still a free hand,” Strider said, “and I’m afraid I’m feeling quite helpless with the meal preparation at the moment. Samwise has things under control.” He turned an affectionate glance toward Sam, which did much to lift Frodo’s heart.
“All right,” he said with a weak grin. “You Big People have no experience with hobbit feet, I know, but I’m trying to get the burrs out of this hair. I’m afraid it’s a near impossible task.”
“Hobbit feet,” Strider said with a low chuckle. “I’ve never seen one up close, although Gandalf has spoken of them.” He lifted Frodo’s foot with his free hand so that he could see the bottom. “Is it true the bottoms are as hard as leather soles?” He rubbed his thumb on the bottom of Frodo’s foot. Frodo remembered how Strider had made him feel in Bree, when he had rubbed his arms. His groin warmed again and he squirmed uncomfortably.
“They are indeed hard…” Frodo startled at his last word, which encouraged a hardness of a different kind. He only hoped the moonlight did not reveal all. “…er…sturdy.” He finished, releasing a tense sigh. Strider set Frodo’s foot back down on the log and worked with gentle fingers to untangle the burrs. Frodo helped him with his own nimble fingers, and inevitably, their hands occasionally bumped against each other. When this happened, a pleasant tingling jolt passed through Frodo, and he would meet Strider’s gaze for just a moment, lips parted, and it seemed as if Strider, too, had felt it.
Strider said nothing, but he began to knead Frodo’s foot with his good hand, digging his fingers in, rubbing, massaging. Frodo released a groan and managed to clutch his cloak and fling it over his now full arousal. He nearly forgot that the other hobbits were nearby - Sam still fussing at the fire and his cousins on a log groaning about their own sore feet and chattering about this and that. “Strider…”
“Is this agreeable?” Strider asked. “I know you’re not accustomed to so much walking and I know how you must ache.”
“I do. And this does feel nice.” He looked down at his foot and smiled. “And no more burrs. Thank you, Strider.”
“Let us have the other foot.”
Strider had freed the burrs from his other foot and had just begun to massage that foot, when Sam called them for supper. Frodo was not certain, but it seemed that Strider might have been somewhat reluctant to release his foot.
As they ate, Frodo studied Strider with a curious eye. He was particularly enamored of his thick, muscled shoulders (which he remembered feeling under his fingers when he had first come to him to see to his bleeding finger), his long lean legs, his jaw line, the high chiseled cheekbones, and the sea gray eyes. Of course he longed to know what was truly in his heart, what made him mostly so sad and grim. For he was utterly different from the perceptions Frodo had had of Big People before leaving the Shire. He had always thought that they were, well, big and rather stupid -- kind and stupid like Butterbur or stupid and wicked, like Bill Ferny and the devious men in the Prancing Pony. Not grim and strong and sad and gentle all at once.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked after they had crawled inside their bedrolls. Strider was on first watch, although they were all much more relaxed than the previous night since they had heard no screeches from the Enemy. “You’ve been awfully quiet and you hardly cracked a smile at Mr. Pippin’s jokes.”
“Oh, not much, Sam,” Frodo said. He smiled, glancing at Strider, who had pulled out his bedroll. “I was thinking about how little I actually know of the people outside of the Shire.”
“I think I’ve learned about as much as I want to learn,” Sam said. He paused a moment. “Well, except for the Elves, sir. I’ll be awfully glad when we reach Rivendell. We can see Elves again…and then we can go back home again, where they do things proper.” He nodded. “Proper,” he repeated quietly, and his eyes clouded for a moment, as if he did not truly believe he would ever make it home.
Long after Sam had fallen into a light sleep, Frodo remained awake. From behind the folds of his bedroll, he watched Strider, who had wrapped his worn cloak around him against the chilly night. As Frodo’s eyes grew heavy, he heard Strider humming a melancholy tune, and as Frodo’s eyes closed, it seemed that Strider’s gray eyes had captured the starlight.
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.
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 remainder of the night was strained. Strider and the hobbits continued to hear the bone-chilling calls of the Ringwraiths, answered by screeching echoes. The wraiths seemed to be hemming them in from every direction, moving closer with every screech. Frodo, who considered himself rather a scholar of languages, could discern the cadence of speech within the drawn-out shrieks, a dark tongue that should never have been heard so far from Mordor. The hobbits huddled as close to the fire as they dared without singeing the hair from the top of their feet, and nobody was in the mood to talk or sing. The night dragged on and on.
Frodo shivered. He was on last watch. He still felt the sting of Strider’s last words to him. Strider saw them as soft, foolish hobbits who had never had to lift up a hand or sword to fight. Frodo felt especially annoyed and defeated because as far as he could see, this was true. Should the Ringwraiths come upon them right now, he did not know what he would do to save himself, his friends, and the Ring.
At last the night ended, and never had Frodo felt so relieved to see the sky turn from violet to silver and finally to blue. With sunlight, the screeching calls faded, replaced by the much more pleasurable twittering of birds.
“Now that’s not a night I’d like to repeat,” Sam said, shaking his head and wiping his bleary eyes. “I hardly got a wink last night.”
“It will only get worse, I’m afraid,” Frodo said, straightening his stiff shoulders. “We’re still so far from Rivendell.”
“A fortnight still,” Strider added. “Let us set off at once.”
“We’ve not had breakfast,” Pippin said. He looked shaken from the fearsome night, and so young, and once again, Frodo’s heart sank that he had allowed his young friends to accompany him into such dark danger.
“We must eat while walking,” Strider said, lifting his pack that possibly weighed as much as two hobbits together. “We can linger here no longer.”
“Some of us,” Merry said, poking Pippin’s ribs until his younger cousin managed a weary grin, “can stand to walk a fair bit with no meals.”
Frodo packed while his cousins bantered back and forth. His back ached from being so tense the previous night and carrying so much on his back, but he would never speak of it, especially to Strider, who had already warned him to leave unnecessary items behind in Bree.
“Not Cousin Frodo here,” Pippin said, teasingly. “He’s as thin as a willow wand and certainly twice the hobbit he was since we left The Shire.”
Frodo laughed. “That’s pretty funny, considering there’s actually a great deal less of me. If the thinning process continues, I shall become a wraith.”
Strider’s voice barely curbed his irritation. “Do not speak of such things, even in daylight.”
“Hmph,” Frodo muttered.
After they set off, it was not long before Strider walked considerably ahead of them again on the path. The hobbits clustered together.
Sam glowered after Strider. “I don’t like how he speaks to you, Mr. Frodo, not one bit. If I thought it would do any good, I’d give him a big talking to.”
“And I shall,” Merry said. “if he does it again.”
Frodo shook his head. “Let us not retort to his rudeness,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s not had our advantages. Where must he have been raised to behave so boorishly?”
“In Rivendell, Master Frodo,” Strider said from far ahead. The hobbits looked at each other in dismay at the Ranger’s hearing. After all, what else must he have overheard? Frodo flushed and bit his lower lip, his heart pattering alarmingly.
The Ranger said no more, but Frodo continued to fret. He hoped he had not angered the Ranger into perhaps leaving them in the wilderness to fend for themselves. But surely he would do no such thing. He was a friend of Gandalf’s. He might not enjoy the company of hobbits, he might consider it a tiresome duty for a friend, but he would bring them safely to Rivendell if it were in his power to do so. And speaking of Rivendell, he wondered if Strider had been truthful about being raised in Rivendell and if so, why. And again, if so, why was he not merry and wise like the Elves?
“Are all the Big People like that, I wonder?” Merry finally asked in a whisper. “Glowering and scowling all the time? He looks as though he has never smiled in his life.”
“I don’t wonder,” Frodo said under his breath. “We should be grateful indeed that our Shire has been safe for so long, that we have been able to be merry…and genteel.”
By midday, the hobbits had nearly forgotten about how frightening the night had been. Black Riders seemed far away under the blue autumn sky. Even Frodo’s heart lightened, and he found himself joining Pippin in a well-known tavern song. Strider said nothing more to them.
When they stopped again at dusk, Sam and Strider started a small fire and then Strider left them to search the area for roots and berries. Pippin rubbed his feet, and Merry gnawed thoughtfully on an apple.
“Good riddance, I say,” Sam said after Strider left, his brows knitted. “I hope you brought a good map of the Outside, Mr. Frodo, because I don’t wonder if he’ll leave us in the lurch out here, just for sport.”
“He’ll be back, Sam,” Frodo said. His feet and legs ached miserably. He looked at his feet in disgust. Never had his foot hair looked so ragged. Burrs had gotten caught in tangles, his toes looked filthy, he had several broken toenails. Oh, how he longed for a bath! A nice, warm bath such as they had had in Crickhollow that last night before they had set off.
At last Strider returned, carrying roots that he had washed in a nearby stream. Frodo nodded to him, but he avoided his company. While the younger hobbits sat around the fire, chattering to one another, and Sam started a pot of boiling water, Frodo sneaked curious glances at Strider as he sat on a broken log and sliced the roots. His eyes were intense on his project, his breathing even, as he sliced, sliced, sliced --
Suddenly the knife slipped, and Strider cried out, dropping the knife and clutching his bleeding finger.
Frodo ran to him in concern, clutching his muscled shoulder. “Let me see it.”
Blood seeped between Strider’s fingers. “Fetch me a cloth, please, if you will.”
Frodo called out to Sam. “Dip one of your cooking cloths in the boiling water you started for dinner.” He turned back to Strider. “We must clean your wound. The knife is dirty.”
When Sam brought him the wet cloth, Frodo waved him away so he would not block out the moonlight. “Strider, open your hand.”
Surprisingly, Strider obeyed him with neither fuss nor scorn.
Frodo sat beside him on the log. “You are lucky you didn’t cut the whole thing off.” Frodo felt braver and just a little impudent now that Strider did not seem to be resisting his care. He held Strider’s enormous hand steady and cleaned the wound. “Your knife has a sharp bite.”
“I’ve had worse bites.” Strider looked down, meeting Frodo’s gaze, and offered him a meek smile. “Thank you, Frodo.” It was the first time Frodo had seen Strider smile, and it clutched at his heart. He smiled back, feeling lighter inside than he had since reaching Bree.
“It does nothing to repay the debt of you helping us to Rivendell. Now you must sit still and hold that cloth still until the bleeding stops.”
Strider nodded. Frodo trotted to the nearby stream to wash off Strider’s knife. Afterwards, he continued Strider’s task of cutting the roots, careful not to cut his own fingers.
“You have a good heart, Frodo,” Strider murmured, still holding the bloodied cloth to his hand, and Frodo startled, nearly dropping the knife. Heat crept up his cheeks. Strider must have been watching him for some time.
Frodo regretted more than ever that Strider had overheard him call him a boor. “I want to…About today while we were walking-“ But Strider hushed him with a raised hand.
“It is natural when such different folk come together that there should be misunderstandings on both sides. There is much I do not know about your people, too.”
Frodo nodded, his cheeks still hot, and took the roots to Sam who had stirred in some herbs of his own findings into the broth.
“I’m afraid you’ve been right,” Frodo said when he returned to sit beside Strider again. He had lifted one foot on the log and had begun to pick at the burrs in his hair, which would, by Shire standards, be considered extremely rude. A gentlehobbit never groomed in public. But confound it, he was not going to walk another day with his feet looking so ragged.
“May I help?” Strider asked, startling him again.
His cheeks reddened. “Oh, no. You must tend to your finger!”
“I’ve still a free hand,” Strider said, “and I’m afraid I’m feeling quite helpless with the meal preparation at the moment. Samwise has things under control.” He turned an affectionate glance toward Sam, which did much to lift Frodo’s heart.
“All right,” he said with a weak grin. “You Big People have no experience with hobbit feet, I know, but I’m trying to get the burrs out of this hair. I’m afraid it’s a near impossible task.”
“Hobbit feet,” Strider said with a low chuckle. “I’ve never seen one up close, although Gandalf has spoken of them.” He lifted Frodo’s foot with his free hand so that he could see the bottom. “Is it true the bottoms are as hard as leather soles?” He rubbed his thumb on the bottom of Frodo’s foot. Frodo remembered how Strider had made him feel in Bree, when he had rubbed his arms. His groin warmed again and he squirmed uncomfortably.
“They are indeed hard…” Frodo startled at his last word, which encouraged a hardness of a different kind. He only hoped the moonlight did not reveal all. “…er…sturdy.” He finished, releasing a tense sigh. Strider set Frodo’s foot back down on the log and worked with gentle fingers to untangle the burrs. Frodo helped him with his own nimble fingers, and inevitably, their hands occasionally bumped against each other. When this happened, a pleasant tingling jolt passed through Frodo, and he would meet Strider’s gaze for just a moment, lips parted, and it seemed as if Strider, too, had felt it.
Strider said nothing, but he began to knead Frodo’s foot with his good hand, digging his fingers in, rubbing, massaging. Frodo released a groan and managed to clutch his cloak and fling it over his now full arousal. He nearly forgot that the other hobbits were nearby - Sam still fussing at the fire and his cousins on a log groaning about their own sore feet and chattering about this and that. “Strider…”
“Is this agreeable?” Strider asked. “I know you’re not accustomed to so much walking and I know how you must ache.”
“I do. And this does feel nice.” He looked down at his foot and smiled. “And no more burrs. Thank you, Strider.”
“Let us have the other foot.”
Strider had freed the burrs from his other foot and had just begun to massage that foot, when Sam called them for supper. Frodo was not certain, but it seemed that Strider might have been somewhat reluctant to release his foot.
As they ate, Frodo studied Strider with a curious eye. He was particularly enamored of his thick, muscled shoulders (which he remembered feeling under his fingers when he had first come to him to see to his bleeding finger), his long lean legs, his jaw line, the high chiseled cheekbones, and the sea gray eyes. Of course he longed to know what was truly in his heart, what made him mostly so sad and grim. For he was utterly different from the perceptions Frodo had had of Big People before leaving the Shire. He had always thought that they were, well, big and rather stupid -- kind and stupid like Butterbur or stupid and wicked, like Bill Ferny and the devious men in the Prancing Pony. Not grim and strong and sad and gentle all at once.
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked after they had crawled inside their bedrolls. Strider was on first watch, although they were all much more relaxed than the previous night since they had heard no screeches from the Enemy. “You’ve been awfully quiet and you hardly cracked a smile at Mr. Pippin’s jokes.”
“Oh, not much, Sam,” Frodo said. He smiled, glancing at Strider, who had pulled out his bedroll. “I was thinking about how little I actually know of the people outside of the Shire.”
“I think I’ve learned about as much as I want to learn,” Sam said. He paused a moment. “Well, except for the Elves, sir. I’ll be awfully glad when we reach Rivendell. We can see Elves again…and then we can go back home again, where they do things proper.” He nodded. “Proper,” he repeated quietly, and his eyes clouded for a moment, as if he did not truly believe he would ever make it home.
Long after Sam had fallen into a light sleep, Frodo remained awake. From behind the folds of his bedroll, he watched Strider, who had wrapped his worn cloak around him against the chilly night. As Frodo’s eyes grew heavy, he heard Strider humming a melancholy tune, and as Frodo’s eyes closed, it seemed that Strider’s gray eyes had captured the starlight.
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.
TBC