(no subject)

[claudia603]

This is a repost of a hobbit_smut fic. I realized I had never put it up on my fic journal...

Title: Captive
Hobbit Smut "When Pigs Fly!" Challenge
Rating: R
Pairings: Frodo/Halbarad
Warnings: slight kink, bondage
Summary: AU! Frodo is accused of an unspeakable crime and is handed over to a Ranger.
Notes:

Thanks to mochalover, baranduin, surgicalsteel for betas



Frodo struggled against the ruthless current that pressed him down, down to the shadowy depths of the Brandywine. He fought to swim upward, to break surface, but he had been smashed against rock after rock, and his limbs were numb and useless. His hands refused to claw through the murky water and a slimy reed clung to his feet, rendering them unable to kick. He was sinking, never to see the light of day again. He could hold his breath no longer, and he gasped in black water that choked--

He startled awake. A nearby campfire snapped, but a chilly breeze cut through his thin shirt. Dried leaves crackled under him. His wrists still felt numb, useless.

He gasped when he saw the hulking figure with the hood drawn over his face sitting on an old log, rubbing his enormous hands over a fire.

His heart battered his chest and he scrambled to right himself, but now he could see that his wrists and ankles were bound with rope, so tightly that he had lost almost all feeling in them. He fell to his side, jamming his elbow into a rock. He winced as a sheet of pain shot up his arm. His head throbbed as if he had been hit there with something hard. He looked upward, where the claw-like branches of winter-bare trees reached a star-filled sky. Where was he? And how far from home and how…? More importantly, why? And what had the Big Person to do with him?

He lay still on his side in the leaves, his eyes squeezed closed, his heart still racing.

The fire in the hearth popped and roared pleasantly, warming Frodo’s toes, and he nodded off in his chair, his heavy book splayed open in his lap. Sam had finished the last of the chores and headed for home. Frodo dreamed about silver-black waves spread out under a full moon, and of sweet, ethereal singing from a distant land.

A knock on the door startled him awake. The fire had nearly died and it had become chilly. Frodo looked around in bewilderment. Perhaps the knocking had been part of his dream. But then it repeated.

Frodo was fully awake and rather annoyed now. “Who could that possibly be this late?” He rubbed his chilled hands together.

He would be sure to give whoever was calling this late a piece of his mind. Normally at this hour he would have already been undressed and in bed. It was only chance that he was still dressed and fit to welcome guests. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stumbled toward the door, tugging at his vest to straighten out the wrinkles.

When he opened the door, he blinked in confusion at the two or perhaps three hobbits with bags over their heads. Before he could cry out, they rushed him, shoving him to the ground, and then a fist slammed into his head, knocking him senseless.

Frodo opened his eyes again. His heart sped and slowed in an irregular, panicked rhythm. The fire warmed his face, but he could not stop shivering.

Just who was this hulking Big Person? This was abominable - a nightmare right out of one of Bilbo’s tales, only Frodo had no magic Ring to save himself. That was back at Bag End in an envelope tucked far from prying eyes.

The Big Person looked toward him, and seemed to notice for the first time that Frodo was awake, and when those stern eyes that glinted in the moonlight fell upon Frodo, he lost all sense of calm. His heart burst into a flurry of panic, and he struggled, thrashing from side to side, yanking at his binds until his wrists and ankles burned and then numbed, slamming himself into the trunk of a tree with bruising force, his only thought to free himself, to get away from this brute that held him captive.

“I shouldn’t do that,” the man said. The deadly calm in his voice stopped Frodo’s struggle immediately. His accent was strange, rather flat, and yet there was cool nobility to it. This was no ruffian of crude background. The rope that dug into the skin of his wrists and ankles burned with new ferocity from the struggle. He gasped for breath, staring with wild fear into those grim, shadowed eyes.

The man made his way closer to him. “If you give me your word you will not fight me, I shall unbind your hands and feet for a time.” Those eyes - now Frodo could see that there was a green tint to them -- hardened. “But should you try to flee, I will not hesitate to bring you to a halt with an arrow.” For the first time, Frodo caught sight of the many weapons this man had about him. He had never seen so many in one place -- long sword, hunting knives, arrows, a bow nearly as tall as Frodo.

A mourning dove cooed and was answered by another, and a breeze rattled the thorns on a nearby shrub. A pink tint had begun to fill the sky to the east. Frodo trembled. He was out in the wild, who knew how far from home, at the mercy of one of the Big People who had kidnapped him. But why? He was so cold. His attackers had not been so courteous as to grab a cloak for him. With a lump in his throat, he thought about his warm feather bed and soft pillows, where he should be right now instead of here…wherever here was.

“Who…who are you?” Frodo finally managed, still shivering. Not that a kidnapper, as refined as he seemed, would tell him anything of use.

The man untied the rope around Frodo’s wrists and ankles. He spoke in a courteous manner. “I am called Halbarad, and I am a Ranger of the North.” Frodo rolled to a sitting position so that he leaned against the trunk of the tree behind him. He rubbed his wrists, desperate to feel life in them again.

He looked at the man. “A Ranger…Then why…why have you taken me?” Frodo knew about Rangers. Bilbo used to speak fondly of them, of their tireless work to protect the Shire unbeknownst to most hobbits. “I thought Rangers were good.”

He still could not move his fingers. His struggles had resulted in swelling welts across his wrists that burned.

Halbarad dug in his pack and took out a small box. When he opened it, a soothing scent came to Frodo that hinted of mint and other herbs from the garden. Frodo’s throat caught as he thought about Sam. What would he think when he came to work and his master was not in bed? And this, of course, brought Frodo back to the problem at hand, which was that he did not know why he had been captured and where this man planned to take him. His heart sped and his stomach heaved and churned.

Halbarad grasped one of his wrists. Frodo cringed, rather expecting to be handled roughly, but the man’s touch was exact and surprisingly gentle. He dipped his finger into the salve and rubbed it over the welts. “This will take down the swelling.” Instantly the aggravated skin began to feel better, and Frodo felt warm in Halbarad’s grip. But then he cringed inside, furious with himself.

What is wrong with you? This man captured you, bound you as if you were a pig going to slaughter…

“Why?” Frodo finally asked him in a choked voice. “Why am I here?” He looked wildly around him. “Please. You must take me back.” He gasped, clutching his chest, barely able to catch his breath, his heart speeding again with that horrible, out of control panic. But Halbarad only watched him with suspicion.

Frodo jumped to his feet in a panic, but Halbarad, quick as a snake, grabbed his arm and shoved him down, hard, so that his back hit the trunk, knocking the breath from him.

When Frodo caught his breath again, he whispered, “You didn’t need to do that.” He trembled, but now it was from fury instead of fear. How dare this hulking beast fling him about just because he was bigger and stronger! How dare he look at him with such scorn!

Halbarad glared at him. “Do not get up again.”

Frodo leaped to his feet again, breathing hard. “This nonsense is over. I am going home now.”

Halbarad did not touch him again, but he spoke in that same calm voice. “If I must use force on you again, you will be tied up.”

Frodo stared at him, poised to run but frozen in place, his chest heaving, sweat pouring down his back despite the chilly air. Halbarad could easily overtake him. It would be foolish to run. When Halbarad caught him, he would likely not be gentle, and Frodo would end up bound again, and his hands had scarcely gained back feeling. He sat with a resigned sigh.

“Where are we?” Frodo asked.

“That is not your concern.”

Frodo swallowed his fury and tried to match Halbarad’s calmness in his own voice. “You have taken me from my home, beaten me,” He touched the knot on his head, “and now you are keeping me against my will. The least you can do is tell me why.”

Halbarad pushed back his hood, revealing a crop of thick dark hair and eyes that looked silver-green in the moonlight. Frodo was surprised that he was actually rather handsome. He had expected some sort of ogre.

“I’ve not beaten you, nor shall I,” Halbarad said, curling and uncurling his fist, which was protected by a leather fingerless glove, “although it is sorely tempting at this moment. You can thank the hobbits of your village for that knot on your head.”

Frodo touched the bump, and the fury seeped from him, leaving him weary and wounded at the thought that it was hobbits who had done this to him. Who hated him so much that they had attacked him in the middle of the night and brought him to this man? Lotho Sackville-Baggins, of course. He had never accepted Bilbo making Frodo his heir. Or perhaps it had been Ted Sandyman, who had never thought much of him. But even the most nuisances of hobbits simply did not commit such dreadful acts against one another. And yet some had - Frodo distinctly remembered hobbits with bags over their heads.

He shuddered. “Why?”

Halbarad met his gaze then, and in that moment Frodo noticed that he had a scar just above his upper lip and that his face was both youthful and ancient. The Rangers of Eriador, so Bilbo had told Frodo, were a noble race of Kings. Frodo’s heart flopped as he studied his face again.

You fool, Frodo thought to himself, flushing. There’s no need to be looking at this Ranger with any of those kinds of thoughts.

But Halbarad’s next words took any pleasant flutters in Frodo’s belly far, far away. “Because no hobbit has ever before taken the life of another hobbit, and the people of your village want you banished from the Shire. It is my duty to bring you to Bree, where you may or may not be locked up or even hung. Thankfully, that is not for me to decide.”

Frodo’s chest turned cold and for several moments he could not breathe. He could only stare at Halbarad, his cheeks feeling hollow, as if he had been slapped. Bilbo had always said, with some scorn, that the hobbits of the Shire were unaware of the tireless watch of the Rangers. Whoever had done this to him must have been familiar with folk outside the Shire.

Or this was a dreadful jest, a prank.

At last Frodo spoke again, but his lips felt numb. “Pardon?” His tongue was clumsy and uncooperative. “Is this a jest? Who…? Did Merry and Pippin do this?” He shook his head until he grew dizzy, glancing at the moon as if for inspiration. “No…not even they would do something like this. This is not funny at all.”

“This is no jest.” Halbarad’s eyes glinted. “It seems many believe you guilty of the murder of Bilbo Baggins.”

Frodo’s mouth fell open and he stared at the Ranger. Everything fell apart inside him as a mighty roar filled his ears. The dark water from his dream churned inside him, choking, drowning his senses.

No, no, of course that could not be true. Bilbo was on his big adventure. Bilbo was with the Elves. He had gone to finish his book. He could not be dead. He clenched his fists, willing the black haze in front of his eyes to go away.

As much as he did not want to believe it, tears trickled down his face. If it was true, never again would he and Bilbo celebrate a birthday or share tales or jest about how dull and stodgy most of the hobbits of the Shire were. Never again would he hear Bilbo’s cheerful laughter or hear him pronounce Elvish words. Frodo had always held close to his heart the belief - no, the knowledge -- that he would see Bilbo again.

He covered his face, feeling so cold because now he felt truly alone in the world. Halbarad’s unsympathetic demeanor burned him, and all he wanted was to be alone. Frodo looked up again and managed, “Where…where did you…where did they find him?”

He simply could not envision Bilbo’s body, lifeless. If someone had deliberately slain him, Frodo would find whoever did it himself. This person - whether hobbit or man or beast or monster -- would pay for it, or Frodo would die trying. Frodo clenched his fists, longing now to use them against this Ranger. For all he knew, he had done it. The Rangers as far as Bilbo knew were noble, but there were always exceptions to any rule.

Halbarad looked at him, his eyes hard. “As his heir, I expect you should be able to tell me. As Rangers of Eriador, we protect this land, not only from evil from the Outside, but also from within.”

A heady rage seeped from Frodo, leaving him weary and cold again. Bilbo, gone forever - no, it couldn’t be!

Frodo looked up at Halbarad, his eyes sharp with suspicion. “Wait. You said you did not find Bilbo?” Hope caught fire in his heart.

If the Ranger had not actually found Bilbo, then Bilbo was not dead as far as Frodo was concerned. The Sackville-Bagginses had struck a low blow, desperate to get Bag End. How convenient for them if they could get Frodo banished from the Shire, even put to death by the law in Bree. After all, the Sackville-Bagginses were next in line after Frodo’s death. His stomach churned with hot fury - at the Sackville-Bagginses for being so cruel, at this Ranger for being ignorant and brutish, and mostly at Bilbo for leaving and never writing or letting Frodo know that at least he lived.

“Nay,” Halbarad said. “But that does not mean anything.”

Frodo met his gaze, his eyes forbidding, deep blue and cold. “Oh, I can tell you for certain that Bilbo is alive.”

“I must bind you before we sleep. Know this, Frodo. I am a Ranger. If you attempt to escape, I shall hear you. And it will not end well for you.”

Frodo’s chest heated with indignation. “And,” he said. “I am a hobbit. We are known for being able to disappear from the sight of men and we’ve done so for far longer than you’ve been a Ranger.”

Halbarad laughed grimly. “The hobbit who informed on you warned me that you were spoiled and unpleasant to deal with. We cannot reach Bree soon enough.”

Frodo was stunned into silence. He felt like a child who had wandered into a dark room and was suddenly pelted by rocks from all directions.

He did not struggle or even meet Halbarad’s eyes as the Ranger tied his wrists in front of him again.

Frodo was still bound, but now he lay on his back in a pile of leaves, and Halbarad anchored his wrists above his head with one hand, looming over him. His eyes no longer gleamed stern and scornful, but now were bright with lust.

“Is it all right that you’re tied?” Halbarad’s voice was hoarse with longing. “If not, I shall unbind you.”

Frodo’s arousal was painful against the velvet of his breeches. He was at Halbarad’s mercy, and he found it unbearably tantalizing - Halbarad’s free hand, the one not holding Frodo’s wrists, stroked him under his clothing until he writhed and gasped.

Helpless.

“No,” Frodo choked. “Do not untie me.” He arched into Halbarad’s touch.

Halbarad planted a sweet kiss on his lips, “my sweet fallen star. I love you so.”

“I…and you, too,” Frodo gasped, thrusting into Halbarad’s touch, needing more, harder, or he would go mad.

Halbarad yanked Frodo’s breeches down, first down over one hip, then over the other, still holding his wrists. He took Frodo’s stiff member in hand and stroked, and his callused skin caused pleasurable flutters in Frodo’s belly and he gasped, grinding madly into Halbarad’s grasp. Then Halbarad’s grasp on him tightened, and he stroked harder and faster, and the abrasion brought Frodo nearly to the edge over and over again.

Frodo felt something large and warm push into him and fill him - stretching him. Halbarad was lying on him, his weight pressing him into the ground, his lips devouring Frodo’s.

There was no pain - only delightful quivers that augmented as Halbarad thrust harder and harder and oh, oh, Halbarad, oh -

“Frodo.” Something shook his shoulder, hard.

It was Halbarad’s voice, urgent, but it came from afar.

“Frodo.”

Frodo snapped awake, breathless, beaded with sweat, his groin shuddering - and now hot and wet.

A dream. Only a dream.

Frodo’s cheeks flamed as he met Halbarad’s curious gaze. The sun was bright in the sky. He had slept far into the morning.

“What is it?” His wrists were still bound. There was no way to hide the appalling wet on his breeches.

“You were groaning in your sleep,” Halbarad said. “You called out my name, so I wondered…whether you were in pain.” Halbarad’s lips twitched and he glanced right at Frodo’s groin.

“It was a nightmare,” Frodo said, flushing. “You were in it. You were dragging me into a cave and were about to slay me, to thrust your sword inside my -”

Halbarad burst into loud laughter, and as Frodo realized the error of his words, his ears flamed hot.

“Oh, you’re abominable,” he choked.

“I’ve lain with a man,” Halbarad said.

“How nice for you,” Frodo snapped, closing his eyes. “Now leave me be.” The wet spot in his breeches now felt cold and dirty. How could he have had such a dream about this brute of a man?

But he could not help that his heart pattered with excitement. Halbarad had been with men. What had happened in Frodo’s dream was not beyond the realm of possibility. And Halbarad was so powerful and strong and hardened - just what couldn’t he do with those hands?

“But with a hobbit?” Halbarad said with a snort. “I think not -“

“You flatter yourself,” Frodo said, his cheeks burning. “Even if you fancied it, you’d not have it. Not if you were the last man in Middle-earth.” After a moment, he added, “I would probably lie with a Big Person, were he kind and just.”

Halbarad ignored Frodo’s indignation and asked seriously, “Is it common among hobbits to fancy men?”

Frodo squinted at him, shocked by his self-importance. “Absolutely not,” he said when he regained his voice. “For one thing, we do not think kindly of Big People.” Frodo thrust out his bound wrists. “Bullying nuisances, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I misspoke,” Halbarad said, and his voice had taken on a nearly dreamy tone that tugged at Frodo’s heart against his will. “I did not mean of the race of Men. I meant among your own kind.”

Frodo smiled. “It happens. The Shire is a traditional society where hobbit families worry about the honor of their daughters but not so much about that of their sons…so it is only with other males that we learn pleasure.”

“This is often true among Rangers as well,” Halbarad said. “Although the life of a Ranger is mostly lonely.”

“I can see why,” Frodo said, his words coming out in a rush, eager to strike back at Halbarad for humiliating him. “You’ve not had a bath in quite some time, I’d guess. And your manner is not exactly congenial. I’d not touch you…in that way.”

“I’d not be interested,” Halbarad said, but he looked away, and his eyes flickered, just a little, and Frodo’s heart skipped. “Not if I were sinking in quicksand and you had the last stick in Middle-earth.”

But he untied the rope around Frodo’s wrists and feet. “Come,” he said with a teasing grin. “You must be starving.”

“I am,” Frodo said, his stomach growling. He moved to sit on a nearby log. He did not wish to accept food from Halbarad like a tamed animal, but his other choice was to starve.

“Here,” Halbarad said, pulling free from his pack some dried meat. “It is not very tasty, but it is something. We should reach Bree by nightfall.”

Frodo’s heart sank hard and fast in his chest. He thought about what awaited him there - more brutish men, prison, possibly death - and lost his appetite. As kindly as Halbarad could be at times, he seemed determined to deliver Frodo to this awful fate as planned.

As Halbarad drew closer, Frodo glanced at the weapons around his belt. He took a breath. With the flick of his wrist, he grabbed the hilt of a hunting knife and yanked it free, aiming it toward Halbarad’s throat. Frodo had no intention of actually harming Halbarad, only of frightening him. He had no chance to do anything because within a second, he hit the ground hard on his back and Halbarad knelt over him, his knees pressed against Frodo’s hips, anchoring him in place, holding his throat so that his head was thrust back.

Halbarad’s eyes glinted dangerously. “That, Frodo, was a mistake you shall never repeat.”

Frodo could not breathe - Halbarad was pressing too hard on his throat.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Frodo managed a quick nod and Halbarad released him and pulled him to his feet again, pushing him none too gently back to the log. Frodo clutched his arms together, his heart beating hard, unable to meet Halbarad’s eyes. He should never have been fool enough to try that. He had been close to gaining Halbarad’s trust. Now he would surely be tied up and there might never be another chance to flee.

“I won’t bind you,” Halbarad said in a dangerous voice, as if he read Frodo’s mind. “Because I am certain you will never do that again. You never touch a man’s weapon without his permission, not unless you wish to die by it.”

This might be his only chance. They had reached a large clearing, with a crop of wild, thick woods ahead, plenty of places in which to hide. Frodo backed up, first just one step, testing, and when Halbarad still did not take notice, he took a few more steps. Halbarad was still occupied, staring behind him where he had thought he heard footfalls. Frodo’s backward treads were silent - no grass or weeds crackled beneath his feet if he willed it so. When he had backed up more than a few steps, he turned suddenly and took off in a dash.

“Hey! Hoy!” Halbarad’s shout was hoarse. If Frodo could just make it to the woods, there would be plenty of places to hide. Later he could think about how he would get home. For now, his only goal was to get away from Halbarad.

Something hard struck the back of Frodo’s right thigh, knocking him off balance and flat on his face. His leg burst into excruciating pain, as if he had been bit by a wild animal, and as he looked over his shoulder to see what had hit him, he saw that a thick arrow pierced his skin and he could feel a thick stream of blood trickling down his leg. The pain came in cruel waves now, so that Frodo was afraid to touch the arrow, much less pull it out. Dizziness overcame him as Halbarad ran to him, his face dark with rage.

Halbarad knelt, reaching for Frodo’s hurt leg. “You fool.”

“Don’t you touch me!” Frodo cuffed him. Halbarad did not see it coming and Frodo’s fist cracked against his jaw. Halbarad fell back. Frodo struggled to his knees, but the pain gripped his leg, rendering it completely useless. He fell forward again with a frustrated cry.

Halbarad spoke harshly. “You best lie still while I remove the arrow because if I don’t, an infection will develop and you’ll lose the leg. Is that what you want?”

Frodo did not speak. His stomach heaved, and saliva filled his mouth - he was going to throw up, right in front of Halbarad, who would more than certainly think he deserved it.

And in that moment, any fondness that had crept into his heart for Halbarad trickled away, leaving him bewildered and wounded, ill that he had ever felt anything for him, dreamed about him being kind and loving. The very idea now curdled his stomach and --

He threw up in the dirt.

Halbarad held down Frodo’s leg and with no warning or mercy, he yanked the arrow out. The ripping agony shot up and down his leg in mighty waves, and Frodo bit his arm to keep from screaming.

The world tilted and faded.

His leg hurt like never before. All through his pounding, delirious dreams, during which he sat across from Bilbo and told him all that had happened.

Oh, my boy, Bilbo said. I am sorry for all this. I shall come back to Bag End and live with you. Would that be all right?

Frodo’s heart soared, but a steady aching, throbbing, pounding turned his stomach and beaded his brow with sweat. He opened his eyes and saw Halbarad, hood off his face, staring forward, looking hard. Frodo bit his lip, not daring to complain about the pain. A chill took him.

Halbarad came to him then and changed the dressing on his wound. Frodo bit his lip again until blood trickled from it, determined not to cry out. This time Halbarad’s eyes glinted with concern.

“You are in much pain,” he said quietly. “I am sorry.”

“No,” Frodo said, biting back a groan. “I’m all right. Leave me be.”

Frodo clenched his hands together, determined not to complain about the pain, but sometimes he could not help the groans that slipped out. He had thrown up several times and now the stench of vomit filled his nostrils, churning his stomach worse than ever.

Halbarad left him, but there was no way that Frodo could get up, much less flee.

When Halbarad returned, Frodo could bear it no longer.

“I beg of you. I know you think…perhaps you think I deserve this, but …Do you not have anything at all to ease the pain? Just a little? It is unbearable…” He could not stop his shivering.

Halbarad covered him with his own cloak, looking at him in shame. “I regret doing this,” he said quietly. “Come, I have brought athelas, a healing herb. It should ease the pain.”

“We’re not in Bree yet?” Frodo asked.

“Nay, we cannot travel just yet.”

“I should very much like to be hung right now,” Frodo said, shivering even under Halbarad’s heavy cloak. “I hope they do it sooner rather than later.”

Halbarad stared at him for a long time, his eyes naked with something - perhaps regret or pity or even bewilderment of a kind. “You called his name.”

“Whose name?”

Halbarad rubbed the athelas into the wound and while it stung at first, the pain soon faded to a dull hum.

“Bilbo’s.”

“Halbarad!”

Frodo startled awake to see a man, dressed in a similar manner to Halbarad and bearing enough of a resemblance to him to indicate that they were kin, stride into the clearing. Frodo was too weary to wonder what this change meant for him.

Halbarad jumped up with a cry of joy. “Strider! Well met!” They embraced.

Frodo’s eyes closed again, despite his curiosity. The herbs that Halbarad had given him had not only eased the pain, but had kept him in state of half-sleep that was comforting and warm. He had no urge to move again - ever.

Strider knelt beside Frodo. “What is this? Halbarad, why do you have one of the halflings? Has he been injured?” He put his hand on Frodo’s brow. His touch was gentle, his eyes kind.

Halbarad beckoned to Strider so that they could speak privately, but Frodo’s sharp ears caught their words. “This one was brought to me by his own people,” Halbarad said. “They wish him to be banished to Bree for the murder of one of their own.”

Strider let out a dismayed sigh. “That is unheard of.”

“This hobbit insists on his innocence. He refuses to believe that the old fellow, who is his cousin who made him heir, is dead. Yet he cannot tell me where he is.”

“There was no corpse?” Strider asked doubtfully. Frodo’s heart swelled. Already he sensed that this Strider was on his side.

“Nay.”

“Then this accusation was false to begin with. My guess is that someone in this hobbit’s village did not much like that he was made heir.”

“That is what I’ve been turning in my head,” Halbarad said. “Although I’d never admit it to him. He’s got a terribly stubborn streak.”

“What happened to his leg?”

“A few days ago I was forced to shoot him to stop him from fleeing.”

Strider’s voice sharpened. “You could not outrun him?”

“He had nearly reached a thick crop of woods where he could have hidden anywhere.”

“What is this hobbit’s name?”

“Frodo Baggins. His kin arrested him and brought him to me for the murder of his cousin, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Bilbo Baggins?” Strider asked in surprise, but his voice brightened. “And tell me. Just when was this murder to have taken place?”

“About three years ago.”

“Well, that is certainly odd, Halbarad. For I just saw Bilbo Baggins a few weeks ago in Rivendell.”

Frodo’s heart soared and he sat up, clutching Halbarad’s cloak to him, ignoring the pain in his leg, but unable to keep from breaking into the conversation. “You know Bilbo!”

Strider turned to him with a delighted grin. “You’re a pert fellow!” He knelt beside Frodo, taking his cheeks between his hands and kissing his brow, leaving both Halbarad and Frodo in shocked silence. “Please forgive me, Frodo, but your cousin Bilbo is a dear friend of the Elves and of me. And he is very much alive. Halbarad, this is Frodo, Bilbo’s heir. He is beloved by Bilbo and by Mithrandir, the wizard.” Strider smiled at Frodo. “Gandalf, as you know him.”

Frodo rather enjoyed the stunned look on Halbarad’s face.

“You know Gandalf, too?” Frodo asked joyfully. This Strider had such kindly gray eyes.

“I wonder,” Strider said, “who wanted you banished so badly that they would plan such an elaborate scheme.”

“Then I have made a grievous mistake,” Halbarad said, groaning.

“You did what you thought was right,” Strider said. “I am glad I came in time.”

“It is all right,” Frodo added, feeling warm and generous. “But please understand, Halbarad, that I should be very glad if I never again see you again.” At the corner of his eye, he thought that Halbarad might have winced. “Strider, tell me everything about Bilbo.”

Strider examined Frodo’s injury, changing the dressing again, while he spoke in soft, gentle tones about Bilbo, the Elves, and of Rivendell.

After Frodo had fallen into a doze, he heard Strider’s voice.

“Halbarad, I shall take Frodo home. You go on to Bree. I shall meet you there in one week’s time. I have other matters of importance to discuss.”

“Um,” Halbarad answered in agreement.

“Do not let your heart grow heavy,” Strider said in a softer tone. “It was an honest mistake.”

“I had begun to grow fond of him,” Halbarad said.

“I can see that. Do not lose hope. I shall take him home. But perhaps after a time your paths might cross again.”

Halbarad’s voice was low with shame. “He abhors me. And with good reason.”

“I don’t imagine he will hold a grudge forever.”

“Perhaps not.” There was a long pause before Halbarad continued again, his voice lighter this time. “Strider, did you know that hobbits…?” His voice dropped so low that Frodo could not hear him.

Strider laughed.

“That does not surprise me,” was his answer.

“And he said he would…with a Big Person who was kind and just.” He paused. “I intend to be that man, Strider.”

Frodo could not help but smile, rather heartless, in half-sleep.

Not if you were the last man in Middle-earth and I the last hobbit.

His smile softened. Ah, but Strider was another matter altogether.

END