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Too long to wait: Last Peaceful Night
Disclaimer: Don’t own anything. Don’t make any money off it.
WARNING: Plenty of schmoop!!
Aragorn strode with heavy steps through the citadel, alone and lost, carrying a cup of tea meant for the weeping boy. He could not fully picture the boy, only remembered his dark curls, but he could hear his great sobs echoing through the corridors. Aragorn tried to shake the fog from his mind. Was he not the king? Should he not know every nook and cranny of the citadel? Sleet hissed against the stone outside and a chill permeated him, gripping his already cold heart.
The boy (Ellohir, they had called him, just as planned) cried often now. Sometimes he cried so hard and long, like today, that Aragorn had to brew him an herbal tea to put him to sleep. Breathing in the steam of the tea, Aragorn swallowed the stone ache in his own throat. Scent evoked the most vivid of memories, and this ripped at his heart. The tea had been one of Frodo’s favorites.
Frodo was everywhere, and Aragorn had no heart to get rid of his clothes or his books or his confounded Elvish translations. A half-written letter to Sam lay crumpled on the bedside table still, and Aragorn could not touch it, as if by leaving it just as Frodo had left it, it would keep his spirit near.
Everyone spoke in hushed whispers. The king is in mourning, they said. Nobody had spoken to him in days, and he vaguely wondered if all was well in his kingdom. Frodo would not like him creeping through the dark corridors, too choked to help the boy Frodo had died trying to birth. No, Frodo would not like it at all, but Aragorn was helpless, too crushed to bear the stretch of lonely years before him. Without Frodo, his life was a sour note on a harp, a day of sleet and cold.
Then -- at the end of the corridor, he saw him. He was on one knee, playing a game of sticks and stones with some of the sons of the guards. His dark curls, his sure hand, his hairy feet - Aragorn would know them anywhere. He turned to meet Aragorn’s eyes, and Aragorn stopped, struck dumb. Frodo’s eyes were filled with such agony of loss, his lips slightly parted as if he were shocked to see Aragorn again, as if Aragorn had been the one lost the day of Ellohir’s birth. Still, Aragorn’s heart skipped with joy. Frodo had not died at all - he had merely been attending to other business in the citadel!
“Frodo!” Aragorn rushed to greet him, but as he drew closer, the face changed. Blue eyes faded into brown, the cheekbones became more gaunt, the nose larger, the voice high and boyish. And there had never been hairy hobbit feet. The boy’s feet were covered in soft leather shoes.
Just a boy of the citadel. Not Frodo at all.
In the grief that assailed him, he could only stand, eyes closed, listening to the icy batter against the stone walls. Gone…gone forever.
Aragorn woke into darkness, in his own bed, and found he was trembling and cold, despite the warm spring breeze that blew in the open window.
Aragorn turned so that his weight rested on his elbow, and under the faint light of the moon, he watched Frodo sleep. For a long time, he watched the shallow rise and fall of the hobbit’s chest. Frodo was barely able to take in enough breath amidst the huge mound that nourished and protected their child. The skin was stretched to capacity and sometimes Aragorn caught movement under Frodo’s nightshirt as a tiny, restless foot kicked from the inside.
Frodo’s face was dear, so peaceful. How Aragorn wished he could hold back the inevitable flood of agony that was soon to grip his darling! He shivered, thinking about the dream. No. He would not let it come to that. He could not. The hands of a king were that of a healer, and he would save his Frodo.
Frodo cracked open his eyes and a lazy smile spread over his face. His hand found Aragorn’s and squeezed gently. “You’re still awake?”
Aragorn stroked Frodo’s belly, massaging in small circles. “How do you feel? Does your back still ache?”
“I feel all right.” Frodo closed his eyes, the smile still on his face. “It will be soon.”
“Do you feel pain?” Aragorn asked, his hand freezing.
“No…” Frodo said. “But I know. He is ready to come.”
“And you know it is a boy still?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I shall trust your word,” Aragorn said. “Do you want anything? Tea? A cold drink?” He smiled. “A full hobbit meal?”
Frodo laughed slightly, holding Aragorn’s hand down. “No thank you. I am not hungry. Not now.”
The deep sadness in Frodo’s eyes pierced Aragorn’s heart. And he pictured him at the end of a corridor, playing sticks and stones. Aragorn shivered.
“Are you cold, Aragorn? You could build a fire. I am always warm these days, but there is no reason for you to suffer.”
Aragorn forced a smile as he continued the massaging of Frodo’s belly. “No…no, I am fine.”
He was now glad that Frodo did not wish for tea or a hobbity meal, because at this moment, he could not bear to be apart from him. He needed to feel Frodo’s skin warm beneath his touch, needed to hear his voice and see his bright eyes that would not fade before him.
Frodo let out a deep sigh of contentment. “Ah…Ellohir.” He placed his hands over his belly. “Dear Ellohir. What a fine name!” He looked at Aragorn. “I thought you were silly when you did not want to actually name him Elrohir. Now I understand. When I think of Ellohir, I see the one inside me - and he is warm and joyful.”
“And I am certain you are right.”
Aragorn kissed Frodo, and Frodo opened his mouth to him with eager yearning. His lips were warm, pulsing with life, and the chill that had shaken Aragorn since he had awakened at last faded.