Winds Over Eriador, part 7
Title: Winds Over Eriador
Author: Claudia
Pairing: various (main: Frodo/Faramir, Frodo/Aragorn, Pippin/Faramir(unrequited), Merry/Pippin...)
Rating: series varies
Summary: note. This is a crossover fic (sort of, since it all takes place in Middle Earth with Tolkien characters ONLY) between LOTR and Gone with the Wind. This is such complete crack -- but I'm having a blast writing it! (I love all you enablers, by the way!)
Warnings in this chapter: AU, battle wound ickiness
This chapter has both Frodo's and Pippin's POV.
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Pippin slammed the door to Frodo and Bilbo’s cottage and leaned heavily against it. He never wanted to return to the healing cottage again. He hated the stench, the dying groans, the filth, and always the disapproving glare of the Rangers, who always had harsh words for him, as if he were a wayward child. Halbarad had just now severely reprimanded him for sitting on the edge of an injured man’s bed while binding a wound. Just after that, he had spilled boiling water all over the floor and burned his hand, which had angered Halbarad further, and then Strider had sent him home, as there were other hobbits who were quiet and modest and much more up to the task. Yes, far better if he had learned the skill of archery and followed Merry into battle. He scowled. And furthermore, those Rangers were completely immune to his charms. Halbarad rarely had anything but a scowl for him and Strider was just impassive. The only hobbit he was ever truly nice to was Frodo, and Frodo was completely oblivious to his gentle attentions. Well, Pippin would see if he could get out of healing duty. There was surely something else he could do to be of use.
Frodo and Bilbo had left a note that they were out visiting some of the elderly hobbits of Bree who now lived alone. Frodo and Bilbo had gotten into a pattern of visiting some families each day, bringing them food and making certain they were doing well. Many of these elderly hobbits, who had refused to budge from their homes, had family who had fled Bree for the safety of the Shire.
Pippin took this opportunity of an empty cottage to slip into Frodo’s room. He knew just where to go - the sturdy writing desk that was usually cluttered with paper and maps and ink. There was a tiny drawer just on the side of the desk. Pippin pulled open the drawer and took out a pile of letters wrapped in twine.
His heart thudded as he listened for the front door. Frodo was always most generous with his letters from Faramir. Often he read them at breakfast, his blue eyes shining with pride. Still, Pippin burned to know what was in the parts of the letter that Frodo did not read aloud. Perhaps Faramir waxed poetic of his love for Frodo. It would be painful, but Pippin had to know.
Pippin opened the first letter, his fingers trembling with guilt.
My darling Frodo,
You have showed some alarm, lest I have concealed my true feelings…
Pippin looked up, his mouth falling open in shock. Could it be? Perhaps Faramir - alone and on the battlefield - had given thought to how he actually felt toward Pippin. Perhaps it was muddying his feelings toward Frodo, and Frodo had picked up on that.
Pippin read on:
If I have concealed my thoughts, it is only to protect you from my mind, which rages like a nest of hornets - full of doubt and grief. How did it come to this, dear Frodo? All I have ever wanted is to live in peaceful times with the people I love. All I have ever wanted was to read tales and learn languages and listen to sweet music…to live in a dream that you and I share. Instead I am watching men I have grown to love shot down bleeding. Instead I am facing men in battle that I recognize from childhood. My greatest fear, my Frodo, is that I should meet my brother in battle. This would break me inside. My dear Frodo-
Pippin put down the letter. What twaddle! Pippin snorted with some scorn. Faramir felt no true passion for Frodo. Frodo of course wouldn’t know the difference because lovers had never flocked around Bag End as they always had around the Great Smials. But this letter was as one friend might write to another, not full of the ardor of a lover.
Pippin pawed through the pile and pulled out another letter:
Dearest Frodo,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. You are taking care of yourself? I can endure the worst circumstances if I know that you and yours are well. In your last letter, you expressed concern for me having seen a childhood friend on the other side of battle. Fear not for my heart, my Frodo. I do not relish the act of slaying anyone - man or beast. I slay only if it means the choice between my life and his - or the life of one of the good Rangers of the North who have become so dear to me.
Again, more twaddle. Pippin laughed with some relief as he put the pile of letters back inside the drawer. Faramir was not writing endearments or speaking of what he would like to do if he and Frodo were alone. In fact, Pippin had begun to hold the rather uncharitable notion that the influential Bilbo Baggins had convinced Faramir to take vows with Frodo for their protection and that there was no real love there at all. While Faramir was gone, Pippin could easily believe that Faramir actually loved Pippin but was bound to Frodo for the sake of convenience.
***
Frodo felt much better, although he still felt weak and shaky. The sun was out, and at least the fresh air did him good. And he found that walking to the healing cottage cleared his head. Upon entering the cottage, he paused awkwardly when he found only Halbarad there. He remembered all too well the harsh fury in the ranger’s face when Frodo had used too much of the athelas leaf. Frodo was shy to the point of pain around most Men, with the exception of Faramir and the healer Bill, and the very idea of being alone with Halbarad instead of Bill turned his cheeks hot and red.
Halbarad noticed him and surprisingly, he offered him a gentle smile. “Mr. Baggins, I wish to apologize for my harsh words the other day. You had no way of knowing. I forget often that my voice can be frightening, especially to hobbits unaccustomed to men. Please accept my apology.”
Frodo nodded. “It is quite all right. I regret what happened. The last thing I want is to contribute to a shortage of pain relief.” Frodo bowed, his cheeks still hot. “If there is anything I can do to make up for my error, gladly I will. I am small and quiet - if you need me to seek more of this herb outside of Bree, I can-“
Halbarad shook his head, laughing a little. “Nay, that will not be necessary. Are you certain you are well again?”
“I am much better, thank you.”
“Then I need all the help you can give me. Five very injured men were brought in early this morning.”
Frodo was suddenly struck by the stench that came from the healing cottage’s main room. His stomach rolled again, and he willed it to silence. He would not let himself grow ill - not when he was so needed. And he wanted to help more than anything. For all he knew, Faramir could be lying ill or injured, perhaps in another village, being helped by strangers -- hobbits or men who did not know that someone far away loved him.
Halbarad barked out orders, and Frodo followed, cringing any time he made an error. Halbarad was far too busy to reprimand him. Frodo wondered where Aragorn was, but there was no time to wonder for long. He felt light-headed and nauseated, but he swallowed it and worked through it. These men needed soothing wet cloths over hot brows, a nearly constant bedpan for water diseases that strove to drain their life from them, and they needed fresh water at their dry lips. And the lice - they were everywhere, crawling into men’s ears and other dark places in the body until the men were in tears, helpless to stop the discomfort, and Frodo had to stick his small fingers into a variety of places to give them relief. And the stench. It worsened as the day progressed. Sweat poured down Frodo’s back and face, making his curls cling to his brow and his shirt stick to his aching back.
One of the men clasped Frodo’s hand. His breath stunk of impending death, and his eyes were glazed. He was a Ranger, taller than the stout Bree folk. Halbarad did not seem to know him personally, but he looked to be kin.
“Please…” the man gasped. “Please…can you write?”
“Yes.”
“Can you…a letter to my wife and son.”
“Gladly I’ll do this,” Frodo said. He found paper and ink and settled beside the man to listen to his soft, fading voice. He whispered of his love for his wife and infant son, his sorrow that he would never again see them, his hope for their future. When at last he took his last breath, he had a content smile on his face. Frodo, unable to keep from weeping, cut a lock of his hair and put it inside the envelope. The world swam around him through blurry eyes as he sealed the envelope.
“Frodo, I need you,” came a new clipped voice. Frodo looked up, happy to see Aragorn. He flushed in memory of the man’s gentle voice and his arms around him the day he had carried him home.
“It is one of your men…” Frodo said, wiping his eyes with his filthy shirt sleeve. “May I please take this to The Prancing Pony to be sent?”
“There’s no time,” Halbarad said, but Aragorn looked at Frodo carefully.
“You have overtaxed yourself,” he said. “Halbarad, this hobbit is not well and should not be putting in a full day.”
“I am all right,” Frodo said, flushing. He did not wish for special treatment, not when so many men were dying. “These men are worse off than me.”
“All the same, I would have you go ahead and deliver that letter. Then go home and rest. We will need you again tomorrow.”
***
Aragorn bent over the young Bree man, murmuring Elvish words as he rubbed athelas leaves between his fingers. He had just made an incision in the man’s shoulder wound.
“You know Elvish?” Frodo asked in surprise, holding the roll of bandage steady and trying not to look directly at the bubbling blood. He was flushing again. The young Bree man in the bed groaned deliriously. He burned with fever and infection.
“I was raised in Rivendell,” Aragorn said, washing the wound.
“You speak as though it is your mother tongue.”
“Nearly so.”
“Does Halbarad speak Elvish?”
“Not quite as well.”
“What was it like growing up among Elves?”
Aragorn smiled as he sutured the wound and signaled for Frodo to hand him the bandage. “It was a short time I had in Rivendell compared to the rest of my life.”
“It cannot be that long ago. You’ve only just grown, haven’t you?”
“I’m one of the Dunedain, Frodo. I am far older than I look.”
“You cannot be that old,” Frodo said, nearly playfully, meeting Aragorn’s gaze. He was feeling braver than ever he had felt with any of the Big Folk besides Faramir.
The Bree man groaned again, and Frodo immediately turned his attention to him, brushing his hair back soothingly and whispering, “You will be all right. Fear not.” He smiled, and the Bree man’s face relaxed and his breathing grew easy. He did not know how he had such effect, but one of the injured Rangers had embarrassed him by telling him that his eyes alone soothed him, as they were like Elvish jewels that gave hope in the darkness.
“You’ve got a gentle touch,” Aragorn said with admiration. “This comes naturally to you.”
“Oh, no,” Frodo murmured. “It is you who have hands of healing.” He dipped cloth in athelas soaked water and wrung it out. He wiped it over the man’s brow, aware that Aragorn was watching him intently.
***
Pippin had not managed to get out of healing duty, nor had his healing skills improved. He simply did not have the gentle and soothing touch that Frodo did. Halbarad fussed at him nearly daily. He had no qualms against using his harshest voice on Pippin, whereas he was always so gentle with Frodo. But Pippin did not have Frodo’s patience and endurance. He could not bear the stench and the screams of pain when gangrened flesh took hold and a limb had to come off with very little to hold the pain. Pippin had to flee in the middle of one such operation, much to the fury of Halbarad.
“You cannot do this,” Strider said to him. “You are nearly of age, young Pippin, and this is serious war time, not some hobbit walking party. Do not come back until you can do your duties with honor.”
Pippin stalked home, unhappy with his state of affairs once again. He hated the healing cottage and he only wished there were an honorable way to get out of it.
When he got home, he found Frodo pacing frantically.
“What is the matter?” Pippin called out. He had not seen Frodo so agitated in quite some time.
“Oh, Pip!” Frodo flung his arms around him and embraced him.
“What is it?” A dart of fear froze Pippin’s heart. “Has something happened to Faramir? Is he-“
“Oh, no!” Frodo shook his head. “I’m sorry to frighten you. It’s not that…Oh, Pippin you are sweet to worry for me, too. I’ve done something dreadful, something unforgivable.”
Frodo sank on the sofa and clenched his knees, staring into the fire without really looking at it. His hands trembled, and bright red blotches marred his pale cheeks.
Pippin sat beside him. “What is it?”
“Pippin…” Frodo sighed and met Pippin’s gaze, his eyes huge and wounded. “Today at the healing cottage, I …I grew very weary and a little ill and Aragorn had me sit beside him. He was…” Frodo shivered. His cheeks burned brighter red still. “He sat close to me and kept his arm around me in a friendly fashion. Then…” Frodo looked down at his hands. “I…Pippin, it felt so wonderful. His arm is so strong and I felt so weak and shaky and…it has been far too long since I’ve felt Faramir’s touch and…well…it felt too good.” He flushed even further and glanced down at his groin.
Pippin nearly laughed aloud. He could not believe Frodo was being so modest. For a hobbit long since come of age, it was quite ridiculous. Such moments were natural for a young lad, nothing to be ashamed of. But Frodo had always been silly and modest that way.
“But Pippin,” Frodo said. “Aragorn could see. He noticed. And…and…I think it pleased him.”
“How do you know?” Pippin flushed with delight. New energy surged through him. He couldn’t say why this bit of news made him feel light and just a little superior. Perhaps it was because it meant that Frodo’s feelings for Faramir were not as sacred as they had originally seemed.
“Then he held me closer and lay his head on mine…and later I saw a gleam in his eyes…the same that Faramir has just before we…”
Pippin closed his eyes and broke in, “Why are you so upset, Frodo? It’s perfectly natural.”
“But…” Frodo looked bewildered. “I’ve been disloyal to Faramir and I’d rather be dead than -“
Pippin giggled. “You didn’t kiss him, did you? You didn’t let him touch you there, did you?”
Frodo’s eyes became wide with horror. “No!” He grinned then. “And you’re teasing now! And Aragorn has far too much honor in him to try.”
“Well then…” Pippin smiled. “No harm done then, cousin.”
Frodo looked worried again. “But perhaps Aragorn has the wrong idea now. Perhaps he will think I am like those hobbits who rut with anyone--”
“He knows where your loyalty lies. Fear not.”
But now Pippin felt a surge of triumph because perhaps Frodo was no longer quite as certain where his loyalty lay.
Go on to next part
Author: Claudia
Pairing: various (main: Frodo/Faramir, Frodo/Aragorn, Pippin/Faramir(unrequited), Merry/Pippin...)
Rating: series varies
Summary: note. This is a crossover fic (sort of, since it all takes place in Middle Earth with Tolkien characters ONLY) between LOTR and Gone with the Wind. This is such complete crack -- but I'm having a blast writing it! (I love all you enablers, by the way!)
Warnings in this chapter: AU, battle wound ickiness
This chapter has both Frodo's and Pippin's POV.
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Pippin slammed the door to Frodo and Bilbo’s cottage and leaned heavily against it. He never wanted to return to the healing cottage again. He hated the stench, the dying groans, the filth, and always the disapproving glare of the Rangers, who always had harsh words for him, as if he were a wayward child. Halbarad had just now severely reprimanded him for sitting on the edge of an injured man’s bed while binding a wound. Just after that, he had spilled boiling water all over the floor and burned his hand, which had angered Halbarad further, and then Strider had sent him home, as there were other hobbits who were quiet and modest and much more up to the task. Yes, far better if he had learned the skill of archery and followed Merry into battle. He scowled. And furthermore, those Rangers were completely immune to his charms. Halbarad rarely had anything but a scowl for him and Strider was just impassive. The only hobbit he was ever truly nice to was Frodo, and Frodo was completely oblivious to his gentle attentions. Well, Pippin would see if he could get out of healing duty. There was surely something else he could do to be of use.
Frodo and Bilbo had left a note that they were out visiting some of the elderly hobbits of Bree who now lived alone. Frodo and Bilbo had gotten into a pattern of visiting some families each day, bringing them food and making certain they were doing well. Many of these elderly hobbits, who had refused to budge from their homes, had family who had fled Bree for the safety of the Shire.
Pippin took this opportunity of an empty cottage to slip into Frodo’s room. He knew just where to go - the sturdy writing desk that was usually cluttered with paper and maps and ink. There was a tiny drawer just on the side of the desk. Pippin pulled open the drawer and took out a pile of letters wrapped in twine.
His heart thudded as he listened for the front door. Frodo was always most generous with his letters from Faramir. Often he read them at breakfast, his blue eyes shining with pride. Still, Pippin burned to know what was in the parts of the letter that Frodo did not read aloud. Perhaps Faramir waxed poetic of his love for Frodo. It would be painful, but Pippin had to know.
Pippin opened the first letter, his fingers trembling with guilt.
My darling Frodo,
You have showed some alarm, lest I have concealed my true feelings…
Pippin looked up, his mouth falling open in shock. Could it be? Perhaps Faramir - alone and on the battlefield - had given thought to how he actually felt toward Pippin. Perhaps it was muddying his feelings toward Frodo, and Frodo had picked up on that.
Pippin read on:
If I have concealed my thoughts, it is only to protect you from my mind, which rages like a nest of hornets - full of doubt and grief. How did it come to this, dear Frodo? All I have ever wanted is to live in peaceful times with the people I love. All I have ever wanted was to read tales and learn languages and listen to sweet music…to live in a dream that you and I share. Instead I am watching men I have grown to love shot down bleeding. Instead I am facing men in battle that I recognize from childhood. My greatest fear, my Frodo, is that I should meet my brother in battle. This would break me inside. My dear Frodo-
Pippin put down the letter. What twaddle! Pippin snorted with some scorn. Faramir felt no true passion for Frodo. Frodo of course wouldn’t know the difference because lovers had never flocked around Bag End as they always had around the Great Smials. But this letter was as one friend might write to another, not full of the ardor of a lover.
Pippin pawed through the pile and pulled out another letter:
Dearest Frodo,
I hope this letter finds you in good health. You are taking care of yourself? I can endure the worst circumstances if I know that you and yours are well. In your last letter, you expressed concern for me having seen a childhood friend on the other side of battle. Fear not for my heart, my Frodo. I do not relish the act of slaying anyone - man or beast. I slay only if it means the choice between my life and his - or the life of one of the good Rangers of the North who have become so dear to me.
Again, more twaddle. Pippin laughed with some relief as he put the pile of letters back inside the drawer. Faramir was not writing endearments or speaking of what he would like to do if he and Frodo were alone. In fact, Pippin had begun to hold the rather uncharitable notion that the influential Bilbo Baggins had convinced Faramir to take vows with Frodo for their protection and that there was no real love there at all. While Faramir was gone, Pippin could easily believe that Faramir actually loved Pippin but was bound to Frodo for the sake of convenience.
***
Frodo felt much better, although he still felt weak and shaky. The sun was out, and at least the fresh air did him good. And he found that walking to the healing cottage cleared his head. Upon entering the cottage, he paused awkwardly when he found only Halbarad there. He remembered all too well the harsh fury in the ranger’s face when Frodo had used too much of the athelas leaf. Frodo was shy to the point of pain around most Men, with the exception of Faramir and the healer Bill, and the very idea of being alone with Halbarad instead of Bill turned his cheeks hot and red.
Halbarad noticed him and surprisingly, he offered him a gentle smile. “Mr. Baggins, I wish to apologize for my harsh words the other day. You had no way of knowing. I forget often that my voice can be frightening, especially to hobbits unaccustomed to men. Please accept my apology.”
Frodo nodded. “It is quite all right. I regret what happened. The last thing I want is to contribute to a shortage of pain relief.” Frodo bowed, his cheeks still hot. “If there is anything I can do to make up for my error, gladly I will. I am small and quiet - if you need me to seek more of this herb outside of Bree, I can-“
Halbarad shook his head, laughing a little. “Nay, that will not be necessary. Are you certain you are well again?”
“I am much better, thank you.”
“Then I need all the help you can give me. Five very injured men were brought in early this morning.”
Frodo was suddenly struck by the stench that came from the healing cottage’s main room. His stomach rolled again, and he willed it to silence. He would not let himself grow ill - not when he was so needed. And he wanted to help more than anything. For all he knew, Faramir could be lying ill or injured, perhaps in another village, being helped by strangers -- hobbits or men who did not know that someone far away loved him.
Halbarad barked out orders, and Frodo followed, cringing any time he made an error. Halbarad was far too busy to reprimand him. Frodo wondered where Aragorn was, but there was no time to wonder for long. He felt light-headed and nauseated, but he swallowed it and worked through it. These men needed soothing wet cloths over hot brows, a nearly constant bedpan for water diseases that strove to drain their life from them, and they needed fresh water at their dry lips. And the lice - they were everywhere, crawling into men’s ears and other dark places in the body until the men were in tears, helpless to stop the discomfort, and Frodo had to stick his small fingers into a variety of places to give them relief. And the stench. It worsened as the day progressed. Sweat poured down Frodo’s back and face, making his curls cling to his brow and his shirt stick to his aching back.
One of the men clasped Frodo’s hand. His breath stunk of impending death, and his eyes were glazed. He was a Ranger, taller than the stout Bree folk. Halbarad did not seem to know him personally, but he looked to be kin.
“Please…” the man gasped. “Please…can you write?”
“Yes.”
“Can you…a letter to my wife and son.”
“Gladly I’ll do this,” Frodo said. He found paper and ink and settled beside the man to listen to his soft, fading voice. He whispered of his love for his wife and infant son, his sorrow that he would never again see them, his hope for their future. When at last he took his last breath, he had a content smile on his face. Frodo, unable to keep from weeping, cut a lock of his hair and put it inside the envelope. The world swam around him through blurry eyes as he sealed the envelope.
“Frodo, I need you,” came a new clipped voice. Frodo looked up, happy to see Aragorn. He flushed in memory of the man’s gentle voice and his arms around him the day he had carried him home.
“It is one of your men…” Frodo said, wiping his eyes with his filthy shirt sleeve. “May I please take this to The Prancing Pony to be sent?”
“There’s no time,” Halbarad said, but Aragorn looked at Frodo carefully.
“You have overtaxed yourself,” he said. “Halbarad, this hobbit is not well and should not be putting in a full day.”
“I am all right,” Frodo said, flushing. He did not wish for special treatment, not when so many men were dying. “These men are worse off than me.”
“All the same, I would have you go ahead and deliver that letter. Then go home and rest. We will need you again tomorrow.”
***
Aragorn bent over the young Bree man, murmuring Elvish words as he rubbed athelas leaves between his fingers. He had just made an incision in the man’s shoulder wound.
“You know Elvish?” Frodo asked in surprise, holding the roll of bandage steady and trying not to look directly at the bubbling blood. He was flushing again. The young Bree man in the bed groaned deliriously. He burned with fever and infection.
“I was raised in Rivendell,” Aragorn said, washing the wound.
“You speak as though it is your mother tongue.”
“Nearly so.”
“Does Halbarad speak Elvish?”
“Not quite as well.”
“What was it like growing up among Elves?”
Aragorn smiled as he sutured the wound and signaled for Frodo to hand him the bandage. “It was a short time I had in Rivendell compared to the rest of my life.”
“It cannot be that long ago. You’ve only just grown, haven’t you?”
“I’m one of the Dunedain, Frodo. I am far older than I look.”
“You cannot be that old,” Frodo said, nearly playfully, meeting Aragorn’s gaze. He was feeling braver than ever he had felt with any of the Big Folk besides Faramir.
The Bree man groaned again, and Frodo immediately turned his attention to him, brushing his hair back soothingly and whispering, “You will be all right. Fear not.” He smiled, and the Bree man’s face relaxed and his breathing grew easy. He did not know how he had such effect, but one of the injured Rangers had embarrassed him by telling him that his eyes alone soothed him, as they were like Elvish jewels that gave hope in the darkness.
“You’ve got a gentle touch,” Aragorn said with admiration. “This comes naturally to you.”
“Oh, no,” Frodo murmured. “It is you who have hands of healing.” He dipped cloth in athelas soaked water and wrung it out. He wiped it over the man’s brow, aware that Aragorn was watching him intently.
***
Pippin had not managed to get out of healing duty, nor had his healing skills improved. He simply did not have the gentle and soothing touch that Frodo did. Halbarad fussed at him nearly daily. He had no qualms against using his harshest voice on Pippin, whereas he was always so gentle with Frodo. But Pippin did not have Frodo’s patience and endurance. He could not bear the stench and the screams of pain when gangrened flesh took hold and a limb had to come off with very little to hold the pain. Pippin had to flee in the middle of one such operation, much to the fury of Halbarad.
“You cannot do this,” Strider said to him. “You are nearly of age, young Pippin, and this is serious war time, not some hobbit walking party. Do not come back until you can do your duties with honor.”
Pippin stalked home, unhappy with his state of affairs once again. He hated the healing cottage and he only wished there were an honorable way to get out of it.
When he got home, he found Frodo pacing frantically.
“What is the matter?” Pippin called out. He had not seen Frodo so agitated in quite some time.
“Oh, Pip!” Frodo flung his arms around him and embraced him.
“What is it?” A dart of fear froze Pippin’s heart. “Has something happened to Faramir? Is he-“
“Oh, no!” Frodo shook his head. “I’m sorry to frighten you. It’s not that…Oh, Pippin you are sweet to worry for me, too. I’ve done something dreadful, something unforgivable.”
Frodo sank on the sofa and clenched his knees, staring into the fire without really looking at it. His hands trembled, and bright red blotches marred his pale cheeks.
Pippin sat beside him. “What is it?”
“Pippin…” Frodo sighed and met Pippin’s gaze, his eyes huge and wounded. “Today at the healing cottage, I …I grew very weary and a little ill and Aragorn had me sit beside him. He was…” Frodo shivered. His cheeks burned brighter red still. “He sat close to me and kept his arm around me in a friendly fashion. Then…” Frodo looked down at his hands. “I…Pippin, it felt so wonderful. His arm is so strong and I felt so weak and shaky and…it has been far too long since I’ve felt Faramir’s touch and…well…it felt too good.” He flushed even further and glanced down at his groin.
Pippin nearly laughed aloud. He could not believe Frodo was being so modest. For a hobbit long since come of age, it was quite ridiculous. Such moments were natural for a young lad, nothing to be ashamed of. But Frodo had always been silly and modest that way.
“But Pippin,” Frodo said. “Aragorn could see. He noticed. And…and…I think it pleased him.”
“How do you know?” Pippin flushed with delight. New energy surged through him. He couldn’t say why this bit of news made him feel light and just a little superior. Perhaps it was because it meant that Frodo’s feelings for Faramir were not as sacred as they had originally seemed.
“Then he held me closer and lay his head on mine…and later I saw a gleam in his eyes…the same that Faramir has just before we…”
Pippin closed his eyes and broke in, “Why are you so upset, Frodo? It’s perfectly natural.”
“But…” Frodo looked bewildered. “I’ve been disloyal to Faramir and I’d rather be dead than -“
Pippin giggled. “You didn’t kiss him, did you? You didn’t let him touch you there, did you?”
Frodo’s eyes became wide with horror. “No!” He grinned then. “And you’re teasing now! And Aragorn has far too much honor in him to try.”
“Well then…” Pippin smiled. “No harm done then, cousin.”
Frodo looked worried again. “But perhaps Aragorn has the wrong idea now. Perhaps he will think I am like those hobbits who rut with anyone--”
“He knows where your loyalty lies. Fear not.”
But now Pippin felt a surge of triumph because perhaps Frodo was no longer quite as certain where his loyalty lay.
Go on to next part