Ranger From the North, 1/5, Frodo/Halbarad, PG13
Title: Ranger from the North
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: PG13
Summary: Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk. Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.
Frodo trudged through dry, curled leaves, humming a tune. A refreshing breeze diluted the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. The sky was a crisp, October blue, one of the rarest of perfect autumn days with not even a puffy cloud in the sky. The warmth was ephemeral, and he knew by sundown, a teeth-chattering chill would seep through his heavy cotton shirt and he would be glad that he had shoved his cloak in his pack. Late the previous night, Frodo had leaned out of his round bedroom window and gazed into the garden. Frost had spread over flowers, leaves, and grass, sparkling like fairy dust under a full moon.
He had gazed at the frost for a long while. For some reason it had signaled many things to him, most of which brought a heavy clenched fist to his throat. Most obviously, frost was the first beacon of winter - gray skies and chill. It also brought to mind Elves with starlight on their brows and pity in their eyes for all mortals who had the misfortune to love and to lose. He had gazed down the dark, foggy road and a harsh truth fell upon his shoulders. Bilbo was not going to return. He supposed a part of him had held hope the past month that Bilbo had left on a lark but would soon return for his favorite cousin.
The afternoon sun had begun to wane when Frodo came upon the rickety bridge that spanned a large creek. On the other side, he could see a clearing with soft grass on which to spread his lunch. Shade that came from a towering oak tree and the soothing gurgle of the river beckoned him. It seemed a perfect place to eat and then take a short nap.
His throat clutched and he drew in sharp breath. This was the kind of trip he had always adored taking with Bilbo. Wandering soothed his restless heart, but nothing could surpass wandering far from home with a kindred spirit among tall trees in twilight.
Frodo stepped upon the bridge. His toes curled cautiously on the first slat. As he put his weight on it, an ominous creaking made him pull back. Heart thudding, he noted the rushing water. This was no tiny brook. This creek had recently filled with heavy autumn rain, and a swift current rushed under his feet. Still, he began to feel a little foolish. Many others must use the bridge. Surely hobbits much more stout than he had successfully crossed, perhaps on ponies.
Frodo took a breath and walked onto the bridge with false confidence, taking long, hurried strides. The bridge groaned and shuddered beneath him, as if he were a troll many times his size. He had nearly made it to the other side, when a giant crack sent him plunging between broken slats. His heart stopped long enough to fill with ice before banging in wild panic as he grabbed at air before icy water covered him. He flung his hands above surface, scrambling for any hold, but the current was swift and it pushed him under.
He managed to get his head above water long enough to shout hoarsely into a silent wilderness that cared not if he fell to the same fate as his parents. He choked on the muddy water, flailing, thrashing his arms around, getting out another desperate cry. A black haze descended before his eyes, and his limbs felt heavy and numb. He could no longer move them as fast. The end had come at last and the sooner he stopped fighting, the easier it would be. He closed his eyes.
A strong arm yanked his arm, ripping him from under the surface. Frodo still could not open his eyes, but whoever pulled him had great strength, for he felt himself lifted as if he weighed nothing at all before being set down on his back in a soft patch of grass. He struggled to open his eyes, but he felt pressure on his chest and strong lips upon his, blowing air into him, filling him with excruciating pain until something in his chest burst and his mouth filled with dirty water. He coughed and coughed, vomiting more water. A steady arm secured him, holding him steady while he coughed the water from his lungs.
At last he could open his eyes - and he startled badly enough to start coughing again. He had looked upon the craggy shaded face of one of the Big People. He tried to scramble backwards, but firm hands held him.
“Don’t move,” a throaty voice said. Gray eyes gleamed at him from a shadowed face.
The man moved suddenly, reaching for his belt. He unsheathed a knife, and Frodo cried out and threw his arms up to shield his neck. With a grunt, the man thrust the knife toward Frodo.
The man wrenched his hand back, dropping the knife. He lifted his hands outward, palms up, to show he meant no harm.
“I am sorry. I did not intend to alarm you.”
Frodo lowered his arms, peering at the man in suspicious curiosity. Throwing his arms up had been a reflex, but he did not actually sense that he was truly in danger. Something in the man’s voice soothed him.
“Who…who are you?” Frodo managed despite his violently trembling jaw. His body seemed separate from him, numb and shivering against his will.
One winter day when Frodo had been a lad in Brandy Hall there had been a rare snowfall. While playing outdoors with his cousins, he had fallen into a deep puddle of melted ice. His cousins had helped him inside, but even after he had reached the safety and warmth of the smial, he had shivered for hours in front of the fire.
A dull nausea had taken hold of his stomach, and he swallowed several times. Now that the sun had nearly set, a chilly wind had picked up.
The man knelt close to Frodo’s head, which was still propped up by the pack still wedged to his back. “Your wet clothing must come off or you will become ill.” He ran his finger along the sturdy straps to Frodo’s pack. “I had intended to cut the straps to your pack without thought to how alarming it would be for you to have me wield a knife at you.”
“No matter,” Frodo managed. He wriggled up into a sitting position and slid the pack off his shoulders, setting it to his side.
“May I?” The man pushed one of Frodo’s braces from his shoulder, offering him a gentle smile. The steel gray of his eyes offered a glimpse of what surely must be a harsh life full of trials. “I shall take you to a nearby cottage. You must be made warm and quickly.”
Frodo nodded, shivering so hard he could barely speak. “Thank you. I would have drowned.” He caught a distant and all too brief whiff of blueberries. Mama had loved to bake blueberry pies. His papa would always laugh that deep throaty chuckle, as can only come from the stoutest of hobbits, when he dabbed a mischievous finger in the batter.
“No matter.” The man’s sudden fingers on Frodo’s shirt buttons shook him back to the present. The man paused after unbuttoning the first three, meeting Frodo’s gaze. Now his eyes looked more noble than steel. Beneath his hood, Frodo caught a glimpse of shaggy dark hair and high cheekbones. “I am Halbarad.”
“Frodo,” Frodo said through chattering teeth. “Frodo Baggins at your service.”
Halbarad worked Frodo’s arms out of his soaked shirt, which clung to him like an icy second skin. He then unclasped his cloak and wrapped it snugly around the shivering hobbit. The cloak was heavy, made of what felt like thick green wool, and it soothed Frodo immediately.
“Are you certain?” Frodo asked. “Will you not get cold yourself?”
Halbarad shook his head. “Will you unbutton your breeches for me?”
“Pardon?” Frodo asked, his eyes widening.
“Your breeches. They must come off, too.”
Color heated Frodo’s cheeks, though he was not sure why. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but somehow the idea of this strong and noble man who had saved his life seeing his most private parts unnerved him - and sent a strange flutter in his stomach. Frodo nodded and stretched numb fingers under the heavy layers of cloak to the button of his breeches. His fingers bumped clumsily against each other, refusing to cooperate. He could not grasp the button. He looked up at Halbarad with a flush.
“I cannot,” he said.
Halbarad nodded. He slid his hands under the heavy cloak and over Frodo’s wet breeches. His hand floundered and groped blindly at Frodo’s groin, and Frodo jumped, letting out a loud gasp.
“I am sorry,” Halbarad murmured. He found the button and in seconds, Frodo’s breeches were unbuttoned and pulled down over his hips. Frodo’s belly and groin had warmed nearly to match his cheeks. Halbarad secured his cloak around Frodo’s shoulders so that only the hobbit’s hairy feet poked out from under the bottom folds. Halbarad wrung out Frodo’s clothes and thrust them inside Frodo’s pack, which he pushed into his own pack. After putting his pack on his shoulders, he lifted Frodo.
“Where are you taking me?” Frodo asked. Against his will, his eyelids had grown heavy, and he fought it. He did not want to miss a moment of the journey with this puzzling man. He rather enjoyed the feel of shockingly strong arms wrapped snugly around him, carrying him at an easy pace, as if his burden weighed nothing at all. At last Frodo could do no more than surrender to the rocking motion of Halbarad’s steady strides through the dusky woods.
“To a warm hearth.”
Before Frodo opened his eyes, the snapping of twigs in crackling fire came to his ears and hot air brushed his cheeks. A blanket had been wrapped over him, tucked around his body so tightly that he could move neither his legs nor his arms. Each breath caused his lungs to ache, as if they were bruised inside and out.
Everything came back to him - the icy water rushing over his head, the bright fluttering panic, and the strong hands that had ripped him from a watery death.
He opened his eyes, struggling to sit up, or at least to lean on one elbow. He lay bundled in blankets on a thick fur rug just in front of a fireplace. The room was barely the size of the sitting room in Bag End and much plainer. The wooden floor had obviously not been swept in a long time. Only a wobbly wooden table and the fur rug decorated the room.
Halbarad had removed his cloak and Frodo was free to observe him, as the man seemed unaware that Frodo had awakened. He wore a faded gray shirt covered by a leather tunic, laced up the front. He had rolled his sleeves up, revealing tan ropy arms.
Halbarad turned suddenly, as if sensing Frodo’s gaze, and offered him a gentle smile. “How do you feel?”
Frodo’s voice came out in a croak. “Much better.” His stomach rumbled, and he realized he had never had a chance to eat the food he had intended to spread out in the clearing. “I’m hungry.” He struggled to free his arms from the blanket, and Halbarad helped him loosen it just enough to free his arms. Frodo shifted the blanket so that his arms secured it around his torso, like the cotton towel he wrapped around himself after a bath. He moved into a sitting position, smiling into the glowing fireplace heat.
“I foresaw that you may be hungry,” Halbarad said. Frodo could not tear his gaze him. Whenever Halbarad frowned in grim concentration, as seemed most natural for him, his eyes gleamed, and he seemed a frightening and unyielding enemy. But then he would smile, and his lips seemed shy from it, as if he had been out of practice from smiling. His eyes softened, though they never lost their noble steel. “I know of hobbits. I have wandered in the wilderness near your Shire for many years.”
“You have?” Frodo laughed. “Then you have an advantage, because I know nothing of Big People. Do you live in this cottage?”
“Nay.” Frodo waited for him to continue but he did not.
“I’ve never seen any of the Big People here in the Shire. I know in the South Farthing they’ve had trouble with them-“ Frodo stopped, biting his lip against the rudeness that nearly spilled from his lips about Men thinking they had the right to trample about the Shire harassing those weaker and smaller than themselves.
But Halbarad did not seem to take offense. His eyes darkened. “We are aware of the danger. We are doing what we can, such as we can.”
Halbarad seemed suddenly distraught and grim -- dangerous, just as Gandalf often acted when asking questions about Bilbo’s Ring.
“Who are you?” Frodo asked.
Halbarad seemed to come back to himself and he smiled again. “I am a Ranger of the North, one of the Dunadain, Men of the West. “
“One of the people of the old Kings?” Frodo cried out in surprise, nearly letting fall the blanket tucked under his arms. His heart sped to an alarming rate. Bilbo had told him about the last remnant in the North of the Men of the West.
Halbarad looked at him in surprise. “You know of the Dunadain? I was certain we had passed out of all tales of simple folk--” He cut off, glancing elsewhere, and Frodo was surprised to see a flush tint his swarthy cheek. “I am sorry. That was not courteous.”
“You are right on most counts,” Frodo said. “But I lived with my cousin Bilbo for many years, and he was possibly the only hobbit of the Shire who traveled beyond the borders to go anywhere besides Bree.”
“You no longer live with your cousin?”
Frodo shook his head and looked away from Halbarad’s intent gaze. Halbarad wandered the wild, friendless, and he would hardly think Frodo’s grief over Bilbo’s departure comparable. “What of you?” he asked.
“There is naught to tell.” Halbarad’s voice was curt. “Are you still hungry, Frodo? I am afraid I have nothing to offer but dried meat, but at least it will satiate your belly. I shall boil water for tea.”
Frodo had heard that Big People ate strange and savage things, like wild berries and meat fresh off the hunt, with the blood still trickling down. He supposed dried meat was mild in comparison, but he longed for a hot meal.
“Ah, then,” Frodo said with a laugh. “It is a pity you could not have taken me back to my home. I could have fixed you a dinner not to be forgotten.”
As soon as he spoke, his cheeks heated. This kind man had saved his life and taken him to his cottage to offer him what hospitality he could.
Frodo’s heart lifted when Halbarad smiled. “Now we have both misspoken. I do not take insult from your honesty. Nay, it would cause an uproar if I strode into your village.”
“All the same, I am sorry,” Frodo said, clutching the blanket in a tight fist. “I did not mean to seem ungrateful…” He smiled. “Ah, this is uncomfortable.”
“No matter.” Halbarad reached suddenly and took Frodo’s hand in his, rubbing it between the two of his in a friendly fashion. His touch warmed Frodo from toes to the tip of his ears, and he held his breath, hoping Halbarad would not release him. “If we were at my home in the Northlands, I should show you greater hospitality.”
Halbarad did release his hand, intent suddenly on the boiling water on the hearth, and Frodo let out a silent sigh of disappointment that both puzzled and excited him.
Halbarad set aside the steaming pot of water and spread Frodo’s wet clothes in front of the hearth. Frodo’s hand tingled under the ghost of Halbarad’s vigorous rubbing. He shifted his legs into a cross-legged position, and in doing so, the blanket fell, just enough to reveal a pink nipple. Halbarad glanced at him, and he yanked the blanket up, heat rushing to his cheeks. He had never been this modest. Samwise Gamgee had often been in his bedroom setting fire to the hearth while he dressed, and Frodo had thought nothing of it.
Halbarad averted his gaze, and his voice sounded muffled as he busied himself with poking the kindling in the fireplace. “You will catch a chill, with your shoulders bare such as they are.” He did not flinch when embers spit at him. “I have a tunic you can wear.” He set down the poker and dug through his bulging pack until he found a forest green tunic of the same material of that which he wore. The tunic was far too roomy, but Frodo sniffed in the scents of pine, soil, and leather.
Halbarad poured boiling water halfway up two sturdy mugs. He then took a leather flask and from it poured golden liquid into the cups. “This will warm you far better than a steaming mug of tea.”
Frodo nodded his thanks when Halbarad handed him a mug and he took the first sip. The liquid burned as it went down, clearing his nostrils and warming everything inside. Heat filled his cheeks until they burned with continuous flush.
Halbarad sat opposite of him, also with his legs crossed, and he took several sips before speaking. “You do not seem shy of me, as most of your kind is.”
Frodo drank in every detail of Halbarad, from his worn, muddy boots that he had slipped off and let rest beside the fire to his oddly shaped feet - so slender and bare. A giddy buzzing filled his ears as he wondered what it would be like to touch one of those feet.
“Have you met other hobbits?” Frodo asked, and his stomach sank slightly. He did not like to imagine that any other had enjoyed Halbarad’s attentive care.
“Only from afar. They scatter quickly if they see me.”
“You are very loud. And you…well, you…” Frodo swayed and nearly lost his balance. He let out a short giggle. “You have a rather rascally look.” His eyes widened with alarm after he spoke. Halbarad’s liquid fire had loosened his tongue far too quickly.
Halbarad’s eyes flickered - just for a moment, as if Frodo’s words had hurt him. “I am trained to walk with stealth, and yet that skill I have found to be useless in the Shire.”
“It does not matter how well trained you are,” Frodo said with a mischievous smile. “We can hear you long before you appear. Even a Ranger such as yourself. And even a Ranger would not be able to hear one of us if we were to sneak up behind you.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Halbarad poured a little more of the golden liquid into Frodo’s mug. “Tell me of yourself. You spoke of a cousin who is well traveled. We have never seen any of your kind outside of the Shire, save in Bree.”
So Frodo began to tell Halbarad about Bilbo and his adventure to the Lonely Mountain with the Dwarves. He was careful to leave out the part about Bilbo’s Ring. Perhaps it was because when he got to the point in the tale that Bilbo liked to call “Riddles in the Dark,” the Ranger had leaned forward with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Frodo hesitated a moment, stumbling over his words, but once outside the goblin mountain, his tale picked up again. When he told the tale of Bombur the Dwarf falling into the enchanted stream in Mirkwood and how the others had argued over who was to carry him, Halbarad burst into laughter. Frodo paused, breaking into a foolish grin. The sound was rich and loud and deep, unlike any laughter Frodo had heard from any hobbit. He doubted Halbarad laughed much at all, but it pleased him greatly to have given him a chance to do so. In fact it pleased him so much that he longed to jump into his arms and embrace him and kiss his grizzled cheek and whisper that it was all right to laugh and that he should do so more often.
So this was what it was like to fall into love. Frodo had seen plenty of his cousins grow foolish and lovelorn over lasses. Frodo had never felt it. He had noticed pretty lasses, but always it was separated from any feeling. He had begun to wonder if perhaps he was not capable of feeling so deeply for anyone at all.
“I am sorry,” Halbarad swayed, grasping Frodo’s forearm, as if for balance. “I am not mocking your tale - “
“No, please -- I am glad--”
Halbarad gave Frodo’s arm a firm squeeze before he released him. “It has been a long time since I have laughed.”
“That is unfortunate,” Frodo said.
“There is little to amuse me on my journeys.”
“Why do you wander then?” Frodo asked, beginning to tremble slightly from the cold again. “Do you not have a family to return to?” The idea that Halbarad might have a young wife and children sent a jagged pain through his chest, but far better that he learn of it now.
“Come,” Halbarad said quietly, the laughter gone from his eyes. He lifted the blanket from the floor and draped it over Frodo’s shoulders again. “Continue with your tale. I did not mean to interrupt.”
Frodo continued to tremble. He wished he could crawl into Halbarad’s lap and that the man could wrap his arms around him. He would not be cold then. The fire had died down to a dull crackle, and the titillation of realizing that he had fallen for this exotic Ranger who had saved his life and who was so attentive. He could not seem to stop shaking, even with the blanket back over his shoulders.
“You are cold,” Halbarad said in sudden concern. He scooted to Frodo and at last wrapped his arms around him. “Lie down.”
Heart thudding, Frodo obeyed, lying on his side on the fur rug. Halbarad lay behind him and wrapped his arms around Frodo. Frodo’s ears buzzed, and he did not dare move because a familiar warmth and tug in his groin area would certainly reveal to Halbarad how he felt, if his arms shifted downward even slightly.
“What of you, Halbarad?” Frodo asked. “Why will you not speak of your own life?”
“There is naught to tell.”
“But I know nothing of you.”
“You are not alone. I have few friends.”
Frodo swallowed against the disappointment of dismissal, and his heart ached that Halbarad had chosen to hide behind such a thick curtain of pain. He was kind, and always his voice remained low and gentle, but his answers had grown short and Frodo knew not to push further. His groin felt heavy, and Halbarad’s arms kept him anchored and warm. He fell into a warm, dizzy slumber with the thought simply that he had never known that tumbling fully into love could happen with such swiftness.
Go on to next part
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: PG13
Summary: Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk. Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.
Frodo trudged through dry, curled leaves, humming a tune. A refreshing breeze diluted the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. The sky was a crisp, October blue, one of the rarest of perfect autumn days with not even a puffy cloud in the sky. The warmth was ephemeral, and he knew by sundown, a teeth-chattering chill would seep through his heavy cotton shirt and he would be glad that he had shoved his cloak in his pack. Late the previous night, Frodo had leaned out of his round bedroom window and gazed into the garden. Frost had spread over flowers, leaves, and grass, sparkling like fairy dust under a full moon.
He had gazed at the frost for a long while. For some reason it had signaled many things to him, most of which brought a heavy clenched fist to his throat. Most obviously, frost was the first beacon of winter - gray skies and chill. It also brought to mind Elves with starlight on their brows and pity in their eyes for all mortals who had the misfortune to love and to lose. He had gazed down the dark, foggy road and a harsh truth fell upon his shoulders. Bilbo was not going to return. He supposed a part of him had held hope the past month that Bilbo had left on a lark but would soon return for his favorite cousin.
The afternoon sun had begun to wane when Frodo came upon the rickety bridge that spanned a large creek. On the other side, he could see a clearing with soft grass on which to spread his lunch. Shade that came from a towering oak tree and the soothing gurgle of the river beckoned him. It seemed a perfect place to eat and then take a short nap.
His throat clutched and he drew in sharp breath. This was the kind of trip he had always adored taking with Bilbo. Wandering soothed his restless heart, but nothing could surpass wandering far from home with a kindred spirit among tall trees in twilight.
Frodo stepped upon the bridge. His toes curled cautiously on the first slat. As he put his weight on it, an ominous creaking made him pull back. Heart thudding, he noted the rushing water. This was no tiny brook. This creek had recently filled with heavy autumn rain, and a swift current rushed under his feet. Still, he began to feel a little foolish. Many others must use the bridge. Surely hobbits much more stout than he had successfully crossed, perhaps on ponies.
Frodo took a breath and walked onto the bridge with false confidence, taking long, hurried strides. The bridge groaned and shuddered beneath him, as if he were a troll many times his size. He had nearly made it to the other side, when a giant crack sent him plunging between broken slats. His heart stopped long enough to fill with ice before banging in wild panic as he grabbed at air before icy water covered him. He flung his hands above surface, scrambling for any hold, but the current was swift and it pushed him under.
He managed to get his head above water long enough to shout hoarsely into a silent wilderness that cared not if he fell to the same fate as his parents. He choked on the muddy water, flailing, thrashing his arms around, getting out another desperate cry. A black haze descended before his eyes, and his limbs felt heavy and numb. He could no longer move them as fast. The end had come at last and the sooner he stopped fighting, the easier it would be. He closed his eyes.
A strong arm yanked his arm, ripping him from under the surface. Frodo still could not open his eyes, but whoever pulled him had great strength, for he felt himself lifted as if he weighed nothing at all before being set down on his back in a soft patch of grass. He struggled to open his eyes, but he felt pressure on his chest and strong lips upon his, blowing air into him, filling him with excruciating pain until something in his chest burst and his mouth filled with dirty water. He coughed and coughed, vomiting more water. A steady arm secured him, holding him steady while he coughed the water from his lungs.
At last he could open his eyes - and he startled badly enough to start coughing again. He had looked upon the craggy shaded face of one of the Big People. He tried to scramble backwards, but firm hands held him.
“Don’t move,” a throaty voice said. Gray eyes gleamed at him from a shadowed face.
The man moved suddenly, reaching for his belt. He unsheathed a knife, and Frodo cried out and threw his arms up to shield his neck. With a grunt, the man thrust the knife toward Frodo.
The man wrenched his hand back, dropping the knife. He lifted his hands outward, palms up, to show he meant no harm.
“I am sorry. I did not intend to alarm you.”
Frodo lowered his arms, peering at the man in suspicious curiosity. Throwing his arms up had been a reflex, but he did not actually sense that he was truly in danger. Something in the man’s voice soothed him.
“Who…who are you?” Frodo managed despite his violently trembling jaw. His body seemed separate from him, numb and shivering against his will.
One winter day when Frodo had been a lad in Brandy Hall there had been a rare snowfall. While playing outdoors with his cousins, he had fallen into a deep puddle of melted ice. His cousins had helped him inside, but even after he had reached the safety and warmth of the smial, he had shivered for hours in front of the fire.
A dull nausea had taken hold of his stomach, and he swallowed several times. Now that the sun had nearly set, a chilly wind had picked up.
The man knelt close to Frodo’s head, which was still propped up by the pack still wedged to his back. “Your wet clothing must come off or you will become ill.” He ran his finger along the sturdy straps to Frodo’s pack. “I had intended to cut the straps to your pack without thought to how alarming it would be for you to have me wield a knife at you.”
“No matter,” Frodo managed. He wriggled up into a sitting position and slid the pack off his shoulders, setting it to his side.
“May I?” The man pushed one of Frodo’s braces from his shoulder, offering him a gentle smile. The steel gray of his eyes offered a glimpse of what surely must be a harsh life full of trials. “I shall take you to a nearby cottage. You must be made warm and quickly.”
Frodo nodded, shivering so hard he could barely speak. “Thank you. I would have drowned.” He caught a distant and all too brief whiff of blueberries. Mama had loved to bake blueberry pies. His papa would always laugh that deep throaty chuckle, as can only come from the stoutest of hobbits, when he dabbed a mischievous finger in the batter.
“No matter.” The man’s sudden fingers on Frodo’s shirt buttons shook him back to the present. The man paused after unbuttoning the first three, meeting Frodo’s gaze. Now his eyes looked more noble than steel. Beneath his hood, Frodo caught a glimpse of shaggy dark hair and high cheekbones. “I am Halbarad.”
“Frodo,” Frodo said through chattering teeth. “Frodo Baggins at your service.”
Halbarad worked Frodo’s arms out of his soaked shirt, which clung to him like an icy second skin. He then unclasped his cloak and wrapped it snugly around the shivering hobbit. The cloak was heavy, made of what felt like thick green wool, and it soothed Frodo immediately.
“Are you certain?” Frodo asked. “Will you not get cold yourself?”
Halbarad shook his head. “Will you unbutton your breeches for me?”
“Pardon?” Frodo asked, his eyes widening.
“Your breeches. They must come off, too.”
Color heated Frodo’s cheeks, though he was not sure why. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but somehow the idea of this strong and noble man who had saved his life seeing his most private parts unnerved him - and sent a strange flutter in his stomach. Frodo nodded and stretched numb fingers under the heavy layers of cloak to the button of his breeches. His fingers bumped clumsily against each other, refusing to cooperate. He could not grasp the button. He looked up at Halbarad with a flush.
“I cannot,” he said.
Halbarad nodded. He slid his hands under the heavy cloak and over Frodo’s wet breeches. His hand floundered and groped blindly at Frodo’s groin, and Frodo jumped, letting out a loud gasp.
“I am sorry,” Halbarad murmured. He found the button and in seconds, Frodo’s breeches were unbuttoned and pulled down over his hips. Frodo’s belly and groin had warmed nearly to match his cheeks. Halbarad secured his cloak around Frodo’s shoulders so that only the hobbit’s hairy feet poked out from under the bottom folds. Halbarad wrung out Frodo’s clothes and thrust them inside Frodo’s pack, which he pushed into his own pack. After putting his pack on his shoulders, he lifted Frodo.
“Where are you taking me?” Frodo asked. Against his will, his eyelids had grown heavy, and he fought it. He did not want to miss a moment of the journey with this puzzling man. He rather enjoyed the feel of shockingly strong arms wrapped snugly around him, carrying him at an easy pace, as if his burden weighed nothing at all. At last Frodo could do no more than surrender to the rocking motion of Halbarad’s steady strides through the dusky woods.
“To a warm hearth.”
Before Frodo opened his eyes, the snapping of twigs in crackling fire came to his ears and hot air brushed his cheeks. A blanket had been wrapped over him, tucked around his body so tightly that he could move neither his legs nor his arms. Each breath caused his lungs to ache, as if they were bruised inside and out.
Everything came back to him - the icy water rushing over his head, the bright fluttering panic, and the strong hands that had ripped him from a watery death.
He opened his eyes, struggling to sit up, or at least to lean on one elbow. He lay bundled in blankets on a thick fur rug just in front of a fireplace. The room was barely the size of the sitting room in Bag End and much plainer. The wooden floor had obviously not been swept in a long time. Only a wobbly wooden table and the fur rug decorated the room.
Halbarad had removed his cloak and Frodo was free to observe him, as the man seemed unaware that Frodo had awakened. He wore a faded gray shirt covered by a leather tunic, laced up the front. He had rolled his sleeves up, revealing tan ropy arms.
Halbarad turned suddenly, as if sensing Frodo’s gaze, and offered him a gentle smile. “How do you feel?”
Frodo’s voice came out in a croak. “Much better.” His stomach rumbled, and he realized he had never had a chance to eat the food he had intended to spread out in the clearing. “I’m hungry.” He struggled to free his arms from the blanket, and Halbarad helped him loosen it just enough to free his arms. Frodo shifted the blanket so that his arms secured it around his torso, like the cotton towel he wrapped around himself after a bath. He moved into a sitting position, smiling into the glowing fireplace heat.
“I foresaw that you may be hungry,” Halbarad said. Frodo could not tear his gaze him. Whenever Halbarad frowned in grim concentration, as seemed most natural for him, his eyes gleamed, and he seemed a frightening and unyielding enemy. But then he would smile, and his lips seemed shy from it, as if he had been out of practice from smiling. His eyes softened, though they never lost their noble steel. “I know of hobbits. I have wandered in the wilderness near your Shire for many years.”
“You have?” Frodo laughed. “Then you have an advantage, because I know nothing of Big People. Do you live in this cottage?”
“Nay.” Frodo waited for him to continue but he did not.
“I’ve never seen any of the Big People here in the Shire. I know in the South Farthing they’ve had trouble with them-“ Frodo stopped, biting his lip against the rudeness that nearly spilled from his lips about Men thinking they had the right to trample about the Shire harassing those weaker and smaller than themselves.
But Halbarad did not seem to take offense. His eyes darkened. “We are aware of the danger. We are doing what we can, such as we can.”
Halbarad seemed suddenly distraught and grim -- dangerous, just as Gandalf often acted when asking questions about Bilbo’s Ring.
“Who are you?” Frodo asked.
Halbarad seemed to come back to himself and he smiled again. “I am a Ranger of the North, one of the Dunadain, Men of the West. “
“One of the people of the old Kings?” Frodo cried out in surprise, nearly letting fall the blanket tucked under his arms. His heart sped to an alarming rate. Bilbo had told him about the last remnant in the North of the Men of the West.
Halbarad looked at him in surprise. “You know of the Dunadain? I was certain we had passed out of all tales of simple folk--” He cut off, glancing elsewhere, and Frodo was surprised to see a flush tint his swarthy cheek. “I am sorry. That was not courteous.”
“You are right on most counts,” Frodo said. “But I lived with my cousin Bilbo for many years, and he was possibly the only hobbit of the Shire who traveled beyond the borders to go anywhere besides Bree.”
“You no longer live with your cousin?”
Frodo shook his head and looked away from Halbarad’s intent gaze. Halbarad wandered the wild, friendless, and he would hardly think Frodo’s grief over Bilbo’s departure comparable. “What of you?” he asked.
“There is naught to tell.” Halbarad’s voice was curt. “Are you still hungry, Frodo? I am afraid I have nothing to offer but dried meat, but at least it will satiate your belly. I shall boil water for tea.”
Frodo had heard that Big People ate strange and savage things, like wild berries and meat fresh off the hunt, with the blood still trickling down. He supposed dried meat was mild in comparison, but he longed for a hot meal.
“Ah, then,” Frodo said with a laugh. “It is a pity you could not have taken me back to my home. I could have fixed you a dinner not to be forgotten.”
As soon as he spoke, his cheeks heated. This kind man had saved his life and taken him to his cottage to offer him what hospitality he could.
Frodo’s heart lifted when Halbarad smiled. “Now we have both misspoken. I do not take insult from your honesty. Nay, it would cause an uproar if I strode into your village.”
“All the same, I am sorry,” Frodo said, clutching the blanket in a tight fist. “I did not mean to seem ungrateful…” He smiled. “Ah, this is uncomfortable.”
“No matter.” Halbarad reached suddenly and took Frodo’s hand in his, rubbing it between the two of his in a friendly fashion. His touch warmed Frodo from toes to the tip of his ears, and he held his breath, hoping Halbarad would not release him. “If we were at my home in the Northlands, I should show you greater hospitality.”
Halbarad did release his hand, intent suddenly on the boiling water on the hearth, and Frodo let out a silent sigh of disappointment that both puzzled and excited him.
Halbarad set aside the steaming pot of water and spread Frodo’s wet clothes in front of the hearth. Frodo’s hand tingled under the ghost of Halbarad’s vigorous rubbing. He shifted his legs into a cross-legged position, and in doing so, the blanket fell, just enough to reveal a pink nipple. Halbarad glanced at him, and he yanked the blanket up, heat rushing to his cheeks. He had never been this modest. Samwise Gamgee had often been in his bedroom setting fire to the hearth while he dressed, and Frodo had thought nothing of it.
Halbarad averted his gaze, and his voice sounded muffled as he busied himself with poking the kindling in the fireplace. “You will catch a chill, with your shoulders bare such as they are.” He did not flinch when embers spit at him. “I have a tunic you can wear.” He set down the poker and dug through his bulging pack until he found a forest green tunic of the same material of that which he wore. The tunic was far too roomy, but Frodo sniffed in the scents of pine, soil, and leather.
Halbarad poured boiling water halfway up two sturdy mugs. He then took a leather flask and from it poured golden liquid into the cups. “This will warm you far better than a steaming mug of tea.”
Frodo nodded his thanks when Halbarad handed him a mug and he took the first sip. The liquid burned as it went down, clearing his nostrils and warming everything inside. Heat filled his cheeks until they burned with continuous flush.
Halbarad sat opposite of him, also with his legs crossed, and he took several sips before speaking. “You do not seem shy of me, as most of your kind is.”
Frodo drank in every detail of Halbarad, from his worn, muddy boots that he had slipped off and let rest beside the fire to his oddly shaped feet - so slender and bare. A giddy buzzing filled his ears as he wondered what it would be like to touch one of those feet.
“Have you met other hobbits?” Frodo asked, and his stomach sank slightly. He did not like to imagine that any other had enjoyed Halbarad’s attentive care.
“Only from afar. They scatter quickly if they see me.”
“You are very loud. And you…well, you…” Frodo swayed and nearly lost his balance. He let out a short giggle. “You have a rather rascally look.” His eyes widened with alarm after he spoke. Halbarad’s liquid fire had loosened his tongue far too quickly.
Halbarad’s eyes flickered - just for a moment, as if Frodo’s words had hurt him. “I am trained to walk with stealth, and yet that skill I have found to be useless in the Shire.”
“It does not matter how well trained you are,” Frodo said with a mischievous smile. “We can hear you long before you appear. Even a Ranger such as yourself. And even a Ranger would not be able to hear one of us if we were to sneak up behind you.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Halbarad poured a little more of the golden liquid into Frodo’s mug. “Tell me of yourself. You spoke of a cousin who is well traveled. We have never seen any of your kind outside of the Shire, save in Bree.”
So Frodo began to tell Halbarad about Bilbo and his adventure to the Lonely Mountain with the Dwarves. He was careful to leave out the part about Bilbo’s Ring. Perhaps it was because when he got to the point in the tale that Bilbo liked to call “Riddles in the Dark,” the Ranger had leaned forward with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. Frodo hesitated a moment, stumbling over his words, but once outside the goblin mountain, his tale picked up again. When he told the tale of Bombur the Dwarf falling into the enchanted stream in Mirkwood and how the others had argued over who was to carry him, Halbarad burst into laughter. Frodo paused, breaking into a foolish grin. The sound was rich and loud and deep, unlike any laughter Frodo had heard from any hobbit. He doubted Halbarad laughed much at all, but it pleased him greatly to have given him a chance to do so. In fact it pleased him so much that he longed to jump into his arms and embrace him and kiss his grizzled cheek and whisper that it was all right to laugh and that he should do so more often.
So this was what it was like to fall into love. Frodo had seen plenty of his cousins grow foolish and lovelorn over lasses. Frodo had never felt it. He had noticed pretty lasses, but always it was separated from any feeling. He had begun to wonder if perhaps he was not capable of feeling so deeply for anyone at all.
“I am sorry,” Halbarad swayed, grasping Frodo’s forearm, as if for balance. “I am not mocking your tale - “
“No, please -- I am glad--”
Halbarad gave Frodo’s arm a firm squeeze before he released him. “It has been a long time since I have laughed.”
“That is unfortunate,” Frodo said.
“There is little to amuse me on my journeys.”
“Why do you wander then?” Frodo asked, beginning to tremble slightly from the cold again. “Do you not have a family to return to?” The idea that Halbarad might have a young wife and children sent a jagged pain through his chest, but far better that he learn of it now.
“Come,” Halbarad said quietly, the laughter gone from his eyes. He lifted the blanket from the floor and draped it over Frodo’s shoulders again. “Continue with your tale. I did not mean to interrupt.”
Frodo continued to tremble. He wished he could crawl into Halbarad’s lap and that the man could wrap his arms around him. He would not be cold then. The fire had died down to a dull crackle, and the titillation of realizing that he had fallen for this exotic Ranger who had saved his life and who was so attentive. He could not seem to stop shaking, even with the blanket back over his shoulders.
“You are cold,” Halbarad said in sudden concern. He scooted to Frodo and at last wrapped his arms around him. “Lie down.”
Heart thudding, Frodo obeyed, lying on his side on the fur rug. Halbarad lay behind him and wrapped his arms around Frodo. Frodo’s ears buzzed, and he did not dare move because a familiar warmth and tug in his groin area would certainly reveal to Halbarad how he felt, if his arms shifted downward even slightly.
“What of you, Halbarad?” Frodo asked. “Why will you not speak of your own life?”
“There is naught to tell.”
“But I know nothing of you.”
“You are not alone. I have few friends.”
Frodo swallowed against the disappointment of dismissal, and his heart ached that Halbarad had chosen to hide behind such a thick curtain of pain. He was kind, and always his voice remained low and gentle, but his answers had grown short and Frodo knew not to push further. His groin felt heavy, and Halbarad’s arms kept him anchored and warm. He fell into a warm, dizzy slumber with the thought simply that he had never known that tumbling fully into love could happen with such swiftness.
Go on to next part