Ranger From the North, 2/5, Frodo/Halbarad, PG13
Title: Ranger from the North
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: PG13
Summary: In the autumn after Bilbo leaves, Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
By the time Frodo reached Bag End, twilight had fallen over Hobbiton. The gate creaked as he swung it open, and his heart lifted to see Sam’s shadowy figure bent over still in the garden, trimming the grass.
“Sam,” Frodo called out quietly.
Sam jumped, startled, and then stumbled to his feet, dropping his shears.
“Where have you been, Mr. Frodo? I was getting worried.”
“I’m sorry you worried, Sam.” Frodo climbed the path to the front door, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed. “I am all right.”
Sam followed him inside, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches. He stomped his feet to rid his feet of any dirt that might have gotten caught in the curls of his foot hair. “Can I get you some tea? My, there’s a chill coming in - you didn’t sleep in the woods last night, with naught on but your cloak, did you?”
Sam looked so concerned that Frodo could not help but burst into laughter. When Sam’s face clouded with hurt, his smile faded. “No, Sam.” Frodo thought back to the night before, about how far from cold he had been, with Halbarad’s arms tightly fixed around him. His cheeks heated. “And tea sounds mighty fine.”
“Well.” Sam’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “I just hope you didn’t catch a chill.” He set to work lighting a fire in the hearth. Frodo rubbed his hands near the snapping flames. A nostalgic ache filled his throat. How he longed to go back in time, when he was sitting on a fur rug, warm and secure, fire surging through his blood, with the attentive gaze of the Ranger on him.
Frodo had awakened that morning to an empty cottage. There had been no note, no sign that the night before had even occurred. But for the oversized tunic that he had slept in, it may have been a dream.
Frodo took off his cloak, letting it drop to the floor with a silent promise to hang it up when he went to bed, and sank into his favorite chair.
Sam returned with tea, a sandwich, and Frodo’s pipe. “I thought you might want this, sir. You look right weary.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Frodo gratefully accepted the pipe. “Will you not stay for tea?”
Sam shook his head regretfully. “No, sir. Ma’s expecting me home for supper. She’ll be relieved to know you’re all right.”
Frodo smiled. “Then go on home.”
“Are you sure you won’t be needing anything else?”
Frodo shook his head and closed his eyes until he heard the light patter of Sam leaving the room, followed by the closing of the door with a gentle click. The fire had built to a pleasant, warming roar. Frodo inhaled deeply from his pipe and attempted to blow a smoke ring. Bilbo had been so patient, laboring on many a summer eve in an effort to teach him how - it was a matter of twisting his tongue in just the right way - but he had so far not caught on. Tea, a pipe, and a roaring fire - all that he lacked was someone with whom he could laugh and share tales.
If Halbarad were here, Frodo would lead him to the oversized chair that Gandalf used whenever he visited. His long, muscled legs would stretch out over the ottoman. Frodo would pull off his worn boots and Halbarad would let out a contented sigh.
Ah, men had such rugged features - grizzled faces, long powerful fingers. And then -- what couldn’t those hands do! Frodo imagined dangerous hands - rough and coarse from wielding swords - groping him under his clothing and over his bare stomach, fingers tweaking his nipples, pinching them until he gasped in the most pleasurable of pain. Hot breath would herald the ravishing of his neck by untamed lips, even less trained in kissing than laughing.
Frodo clenched his teeth, sucking in a hissing breath as he hardened. His trembling hand drifted inside his breeches to encircle himself. He stared at the ceiling, letting out hurried gasps as he rubbed his length with frantic need. Halbarad’s formidable stare burned in his mind and he pictured him suddenly kneeling before him and ripping his shirt open with and ravaging his pale neck skin before kissing him until his lips were swollen and he could not breathe. Then he would fall on him, all his heavy, muscled weight, crushing him without hurting him, filling him so deep and hard that the craving for more would cause tears to roll down his cheeks.
Frodo gave a final gasp and withdrew his hand, now wet with sticky warmth. For a long moment he could not move at all. He lay panting, still feeling Halbarad’s lips on his with such vividness that his lips tingled.
At last he reached for his pack and took out the forest-green tunic that Halbarad had given him. He held the soft fabric to his nose, taking in a deep sniff, reveling in the rugged scents of leather, pipeweed, faint perspiration, and under that, a distant scent of lemon.
Frodo had to find him again.
Surely if he wandered to the same part of the woods in which he had nearly drowned, he had at least a small chance of running into Halbarad again. Or he could return to the lodge. His cheeks heated at the thought. But what in the world could he offer as an excuse for his presence?
He froze, clutching the already beloved fabric. Why of course - he would simply use returning the tunic as an excuse. Perhaps Halbarad would think it odd that Frodo had not left the tunic there after his own clothing had dried, but perhaps, if Halbarad were as unhappy and lonely as he appeared, perhaps it would cease to matter.
Of course there was always the danger that Halbarad had gone away, perhaps for a long journey, perhaps even for good. Frodo could not account for walking all that way every day until he just happened to run into him. And however would he explain it to Sam, who would certainly relate it to Merry and Pippin? His dear cousins would only murmur to each other about how restless Frodo had grown since Bilbo’s departure and they would meddle in his affairs all the more.
And by all means, he could never, ever allow his cousins to catch wind of what Frodo wished would happen between himself and the Ranger in that dingy cottage in the woods.
***
Halbarad strode through the woods, nearly silent on his worn boots. He was a mute shadow in his browns and greens among the warm autumn red, amber, and orange leaves shrubbery. His feet crunched on broken twigs and his ears were tuned into every thud his feet made on the dirt path. The halfling had spoken the truth. Halbarad had believed in his stealth for so long that he had never truly listened to himself. Tiny forest creatures scuttled out of his path. Squirrels rushed up trees, birds fluttered away, and moles darted into holes under dead leaves. He felt the woods shudder under his enormous strides. It was no wonder he had never met one of the Shire-folk before Frodo.
And now he could not rid his mind of Frodo’s smile and his exquisite blue eyes, which held in them mischievous promise and innocence all at once. He had laughed last night for the first time in many years. Then after the halfling had fallen asleep, nuzzled in his arms, he had nearly wept. Never in recent years had he realized how he longed for friendly banter and laughter. Nearly twenty years had passed since his beloved Gilwen had died in a long and agonizing childbirth that had left both mother and son dead. He had not realized how thick and enduring were the thick clouds that pressed in on his heart.
Naturally the first time Frodo had come to this cottage nestled deep in a clearing of the woods, he had been asleep in strong arms, unaware of his surroundings. He had not noticed the enormous oaks, laden with burnt orange and curled brown leaves, with their thick limbs that curved over the cottage as if in protection. He had not noticed that the wood that made the cottage was rather splintery, as if it had been made in great haste. He had not noticed the thatched roof or the smudged windowpanes or the front stoop, which looked as if he had not been swept in months, perhaps years. And furthermore, it had not occurred to him the oddity that this mannish cottage existed inside the Shire.
Although it was early afternoon, the air had a sharp, chilly quality to it, and the light had grown thin, as if it were close to dusk. Frodo peered in one of the dirty windows, his heart echoing in his ears, and he strained his eyes for movement.
Inside the cottage, it was dark and still.
Of course Frodo had known that the chances were slim that Halbarad would actually be there. He had convinced himself that he should expect nothing. Halbarad was a Ranger with duties that stretched far beyond concern for one hobbit that he had met by chance. All the same, hope had buoyed his heart. It seemed fated that they should meet again, and he would not have at all been surprised to come upon him in the woods.
Stepping soundlessly upon the dirty front stoop, he approached the door. He curled his hand into a fist, pausing. His heart still thudded so hard that he could barely breathe. If Halbarad actually was inside, and his heart still held tiny hope of this possibility, perhaps catching up on sleep, Frodo was not sure exactly what he would say.
He knocked.
He closed his eyes and ran through what he would say if Halbarad answered -- I’ve your tunic…I’ve come back to give you your tunic…I thought you might want it back. Of course it was no trouble…I enjoy a brisk walk through the woods in autumn…Thank you, I’d love to come in…
But he heard no heavy footfalls and nobody answered the door, and he released a shuddering sigh that sent weakness through his thighs. He knocked again, stronger this time, with more confidence and dwindling hope. No answer. He tried the door and it swung open with no resistance. Inside, the cottage looked exactly as Frodo had left it the morning before. As far as he could tell, the Ranger had never returned.
Frodo gazed around at a room that now looked barren and empty, and he felt suddenly melancholy. Halbarad spent much time on the road, wandering, often taking what sleep he could on the cold, hard ground beneath the stars. This cottage was the one place far from home in which he had the comfort of a roof over his head. And how grim and desolate it looked, nothing like Bag End, which was always a beacon of comfort at the end of a long journey. Gracious, no wonder Halbarad’s mouth had nearly cracked into pieces when he smiled - there seemed nothing in this world to give him warmth.
As Frodo trekked home, a cold, disappointed knot in his throat, a fine idea took flight. Instead of mindlessly roaming the Shire like a love-struck lass, he would work to make the cottage a pleasant place for Halbarad. Of course, he would need to beg Sam’s help, and so he would need to let him in on his little secret.
***
“Well met!” Estel rose and gripped Halbarad in a tight embrace. They sat down then at the shadowy table in the back corner of the Prancing Pony’s common room. They ignored the suspicious stares from the Bree folk. Both had built callous skins over the years. Estel flagged old Butterbur down and when the fat innkeeper, out of breath despite hardly any customers at this early time of the day, reached them, Halbarad ordered a tall ale and stew.
When his ale arrived, he took a long sip. “It is good to have a hot meal and ale.”
“And company, too.”
“Aye.” Halbarad’s thoughts flickered back to the halfling Frodo, how every time he flushed, pink bloomed over his pale cheeks. The last few nights, well…he would not admit to anyone, and certainly not to Estel, what he had dreamed about.
In his latest dream, Frodo had writhed beneath him, his eyes full of dark blue wantonness. Halbarad had plunged deep into him, and Frodo had moaned ever for more. His lips - oh, how his lips were softer and fuller than he had imagined, and they tasted like the earthy wine they had drunk just before falling into bed, and he had devoured until the lips were swollen and bruised.
For a time, Halbarad and Estel discussed matters of the world, of their duties on the borders of the Shire, of great evil building in the East.
“I met one of the Shire folk,” Halbarad said. “I had never spoken to one of them before.”
“Do not make a habit of it,” Estel said. “They should never come to know how we labor to protect their border.”
“I had no choice. It was that or let him drown. I took him to the cottage that I use on occasion. We talked. He was very unusual, Estel, nearly Elvish to my mind. He spoke of a cousin who had traveled outside the Shire-“
Estel’s expression became eager. “Bilbo Baggins. You met--”
Halbarad looked at him in surprise. “You know him?”
“I have had the pleasure of meeting Bilbo. This tale grows more curious by the telling, for I had not told you what I mainly came to tell you. It has come to my ears from Mithrandir that there is a hobbit of the Shire by the name of Frodo Baggins-“
“That is the hobbit I met.”
Estel’s voice dropped. “He bears something of great evil, Halbarad.”
Halbarad’s skin grew suddenly too small for him, and he felt cold inside. “What mean you by that?”
“By this thing he bears, he will draw evil to him and to his kind and he must be watched carefully. We must have more guards on the borders. Will you do this for me? I have other business, wretched business that I must attend to. This Frodo is a dear friend of Mithrandir, and Bilbo Baggins is an Elf friend. Will you watch out for him?”
“I will,” Halbarad said, his heart aching from Estel’s pronouncement of Frodo’s great evil, but his voice dropped. “Estel, what could he…what great evil could this innocent hobbit possibly bear?“
“We will not speak of it here,” Estel said. “Have a care, Halbarad.”
Halbarad had anticipated a warm meal with much eagerness, but when the food arrived at his table, he found he could barely eat it.
The halfling’s face was bathed in the golden glow of a single desk lantern. Halbarad watched, barely aware that his tongue was running over his dry lower lip, as Frodo dipped his quill in ink with a whimsical half smile. How vulnerable and unworldly he was - like an unbroken shell of rare beauty peeking out of the sand. Halbarad studied the luminous face, searching for any sign of malice. Estel had warned of great evil, and Halbarad had seen far too much evil in his life. But try as he might, he could see none in the halfling’s dreamy eyes. He ached for Frodo to speak just so he could once again hear his gentle voice, far fairer than any he had heard pass mortal lips.
Knock on the door; gladly he would let you in.
But Halbarad did not move. He was part of the shadows, unseen unless he wished to be seen. And he did not wish to be seen. He would not be welcome in this village even under the sun. Frodo put aside quill and ink and paper and yawned. He stood and unbuttoned his vest, revealing white shirt and breeches held up by braces. Halbarad averted his eyes. He should not. It was wrong to watch in secret, wrong to long for another night pressed against such softness. Far better not to remember the dreams of the halfling’s writhing abandon.
Frodo now worked at the buttons on his shirt, revealing dark nipples that contrasted richly with smooth, pale chest. His eyes held a dreamy gaze that caused Halbarad’s groin to warm. He bit back a groan as his hand drifted into his leggings.
***
Frodo’s heart jumped when he heard the thudding footfalls farther down the dirt trail. He darted off the road and hid behind a fallen tree. The footfalls grew closer, stealthy for one of the Big Folk, and his ears rang. His nearly daily wanderings had at last paid off. He trembled wildly as fluttering thoughts gripped him. If his heart was wrong and it was not Halbarad, he would be bitterly disappointed… If it was indeed Halbarad and he showed no joy in seeing the hobbit that he had saved, then Frodo’s heart would shatter.
But then - if it was Halbarad and his grim eyes warmed with eager desire…what then? Frodo hugged himself, trying to still the trembling. His life might take a rare turn this very day. Perhaps Halbarad would take him along on his journeys, allow him to wander with him throughout the world, and through him he might see the Outside at last.
The footfalls grew closer, thudding through Frodo’s ears.
It was him.
Frodo could only stare. The Ranger was masked again, his cloak pulled tightly around his powerful shoulders. His eyes gleamed with grim purpose. In Frodo’s memory, they had not been so morose.
At last Frodo knew he had to move or risk having Halbarad pass by. He scrambled to his feet, but before he could cry out his greeting, he was staring at the point of a long sword. Frodo stumbled and fell onto his backside as Halbarad sheathed his sword with an uttered curse.
“Is it customary for your kind to run about like woodland creatures? You are fortunate I did use the bow.” His voice was tense and forbidding, more so than Frodo remembered. His gray eyes did not look welcoming and in fact were masked by suspicion.
“The woods in the Shire are not dangerous,” Frodo said, catching his breath, unable to keep a joyful smile from his lips, despite Halbarad’s stiff demeanor. “There is no need to react such.” He glanced reproachfully at Halbarad’s sword.
“It is better that you do not think otherwise.” Halbarad reached down with a large hand and helped Frodo to his feet. He then pulled his hand away as if Frodo’s very touch repelled him and walked on with great strides that barely allowed Frodo to keep pace.
“Where are you going?” Frodo asked. A distressing ache filled his chest, and his cheeks warmed. This was not going as he had hoped at all.
“You should not wander so far from home, Frodo,” Halbarad said, keeping his gaze forward. He had barely looked at Frodo’s eyes. “Not alone. Just today I encountered unfavorable Men with ill intent not but a half-day’s journey from here. I have just cleaned my sword of their blood.”
A chill ran down Frodo’s arms at the way Halbarad had so casually spoken of taking lives. His hand crept into his pocket, fingering the golden Ring. He closed his eyes, suddenly longing to disappear. Halbarad did not wish to see him. In fact, he had unlikely given him a thought since their last meeting.
With a suddenness that brought a gasp to Frodo’s lips, Halbarad halted and whirled to face him. He looked down at Frodo in such grim study that it brought bewildered tears to Frodo’s eyes. He had never seen such hatred and suspicion, even from the Sackville-Bagginses. Frodo released the Ring, his cheeks heating in misery.
“How did you know I would travel this road?” Halbarad demanded.
“I did not,” Frodo said, swallowing. His ears rang as his hope cracked. Halbarad not only was indifferent to him, but he hated him. But he had to speak - or he would flee. “Halbarad…” His voice choked. “Halbarad, please do not look at me in such a manner. It…” He wished to say how it hurt his heart, but instead finished with, “…is frightening.”
Halbarad turned away, releasing a harsh sigh, bowing his head. When he turned back, he managed a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I am sorry, Frodo. I am afraid it is my manner to be such. It was not my intention to frighten you.” He looked away and said in a voice so low that Frodo knew it was not intended for his ears, “It is not unfathomable now.”
Frodo did not know what he meant, but he was filled with a brave joy that the Ranger had softened, that he had not intended hatred or terror. His heart swelling with hope, Frodo grasped Halbarad’s elbow. The Ranger stiffened, but Frodo spoke in a breathless voice, “Please…let us return to your cottage. You need to rest and clean up after your long journey. And to eat something besides dried meat.”
Frodo held his breath, dizzy, waiting for the worst. Perhaps Halbarad would guess his true feelings and strike him. Perhaps he would sneer and move away, walking at a great pace and disappearing into the woods forever.
At last Halbarad nodded. “That I can do.”
Halbarad did not speak as they walked. He kept his face forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes had clouded into grim concentration. Frodo wondered if the Ranger had always been so stern or whether there had ever been a time when he had laughed with merriment.
At last they approached the cottage. Frodo’s heart thudded. He had not spoken of his and Sam’s efforts during the last two weeks. He only hoped it would bring Halbarad enough joy to melt some of the ice in his burdened heart.
Halbarad halted, and his countenance tensed. The windows had been cleaned, the front stoop swept, and hastily transplanted flowers decorated the patch of grass in front of the cottage.
Halbarad signaled to Frodo to wait and he drew his sword.
“What is it?” Frodo asked. He looked around, but he could see nothing.
“Hush,” Halbarad said, approaching the cottage, his body tense and alert, sword held before him.
Then it occurred to Frodo - the silly Ranger was frightened and suspicious of the changes to the cottage! He burst into loud laughter. Halbarad called back in harsh voice, “Stay silent!”
But Frodo ran to him. Halbarad spun about fiercely and grabbed Frodo’s upper arm. His face was so dour that Frodo’s throat dried, and it dulled his smile and stilled the merry laughter that still bubbled behind his lips. Halbarad’s grip was perhaps stronger than he intended - his fingers dug into Frodo’s flesh with bruising force, but Frodo did not dare to twist away.
“Do you not perceive the danger? You put us in grave peril with such foolishness - now stay back.” He released Frodo roughly. Frodo turned away, unable to look at Halbarad’s baleful gaze another moment.
“Halbarad,” he managed. “It was I. There is nobody here. It is I -- and my gardener; we did this. We thought…we thought…” He faded out, stumbling backwards, unable to finish. He had to leave. He had misinterpreted Halbarad’s former kindness. There was no feeling for him here. He had not given Halbarad joy; he had caused only fear, and now the Ranger was no doubt wondering why he did not allow Frodo to drown. Frodo had made things worse, had given Halbarad further strain. Perhaps Halbarad needed the cottage to look uninhabited. Perhaps that was what made his existence in the Shire safe and unnoticed.
Halbarad paused and his shoulders stiffened. His name meant “tall tower” - Bilbo had taught him well enough so that he knew that at least. And it fit him -- Halbarad had never before looked as tall and imposing as he did now, a forbidding and frightening enemy.
Then Halbarad’s sword arm relaxed, and his sword sagged downward. He spoke in a low but clear voice, “You did this?”
Frodo’s throat ached, but he spoke quickly, “I wished for you to have a pleasant place to stay your nights in the Shire. Yes, I did it. I am sorry.” He turned away then and stumbled down the path that led back to the woods. Perhaps later he could bring a letter of apology. But for now he would stumble home the best he could and deal with his heart-
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “Frodo, do not go.”
Frodo turned and looked into a masked face still grim, although his eyes had softened with pain. “Please forgive me, Frodo. I have been suspicious for so long that I am not accustomed to deeds done with a gentle heart. Please…stay with me. Have tea at least before going home. I am sorry.”
Frodo then smiled with such relief that only later he recalled that Halbarad flinched and turned away as if dazzled by too bright sunlight.
Frodo held his breath as Halbarad halted just inside the cottage, although this time he did not stiffen with doubt. He threw back the hood of his cloak, revealing unkempt dark hair flecked with gray, and he pulled the mask from his face. He then looked around the cottage in wary wonder. The thinning late afternoon sun through the windows gave the newly polished floors a magical golden glow.
Frodo and Sam had worked hard during the last weeks. Frodo had told Sam very little, other than that he wished to help one of the Big Folk who had saved his life during his wanderings. Sam had been horrified not just that Frodo had been so close to death but that he had been near enough to any of the Big Folk. But after he had recovered from his moaning over how dear Mr. Frodo needed to stay closer to home from now on and how there was no need for him to wander so far, he had acquiesced. He had been more than happy to do anything at all for he who had saved his master’s life, even if he wasn’t a hobbit. Together they had swept and polished the floor, cleaned the windows inside and out, shaken the rug, and had placed a thick burgundy tablecloth over the rickety table and centered it with a heavy clay vase filled with orange and red chrysanthemums and marigolds. They had hung thick drapes over the windows. As far as food and drink, Frodo had brought several bottles of wine, found in Bilbo’s well-stocked cellar. Also, they had brought a bag of potatoes from the garden, onions, and some herbs. He had also brought extra dishes and glasses. Frodo had plenty in Bag End that he rarely used.
“You did all this…why?” Halbarad unclasped the weapons from around his waist and set them to rest in the corner near the fireplace.
“Well…” Frodo flushed deeply and looked down at his furry feet. He could not very well blurt out that he loved Halbarad and wished only for him to have as much happiness as could be salvaged so far from his home. He said the only sensible thing he could think of. “You saved my life.” He took off his brown jacket and as he could not reach the cloak hook, he dropped it on the ground beside the door. “Alas, there was not much to do about your bare furnishings. You would not be comfortable on furnishings such as could be found in the Shire and it might rouse suspicions for me to order from Bree or to have Man-size furniture specially made.”
Halbarad looked around the room again, his lips still curved in astonishment. “What you have done is more than enough. You made what little is here look like a home. That I have not had since…” Halbarad’s eyes clouded and he gazed into the distance. He blinked and came back to himself after a moment. “It has been many years.” He dropped to one knee and clasped Frodo’s shoulders. His eyes, unmasked now, were frighteningly intense, and Frodo could see pain in their depths. His breath was hot on Frodo’s lips and all it would take was for either of them to lean forward. Frodo swayed, but Halbarad drew away and instead kissed his brow. Frodo shivered as Halbarad’s moist lips lingered for too long.
“Thank you, Frodo,” he said, at last pulling away and standing.
Halbarad built a fire in the hearth, and they settled together on the fur rug. They did not speak, for Halbarad was reticent and nearly impossible to draw out in conversation. Frodo stopped trying after a few attempts, but his heart pattered happily. He had imagined this moment almost every day since he had met Halbarad. And almost every night since then he had brought himself to pleasure imagining that sitting here side by side before the fireplace, the Ranger would unbutton his shirt while nuzzling his craggy face against his soft neck. He imagined how his tongue would slide in Frodo’s mouth and it would taste of pipe-weed and worn leather and campfire. He imagined rough hands groping under his shirt and stroking over his belly, down his hips, and over nipples tender with arousal.
He absently rubbed his arm where Halbarad had grabbed him with such fierceness earlier. There would be bruising later. Yes, it had all started quite badly, but that no longer mattered because Halbarad had thawed, and though he did not speak, his stern mask had fallen, and he seemed content at last.
“Did I hurt you?” Halbarad asked in sudden concern.
“Oh, no,” Frodo flushed and pulled his fingers from his arm.
Halbarad shook his head. “I am sorry. I am deeply shamed by how I have treated you this day, when you have shown me nothing but kindness.”
“No, please,” Frodo said, bravely taking Halbarad’s large hand. “Let us not allow for regrets. Let us just enjoy what time we have.” He paused, gathering courage, and then he added, “I have missed you.”
Halbarad smiled, and Frodo’s breath caught. When Halbarad smiled, everything transformed, like a stormy gray sea when the sun at last breaks out, bringing color and light. “You have met me but one time before this. Have I impressed you so?”
“Yes,” Frodo said. “Very much, I’m afraid.”
Frodo was not sure whether he imagined it, but Halbarad’s hand trembled under his touch. “You have made an impression on me as well.”
“Have I?”
“You are not as most halflings I have come upon. There is something unworldly about you, something Elvish perhaps, a fairness not seen often in mortals.”
Frodo’s ears buzzed into merry ringing, and he held his breath. They leaned closer, breaths withheld, as if in a dream. At any moment, they would fall into each other’s arms, kissing and groping with the ferocity of survivors whom after months in a Southern desert find fresh water at last. Frodo hardened and his abdomen filled with warm fluttering. But then, as if an icy shadow fell between them, Halbarad looked away and glanced out the window.
“The sun is nearly down. Will you be needing to return to your home?”
Frodo’s cheeks numbed as if Halbarad had struck him. He could only gaze at him, not quite comprehending the question, only comprehending that he had pulled away. He had been wrong. He had misread kindness for eagerness.
At last Frodo stumbled to his feet. “First I shall make you something to eat,” he said, tilting his face away so that Halbarad could not see his biting disappointment. He fumbled for a bowl on the table and with shaking hands laid it beside the bag of potatoes. In a dull voice he continued, “I shall make you a potato and leek soup. Will you not set some water to boil in the hearth? I think we can share a glass of wine before I head for home.”
“It will be fully dark by then, and I shall accompany you home. It is not wise to be abroad late.” He had removed his muddy boots and was working at wiping them clean with a damp towel.
“Especially if you are but a helpless halfling,” Frodo added bitterly. Of course a Ranger who had seen so much of the world and as many dangers as he had would have no use for a hobbit that didn’t even own a sword and had no idea how to use one.
Halbarad let out a bark of a laugh. “I’ll warrant you’re not helpless, Frodo.”
Frodo only managed a stiff smile as he began to peel a potato.
“After all,” Halbarad added with crafted lightness to his voice. “How many hearts have you stolen? Surely there is a hobbit…a lass…perhaps a sweetheart?”
Frodo’s heart jolted and he met Halbarad’s gaze, unable to hide his pain. “No, no sweetheart.”
“That is a pity,” Halbarad said, scrubbing his boot with the towel, which had already turned brown with filth. “Whoever shall you choose will be fortunate.”
“No,” Frodo said with an unprecedented harshness that startled Halbarad into meeting his gaze. “No, that is not true. Because I should never be able to give my heart to…her… because I love one I cannot have.”
Halbarad paled slightly and turned away. His hand clenched the towel, but he did not move. He looked as though he had been delivered a regretful blow. So he had guessed Frodo’s feelings. He knew and he pitied Frodo, regretted coming here this day when he could never return such foolish love.
***
When Halbarad was a lad, he and his older brother had often played by the River Mitheithel, practicing what they had learned thus far about hunting with stealth. One day Halbarad had stepped on a thorn. The thorn had been long and thick, and it pierced through his boot and into his foot, causing a jagged pain that radiated all the way up to his knee. He had been so shocked that he had been unable to cry out to his brother, and he had just stood in place, his mouth half opened with unspoken pain.
Frodo’s last words had done the same to his heart. He had been warming up to it, nearly certain that the halfling returned his affection. Frodo had swayed toward him, breath held, just moments earlier. Halbarad had turned away because he had not been sure. If he had acted upon his instinct and he had been wrong, he would have forever destroyed Frodo’s sweet trust in him. And Halbarad had felt Frodo’s pulse quicken when he kissed his brow. Had that not been a sign? He had seen the flush in the halfling’s cheeks every time they accidentally brushed against each other. He had seen the adoration in expressive eyes that could not, would not ever mislead.
Halflings were so different from Men, especially the Dunadain, in how they showed affection. In both Bree and The Shire, hobbits hugged and kissed and held hands, and it meant nothing other than friendship. Perhaps Frodo had shown Halbarad such attention and kindness as he would his own kind. Perhaps it had only been because Halbarad had saved his life and he felt he owed him something in return.
Suddenly Halbarad felt lonelier than ever before. It had come out at last -- Frodo had a love, one who perhaps did not return his feelings but to whom his heart was given. This fortunate hobbit - and Halbarad was nearly certain it was a hobbit --whether lass or lad, had surely never frightened Frodo with harsh words or lain rough, bruising hands on him. The one Frodo loved was a fool not to bask in the devotion that flowed so naturally from this comely hobbit with the dreamy smile and melodious voice.
Go on to next part
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: PG13
Summary: In the autumn after Bilbo leaves, Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
By the time Frodo reached Bag End, twilight had fallen over Hobbiton. The gate creaked as he swung it open, and his heart lifted to see Sam’s shadowy figure bent over still in the garden, trimming the grass.
“Sam,” Frodo called out quietly.
Sam jumped, startled, and then stumbled to his feet, dropping his shears.
“Where have you been, Mr. Frodo? I was getting worried.”
“I’m sorry you worried, Sam.” Frodo climbed the path to the front door, clapping Sam on the shoulder as he passed. “I am all right.”
Sam followed him inside, wiping his muddy hands on his breeches. He stomped his feet to rid his feet of any dirt that might have gotten caught in the curls of his foot hair. “Can I get you some tea? My, there’s a chill coming in - you didn’t sleep in the woods last night, with naught on but your cloak, did you?”
Sam looked so concerned that Frodo could not help but burst into laughter. When Sam’s face clouded with hurt, his smile faded. “No, Sam.” Frodo thought back to the night before, about how far from cold he had been, with Halbarad’s arms tightly fixed around him. His cheeks heated. “And tea sounds mighty fine.”
“Well.” Sam’s eyes darkened with suspicion. “I just hope you didn’t catch a chill.” He set to work lighting a fire in the hearth. Frodo rubbed his hands near the snapping flames. A nostalgic ache filled his throat. How he longed to go back in time, when he was sitting on a fur rug, warm and secure, fire surging through his blood, with the attentive gaze of the Ranger on him.
Frodo had awakened that morning to an empty cottage. There had been no note, no sign that the night before had even occurred. But for the oversized tunic that he had slept in, it may have been a dream.
Frodo took off his cloak, letting it drop to the floor with a silent promise to hang it up when he went to bed, and sank into his favorite chair.
Sam returned with tea, a sandwich, and Frodo’s pipe. “I thought you might want this, sir. You look right weary.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Frodo gratefully accepted the pipe. “Will you not stay for tea?”
Sam shook his head regretfully. “No, sir. Ma’s expecting me home for supper. She’ll be relieved to know you’re all right.”
Frodo smiled. “Then go on home.”
“Are you sure you won’t be needing anything else?”
Frodo shook his head and closed his eyes until he heard the light patter of Sam leaving the room, followed by the closing of the door with a gentle click. The fire had built to a pleasant, warming roar. Frodo inhaled deeply from his pipe and attempted to blow a smoke ring. Bilbo had been so patient, laboring on many a summer eve in an effort to teach him how - it was a matter of twisting his tongue in just the right way - but he had so far not caught on. Tea, a pipe, and a roaring fire - all that he lacked was someone with whom he could laugh and share tales.
If Halbarad were here, Frodo would lead him to the oversized chair that Gandalf used whenever he visited. His long, muscled legs would stretch out over the ottoman. Frodo would pull off his worn boots and Halbarad would let out a contented sigh.
Ah, men had such rugged features - grizzled faces, long powerful fingers. And then -- what couldn’t those hands do! Frodo imagined dangerous hands - rough and coarse from wielding swords - groping him under his clothing and over his bare stomach, fingers tweaking his nipples, pinching them until he gasped in the most pleasurable of pain. Hot breath would herald the ravishing of his neck by untamed lips, even less trained in kissing than laughing.
Frodo clenched his teeth, sucking in a hissing breath as he hardened. His trembling hand drifted inside his breeches to encircle himself. He stared at the ceiling, letting out hurried gasps as he rubbed his length with frantic need. Halbarad’s formidable stare burned in his mind and he pictured him suddenly kneeling before him and ripping his shirt open with and ravaging his pale neck skin before kissing him until his lips were swollen and he could not breathe. Then he would fall on him, all his heavy, muscled weight, crushing him without hurting him, filling him so deep and hard that the craving for more would cause tears to roll down his cheeks.
Frodo gave a final gasp and withdrew his hand, now wet with sticky warmth. For a long moment he could not move at all. He lay panting, still feeling Halbarad’s lips on his with such vividness that his lips tingled.
At last he reached for his pack and took out the forest-green tunic that Halbarad had given him. He held the soft fabric to his nose, taking in a deep sniff, reveling in the rugged scents of leather, pipeweed, faint perspiration, and under that, a distant scent of lemon.
Frodo had to find him again.
Surely if he wandered to the same part of the woods in which he had nearly drowned, he had at least a small chance of running into Halbarad again. Or he could return to the lodge. His cheeks heated at the thought. But what in the world could he offer as an excuse for his presence?
He froze, clutching the already beloved fabric. Why of course - he would simply use returning the tunic as an excuse. Perhaps Halbarad would think it odd that Frodo had not left the tunic there after his own clothing had dried, but perhaps, if Halbarad were as unhappy and lonely as he appeared, perhaps it would cease to matter.
Of course there was always the danger that Halbarad had gone away, perhaps for a long journey, perhaps even for good. Frodo could not account for walking all that way every day until he just happened to run into him. And however would he explain it to Sam, who would certainly relate it to Merry and Pippin? His dear cousins would only murmur to each other about how restless Frodo had grown since Bilbo’s departure and they would meddle in his affairs all the more.
And by all means, he could never, ever allow his cousins to catch wind of what Frodo wished would happen between himself and the Ranger in that dingy cottage in the woods.
***
Halbarad strode through the woods, nearly silent on his worn boots. He was a mute shadow in his browns and greens among the warm autumn red, amber, and orange leaves shrubbery. His feet crunched on broken twigs and his ears were tuned into every thud his feet made on the dirt path. The halfling had spoken the truth. Halbarad had believed in his stealth for so long that he had never truly listened to himself. Tiny forest creatures scuttled out of his path. Squirrels rushed up trees, birds fluttered away, and moles darted into holes under dead leaves. He felt the woods shudder under his enormous strides. It was no wonder he had never met one of the Shire-folk before Frodo.
And now he could not rid his mind of Frodo’s smile and his exquisite blue eyes, which held in them mischievous promise and innocence all at once. He had laughed last night for the first time in many years. Then after the halfling had fallen asleep, nuzzled in his arms, he had nearly wept. Never in recent years had he realized how he longed for friendly banter and laughter. Nearly twenty years had passed since his beloved Gilwen had died in a long and agonizing childbirth that had left both mother and son dead. He had not realized how thick and enduring were the thick clouds that pressed in on his heart.
Naturally the first time Frodo had come to this cottage nestled deep in a clearing of the woods, he had been asleep in strong arms, unaware of his surroundings. He had not noticed the enormous oaks, laden with burnt orange and curled brown leaves, with their thick limbs that curved over the cottage as if in protection. He had not noticed that the wood that made the cottage was rather splintery, as if it had been made in great haste. He had not noticed the thatched roof or the smudged windowpanes or the front stoop, which looked as if he had not been swept in months, perhaps years. And furthermore, it had not occurred to him the oddity that this mannish cottage existed inside the Shire.
Although it was early afternoon, the air had a sharp, chilly quality to it, and the light had grown thin, as if it were close to dusk. Frodo peered in one of the dirty windows, his heart echoing in his ears, and he strained his eyes for movement.
Inside the cottage, it was dark and still.
Of course Frodo had known that the chances were slim that Halbarad would actually be there. He had convinced himself that he should expect nothing. Halbarad was a Ranger with duties that stretched far beyond concern for one hobbit that he had met by chance. All the same, hope had buoyed his heart. It seemed fated that they should meet again, and he would not have at all been surprised to come upon him in the woods.
Stepping soundlessly upon the dirty front stoop, he approached the door. He curled his hand into a fist, pausing. His heart still thudded so hard that he could barely breathe. If Halbarad actually was inside, and his heart still held tiny hope of this possibility, perhaps catching up on sleep, Frodo was not sure exactly what he would say.
He knocked.
He closed his eyes and ran through what he would say if Halbarad answered -- I’ve your tunic…I’ve come back to give you your tunic…I thought you might want it back. Of course it was no trouble…I enjoy a brisk walk through the woods in autumn…Thank you, I’d love to come in…
But he heard no heavy footfalls and nobody answered the door, and he released a shuddering sigh that sent weakness through his thighs. He knocked again, stronger this time, with more confidence and dwindling hope. No answer. He tried the door and it swung open with no resistance. Inside, the cottage looked exactly as Frodo had left it the morning before. As far as he could tell, the Ranger had never returned.
Frodo gazed around at a room that now looked barren and empty, and he felt suddenly melancholy. Halbarad spent much time on the road, wandering, often taking what sleep he could on the cold, hard ground beneath the stars. This cottage was the one place far from home in which he had the comfort of a roof over his head. And how grim and desolate it looked, nothing like Bag End, which was always a beacon of comfort at the end of a long journey. Gracious, no wonder Halbarad’s mouth had nearly cracked into pieces when he smiled - there seemed nothing in this world to give him warmth.
As Frodo trekked home, a cold, disappointed knot in his throat, a fine idea took flight. Instead of mindlessly roaming the Shire like a love-struck lass, he would work to make the cottage a pleasant place for Halbarad. Of course, he would need to beg Sam’s help, and so he would need to let him in on his little secret.
***
“Well met!” Estel rose and gripped Halbarad in a tight embrace. They sat down then at the shadowy table in the back corner of the Prancing Pony’s common room. They ignored the suspicious stares from the Bree folk. Both had built callous skins over the years. Estel flagged old Butterbur down and when the fat innkeeper, out of breath despite hardly any customers at this early time of the day, reached them, Halbarad ordered a tall ale and stew.
When his ale arrived, he took a long sip. “It is good to have a hot meal and ale.”
“And company, too.”
“Aye.” Halbarad’s thoughts flickered back to the halfling Frodo, how every time he flushed, pink bloomed over his pale cheeks. The last few nights, well…he would not admit to anyone, and certainly not to Estel, what he had dreamed about.
In his latest dream, Frodo had writhed beneath him, his eyes full of dark blue wantonness. Halbarad had plunged deep into him, and Frodo had moaned ever for more. His lips - oh, how his lips were softer and fuller than he had imagined, and they tasted like the earthy wine they had drunk just before falling into bed, and he had devoured until the lips were swollen and bruised.
For a time, Halbarad and Estel discussed matters of the world, of their duties on the borders of the Shire, of great evil building in the East.
“I met one of the Shire folk,” Halbarad said. “I had never spoken to one of them before.”
“Do not make a habit of it,” Estel said. “They should never come to know how we labor to protect their border.”
“I had no choice. It was that or let him drown. I took him to the cottage that I use on occasion. We talked. He was very unusual, Estel, nearly Elvish to my mind. He spoke of a cousin who had traveled outside the Shire-“
Estel’s expression became eager. “Bilbo Baggins. You met--”
Halbarad looked at him in surprise. “You know him?”
“I have had the pleasure of meeting Bilbo. This tale grows more curious by the telling, for I had not told you what I mainly came to tell you. It has come to my ears from Mithrandir that there is a hobbit of the Shire by the name of Frodo Baggins-“
“That is the hobbit I met.”
Estel’s voice dropped. “He bears something of great evil, Halbarad.”
Halbarad’s skin grew suddenly too small for him, and he felt cold inside. “What mean you by that?”
“By this thing he bears, he will draw evil to him and to his kind and he must be watched carefully. We must have more guards on the borders. Will you do this for me? I have other business, wretched business that I must attend to. This Frodo is a dear friend of Mithrandir, and Bilbo Baggins is an Elf friend. Will you watch out for him?”
“I will,” Halbarad said, his heart aching from Estel’s pronouncement of Frodo’s great evil, but his voice dropped. “Estel, what could he…what great evil could this innocent hobbit possibly bear?“
“We will not speak of it here,” Estel said. “Have a care, Halbarad.”
Halbarad had anticipated a warm meal with much eagerness, but when the food arrived at his table, he found he could barely eat it.
The halfling’s face was bathed in the golden glow of a single desk lantern. Halbarad watched, barely aware that his tongue was running over his dry lower lip, as Frodo dipped his quill in ink with a whimsical half smile. How vulnerable and unworldly he was - like an unbroken shell of rare beauty peeking out of the sand. Halbarad studied the luminous face, searching for any sign of malice. Estel had warned of great evil, and Halbarad had seen far too much evil in his life. But try as he might, he could see none in the halfling’s dreamy eyes. He ached for Frodo to speak just so he could once again hear his gentle voice, far fairer than any he had heard pass mortal lips.
Knock on the door; gladly he would let you in.
But Halbarad did not move. He was part of the shadows, unseen unless he wished to be seen. And he did not wish to be seen. He would not be welcome in this village even under the sun. Frodo put aside quill and ink and paper and yawned. He stood and unbuttoned his vest, revealing white shirt and breeches held up by braces. Halbarad averted his eyes. He should not. It was wrong to watch in secret, wrong to long for another night pressed against such softness. Far better not to remember the dreams of the halfling’s writhing abandon.
Frodo now worked at the buttons on his shirt, revealing dark nipples that contrasted richly with smooth, pale chest. His eyes held a dreamy gaze that caused Halbarad’s groin to warm. He bit back a groan as his hand drifted into his leggings.
***
Frodo’s heart jumped when he heard the thudding footfalls farther down the dirt trail. He darted off the road and hid behind a fallen tree. The footfalls grew closer, stealthy for one of the Big Folk, and his ears rang. His nearly daily wanderings had at last paid off. He trembled wildly as fluttering thoughts gripped him. If his heart was wrong and it was not Halbarad, he would be bitterly disappointed… If it was indeed Halbarad and he showed no joy in seeing the hobbit that he had saved, then Frodo’s heart would shatter.
But then - if it was Halbarad and his grim eyes warmed with eager desire…what then? Frodo hugged himself, trying to still the trembling. His life might take a rare turn this very day. Perhaps Halbarad would take him along on his journeys, allow him to wander with him throughout the world, and through him he might see the Outside at last.
The footfalls grew closer, thudding through Frodo’s ears.
It was him.
Frodo could only stare. The Ranger was masked again, his cloak pulled tightly around his powerful shoulders. His eyes gleamed with grim purpose. In Frodo’s memory, they had not been so morose.
At last Frodo knew he had to move or risk having Halbarad pass by. He scrambled to his feet, but before he could cry out his greeting, he was staring at the point of a long sword. Frodo stumbled and fell onto his backside as Halbarad sheathed his sword with an uttered curse.
“Is it customary for your kind to run about like woodland creatures? You are fortunate I did use the bow.” His voice was tense and forbidding, more so than Frodo remembered. His gray eyes did not look welcoming and in fact were masked by suspicion.
“The woods in the Shire are not dangerous,” Frodo said, catching his breath, unable to keep a joyful smile from his lips, despite Halbarad’s stiff demeanor. “There is no need to react such.” He glanced reproachfully at Halbarad’s sword.
“It is better that you do not think otherwise.” Halbarad reached down with a large hand and helped Frodo to his feet. He then pulled his hand away as if Frodo’s very touch repelled him and walked on with great strides that barely allowed Frodo to keep pace.
“Where are you going?” Frodo asked. A distressing ache filled his chest, and his cheeks warmed. This was not going as he had hoped at all.
“You should not wander so far from home, Frodo,” Halbarad said, keeping his gaze forward. He had barely looked at Frodo’s eyes. “Not alone. Just today I encountered unfavorable Men with ill intent not but a half-day’s journey from here. I have just cleaned my sword of their blood.”
A chill ran down Frodo’s arms at the way Halbarad had so casually spoken of taking lives. His hand crept into his pocket, fingering the golden Ring. He closed his eyes, suddenly longing to disappear. Halbarad did not wish to see him. In fact, he had unlikely given him a thought since their last meeting.
With a suddenness that brought a gasp to Frodo’s lips, Halbarad halted and whirled to face him. He looked down at Frodo in such grim study that it brought bewildered tears to Frodo’s eyes. He had never seen such hatred and suspicion, even from the Sackville-Bagginses. Frodo released the Ring, his cheeks heating in misery.
“How did you know I would travel this road?” Halbarad demanded.
“I did not,” Frodo said, swallowing. His ears rang as his hope cracked. Halbarad not only was indifferent to him, but he hated him. But he had to speak - or he would flee. “Halbarad…” His voice choked. “Halbarad, please do not look at me in such a manner. It…” He wished to say how it hurt his heart, but instead finished with, “…is frightening.”
Halbarad turned away, releasing a harsh sigh, bowing his head. When he turned back, he managed a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I am sorry, Frodo. I am afraid it is my manner to be such. It was not my intention to frighten you.” He looked away and said in a voice so low that Frodo knew it was not intended for his ears, “It is not unfathomable now.”
Frodo did not know what he meant, but he was filled with a brave joy that the Ranger had softened, that he had not intended hatred or terror. His heart swelling with hope, Frodo grasped Halbarad’s elbow. The Ranger stiffened, but Frodo spoke in a breathless voice, “Please…let us return to your cottage. You need to rest and clean up after your long journey. And to eat something besides dried meat.”
Frodo held his breath, dizzy, waiting for the worst. Perhaps Halbarad would guess his true feelings and strike him. Perhaps he would sneer and move away, walking at a great pace and disappearing into the woods forever.
At last Halbarad nodded. “That I can do.”
Halbarad did not speak as they walked. He kept his face forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes had clouded into grim concentration. Frodo wondered if the Ranger had always been so stern or whether there had ever been a time when he had laughed with merriment.
At last they approached the cottage. Frodo’s heart thudded. He had not spoken of his and Sam’s efforts during the last two weeks. He only hoped it would bring Halbarad enough joy to melt some of the ice in his burdened heart.
Halbarad halted, and his countenance tensed. The windows had been cleaned, the front stoop swept, and hastily transplanted flowers decorated the patch of grass in front of the cottage.
Halbarad signaled to Frodo to wait and he drew his sword.
“What is it?” Frodo asked. He looked around, but he could see nothing.
“Hush,” Halbarad said, approaching the cottage, his body tense and alert, sword held before him.
Then it occurred to Frodo - the silly Ranger was frightened and suspicious of the changes to the cottage! He burst into loud laughter. Halbarad called back in harsh voice, “Stay silent!”
But Frodo ran to him. Halbarad spun about fiercely and grabbed Frodo’s upper arm. His face was so dour that Frodo’s throat dried, and it dulled his smile and stilled the merry laughter that still bubbled behind his lips. Halbarad’s grip was perhaps stronger than he intended - his fingers dug into Frodo’s flesh with bruising force, but Frodo did not dare to twist away.
“Do you not perceive the danger? You put us in grave peril with such foolishness - now stay back.” He released Frodo roughly. Frodo turned away, unable to look at Halbarad’s baleful gaze another moment.
“Halbarad,” he managed. “It was I. There is nobody here. It is I -- and my gardener; we did this. We thought…we thought…” He faded out, stumbling backwards, unable to finish. He had to leave. He had misinterpreted Halbarad’s former kindness. There was no feeling for him here. He had not given Halbarad joy; he had caused only fear, and now the Ranger was no doubt wondering why he did not allow Frodo to drown. Frodo had made things worse, had given Halbarad further strain. Perhaps Halbarad needed the cottage to look uninhabited. Perhaps that was what made his existence in the Shire safe and unnoticed.
Halbarad paused and his shoulders stiffened. His name meant “tall tower” - Bilbo had taught him well enough so that he knew that at least. And it fit him -- Halbarad had never before looked as tall and imposing as he did now, a forbidding and frightening enemy.
Then Halbarad’s sword arm relaxed, and his sword sagged downward. He spoke in a low but clear voice, “You did this?”
Frodo’s throat ached, but he spoke quickly, “I wished for you to have a pleasant place to stay your nights in the Shire. Yes, I did it. I am sorry.” He turned away then and stumbled down the path that led back to the woods. Perhaps later he could bring a letter of apology. But for now he would stumble home the best he could and deal with his heart-
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. “Frodo, do not go.”
Frodo turned and looked into a masked face still grim, although his eyes had softened with pain. “Please forgive me, Frodo. I have been suspicious for so long that I am not accustomed to deeds done with a gentle heart. Please…stay with me. Have tea at least before going home. I am sorry.”
Frodo then smiled with such relief that only later he recalled that Halbarad flinched and turned away as if dazzled by too bright sunlight.
Frodo held his breath as Halbarad halted just inside the cottage, although this time he did not stiffen with doubt. He threw back the hood of his cloak, revealing unkempt dark hair flecked with gray, and he pulled the mask from his face. He then looked around the cottage in wary wonder. The thinning late afternoon sun through the windows gave the newly polished floors a magical golden glow.
Frodo and Sam had worked hard during the last weeks. Frodo had told Sam very little, other than that he wished to help one of the Big Folk who had saved his life during his wanderings. Sam had been horrified not just that Frodo had been so close to death but that he had been near enough to any of the Big Folk. But after he had recovered from his moaning over how dear Mr. Frodo needed to stay closer to home from now on and how there was no need for him to wander so far, he had acquiesced. He had been more than happy to do anything at all for he who had saved his master’s life, even if he wasn’t a hobbit. Together they had swept and polished the floor, cleaned the windows inside and out, shaken the rug, and had placed a thick burgundy tablecloth over the rickety table and centered it with a heavy clay vase filled with orange and red chrysanthemums and marigolds. They had hung thick drapes over the windows. As far as food and drink, Frodo had brought several bottles of wine, found in Bilbo’s well-stocked cellar. Also, they had brought a bag of potatoes from the garden, onions, and some herbs. He had also brought extra dishes and glasses. Frodo had plenty in Bag End that he rarely used.
“You did all this…why?” Halbarad unclasped the weapons from around his waist and set them to rest in the corner near the fireplace.
“Well…” Frodo flushed deeply and looked down at his furry feet. He could not very well blurt out that he loved Halbarad and wished only for him to have as much happiness as could be salvaged so far from his home. He said the only sensible thing he could think of. “You saved my life.” He took off his brown jacket and as he could not reach the cloak hook, he dropped it on the ground beside the door. “Alas, there was not much to do about your bare furnishings. You would not be comfortable on furnishings such as could be found in the Shire and it might rouse suspicions for me to order from Bree or to have Man-size furniture specially made.”
Halbarad looked around the room again, his lips still curved in astonishment. “What you have done is more than enough. You made what little is here look like a home. That I have not had since…” Halbarad’s eyes clouded and he gazed into the distance. He blinked and came back to himself after a moment. “It has been many years.” He dropped to one knee and clasped Frodo’s shoulders. His eyes, unmasked now, were frighteningly intense, and Frodo could see pain in their depths. His breath was hot on Frodo’s lips and all it would take was for either of them to lean forward. Frodo swayed, but Halbarad drew away and instead kissed his brow. Frodo shivered as Halbarad’s moist lips lingered for too long.
“Thank you, Frodo,” he said, at last pulling away and standing.
Halbarad built a fire in the hearth, and they settled together on the fur rug. They did not speak, for Halbarad was reticent and nearly impossible to draw out in conversation. Frodo stopped trying after a few attempts, but his heart pattered happily. He had imagined this moment almost every day since he had met Halbarad. And almost every night since then he had brought himself to pleasure imagining that sitting here side by side before the fireplace, the Ranger would unbutton his shirt while nuzzling his craggy face against his soft neck. He imagined how his tongue would slide in Frodo’s mouth and it would taste of pipe-weed and worn leather and campfire. He imagined rough hands groping under his shirt and stroking over his belly, down his hips, and over nipples tender with arousal.
He absently rubbed his arm where Halbarad had grabbed him with such fierceness earlier. There would be bruising later. Yes, it had all started quite badly, but that no longer mattered because Halbarad had thawed, and though he did not speak, his stern mask had fallen, and he seemed content at last.
“Did I hurt you?” Halbarad asked in sudden concern.
“Oh, no,” Frodo flushed and pulled his fingers from his arm.
Halbarad shook his head. “I am sorry. I am deeply shamed by how I have treated you this day, when you have shown me nothing but kindness.”
“No, please,” Frodo said, bravely taking Halbarad’s large hand. “Let us not allow for regrets. Let us just enjoy what time we have.” He paused, gathering courage, and then he added, “I have missed you.”
Halbarad smiled, and Frodo’s breath caught. When Halbarad smiled, everything transformed, like a stormy gray sea when the sun at last breaks out, bringing color and light. “You have met me but one time before this. Have I impressed you so?”
“Yes,” Frodo said. “Very much, I’m afraid.”
Frodo was not sure whether he imagined it, but Halbarad’s hand trembled under his touch. “You have made an impression on me as well.”
“Have I?”
“You are not as most halflings I have come upon. There is something unworldly about you, something Elvish perhaps, a fairness not seen often in mortals.”
Frodo’s ears buzzed into merry ringing, and he held his breath. They leaned closer, breaths withheld, as if in a dream. At any moment, they would fall into each other’s arms, kissing and groping with the ferocity of survivors whom after months in a Southern desert find fresh water at last. Frodo hardened and his abdomen filled with warm fluttering. But then, as if an icy shadow fell between them, Halbarad looked away and glanced out the window.
“The sun is nearly down. Will you be needing to return to your home?”
Frodo’s cheeks numbed as if Halbarad had struck him. He could only gaze at him, not quite comprehending the question, only comprehending that he had pulled away. He had been wrong. He had misread kindness for eagerness.
At last Frodo stumbled to his feet. “First I shall make you something to eat,” he said, tilting his face away so that Halbarad could not see his biting disappointment. He fumbled for a bowl on the table and with shaking hands laid it beside the bag of potatoes. In a dull voice he continued, “I shall make you a potato and leek soup. Will you not set some water to boil in the hearth? I think we can share a glass of wine before I head for home.”
“It will be fully dark by then, and I shall accompany you home. It is not wise to be abroad late.” He had removed his muddy boots and was working at wiping them clean with a damp towel.
“Especially if you are but a helpless halfling,” Frodo added bitterly. Of course a Ranger who had seen so much of the world and as many dangers as he had would have no use for a hobbit that didn’t even own a sword and had no idea how to use one.
Halbarad let out a bark of a laugh. “I’ll warrant you’re not helpless, Frodo.”
Frodo only managed a stiff smile as he began to peel a potato.
“After all,” Halbarad added with crafted lightness to his voice. “How many hearts have you stolen? Surely there is a hobbit…a lass…perhaps a sweetheart?”
Frodo’s heart jolted and he met Halbarad’s gaze, unable to hide his pain. “No, no sweetheart.”
“That is a pity,” Halbarad said, scrubbing his boot with the towel, which had already turned brown with filth. “Whoever shall you choose will be fortunate.”
“No,” Frodo said with an unprecedented harshness that startled Halbarad into meeting his gaze. “No, that is not true. Because I should never be able to give my heart to…her… because I love one I cannot have.”
Halbarad paled slightly and turned away. His hand clenched the towel, but he did not move. He looked as though he had been delivered a regretful blow. So he had guessed Frodo’s feelings. He knew and he pitied Frodo, regretted coming here this day when he could never return such foolish love.
***
When Halbarad was a lad, he and his older brother had often played by the River Mitheithel, practicing what they had learned thus far about hunting with stealth. One day Halbarad had stepped on a thorn. The thorn had been long and thick, and it pierced through his boot and into his foot, causing a jagged pain that radiated all the way up to his knee. He had been so shocked that he had been unable to cry out to his brother, and he had just stood in place, his mouth half opened with unspoken pain.
Frodo’s last words had done the same to his heart. He had been warming up to it, nearly certain that the halfling returned his affection. Frodo had swayed toward him, breath held, just moments earlier. Halbarad had turned away because he had not been sure. If he had acted upon his instinct and he had been wrong, he would have forever destroyed Frodo’s sweet trust in him. And Halbarad had felt Frodo’s pulse quicken when he kissed his brow. Had that not been a sign? He had seen the flush in the halfling’s cheeks every time they accidentally brushed against each other. He had seen the adoration in expressive eyes that could not, would not ever mislead.
Halflings were so different from Men, especially the Dunadain, in how they showed affection. In both Bree and The Shire, hobbits hugged and kissed and held hands, and it meant nothing other than friendship. Perhaps Frodo had shown Halbarad such attention and kindness as he would his own kind. Perhaps it had only been because Halbarad had saved his life and he felt he owed him something in return.
Suddenly Halbarad felt lonelier than ever before. It had come out at last -- Frodo had a love, one who perhaps did not return his feelings but to whom his heart was given. This fortunate hobbit - and Halbarad was nearly certain it was a hobbit --whether lass or lad, had surely never frightened Frodo with harsh words or lain rough, bruising hands on him. The one Frodo loved was a fool not to bask in the devotion that flowed so naturally from this comely hobbit with the dreamy smile and melodious voice.
Go on to next part