Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Prof Tolkien's Estate and New Line Cinema. I make no money from this story.
Pairing: Frodo and Aragorn Rating: PG15 Warnings: Angst
AN: Movie Cannon. There are points in this story which are essentially flashbacks. Rather than draw attention to them, I think the reader can work out where they are.
Feedback: Yes, please - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
Thanks to Hope for a very thorough beta and suggestions, which made it a better story.
Across the plain, endlessly moving, endlessly driving himself onwards... Aragorn spared scarcely a glance back at his companions, Legolas and Gimli. Occasionally, the Elf would overtake him, moving ahead with long, graceful strides, until only his bright hair and the bow across his back defined him in the distance. But for the most part Aragorn led the way. Minutes stretched into hours and still he ran, his breath harsh and rasping, his legs aching... oh to rest. But rest - he could not, would not. Not until he either was reunited with Merry and Pippin or all hope was lost. He owed it to them - he owed it to Frodo. Aragorn slowed his pace and dropped to the ground, Legolas and Gimli coming to a halt behind him. He could hear the Dwarf's laboured breathing, the Elf silent as usual. The Ranger put his head to the ground and listened. As if the earth was a living thing and he could discern the heartbeats of two Hobbits a day away, Aragorn listened. He stilled his own breathing to a steady pace, willing away all distractions, needing only to hear what the earth would whisper… "Frodo..." it said.
Across unforgiving Emyn Muil, endlessly moving, endlessly wanting to stop, to turn back, to turn back time... Frodo did not glance back, barely even looking ahead of him as each step took him closer to Mordor. He was vaguely aware of Sam and of Gollum. But they existed in a different reality, one that less and less coincided with his own.
Snatches of conversations regarding maps and place names from thousands of years ago - or was it weeks ago, in Rivendell? - sprang up in his mind. Rivendell. Elrond. Bilbo.
Aragorn.
One sweet night. The birth of hope and its death, now it seemed to Frodo. Tender embraces, caught up in arms that were at once strong and yet gentle. And such warmth!
In the cold of the early evening, his senses full of death and decay, Frodo tried to remember what warmth felt like. He found he could not.
Once more, they picked up the trail, desperation spurring on the searchers, muscles straining and hearts pumping madly, but despairing not. They would find the Hobbits. Alive.
Aragorn concentrated all his energy, all his thought to reading the trail. He noticed the trampling of the very earth, which must have shrunk in dismay at the passing of the odious company of Orcs. He took comfort in the signs he did not see, signs of violence and death.
and he tried not to think of one he could not save, could not rescue, could not search for or hope to find. Knowing that Frodo's fate was beyond him somehow made Aragorn all the more determined to save Frodo's kin.
Night fell once more and still the hunters toiled on; in moonlight seeking, and then in the pale light of dawn, and so onwards into full day. Aragorn counted it a blessing they could not idle, could rest only briefly. A night gazing at the stars, or worse still, a night passed in fitful sleep, would only make him think of Frodo. The one thing he longed for. The one thing beyond his reach.
Gollum's babble, Sam's amiable chatter - sounds. Mere sounds which accompanied the sharing of a meagre meal, the spreading of blankets on unforgiving ground. The Ring added its own sibilant song, soft and seductive.
Frodo knew the Ring was beguiling him, tricking him, drawing him in. He cared little. The Ring was telling him, in subtle ways, to remember the betrayal. To remember how afraid he had been, how small he had felt, so weak and alone.
Seeking solitude to consider what choices were open to him he had left the others and wandered away… a noise, the snapping of a twig underfoot, the rustle of dry leaves... the Man, his eyes dark with lust for the Ring, pursuing Frodo as he fled, his ankle grabbed and Frodo was falling, falling to the dank forest floor. On his back, vulnerable… Aragorn reaching for the Ring, such anger in his face, his hands so rough… Frodo had fought back with a passion, defeated his attacker, and run to the crest of Amon Hen.
No. Not Aragorn. Boromir. It had been Boromir.
Not Aragorn.
Frodo simply put away the Ring. Everything was ashes. The Ring could sap his strength, steal his soul; it seemed all he had left was the memory of one sweet night in Rivendell.
Rivendell. The last night.
They lay, Man and Hobbit, on the terrace of Frodo's chamber and breathed in the scents of an endless autumn, and each other. Giggling conspirators, they had managed to secrete various items from the hall and smuggle them back to Frodo's room - cakes and fruits and a ewer of wine.
An hour had passed in talk of families and friends. Both had lost their parents, each had relied on the kindness of others to survive. Destiny they discussed, but only in passing, as destiny seemed too big a thing to trouble them on this sweetest of nights in Rivendell.
Which of them, Frodo or Aragorn, was first to cross the boundary, was hard to tell. There was, perhaps, a blurring of the line and then no line at all; there was, for a time, clear space between them and then no space at all. Certainly, Aragorn first laid his lips on Frodo's lips. The stars came together in a new constellation as Frodo and Aragorn kissed. Or so the foolish love of poets would have it.
For a while, a second, a minute, a passing of an age, they were content to move their mouths one on the other, to delve with tongues and taste and try.
"Frodo," Aragorn had said, "I will always protect you." And Frodo had believed him. He had reached up to caress his lover's face, bathed in softening moonlight, and had felt only contentment. It was with total trust that Frodo took Aragorn's hand and guided it down between his legs. Aragorn had smiled, his hand warm and heavy, beginning to move, to explore.
("He lied. He did not protect you. He protects no one. You are alone."
Frodo turned on his side so his back was to Sam. The Ring was in his hand, grasped tightly in his palm. He did not remember taking hold of it, but there it was, tangible and demanding.
"Be quiet," he said, softly. "I am remembering.")
Aragorn kicked at the smouldering heap of bones and ash, the stench of Orcs alive being altogether evil, the stench of Orcs burned being no less so.
His heart clenched at the thought of turning over the debris and finding confirmation that their search had been in vain, that so much that was vibrant in life was now reduced to mere ash.
Legolas and Gimli stood close by, overcome with grief and sudden exhaustion. Aragorn, wearied and disheartened, pinched the bridge of his nose, seeking to will away his despair.
"Oh, Frodo," he thought, "forgive me."
And then the Ranger looked once more at the puzzle, tracks in the earth. And hope was renewed.
Frodo lay in Aragorn's embrace, flushed and sleepy. Strong arms encircled him, cradling him. He ached, but the ache was sweet, the pain pleasant. Aragorn's chin rested on top of Frodo's curls. The hobbit laid his hand on Aragorn's chest and marvelled at the strong beat of his heart; his fingers exploring, brushing over erect nipples, finding the raised imperfection of a scar... then another. The scars unsettled Frodo; little reminders rendered in flesh of a life lived, unknowable, and a past in which he had no place.
Gently, Aragorn captured Frodo's hand in his own, stilling its questing. "Sleep, Frodo, sleep..." he whispered, kissing Frodo lightly, tenderly, "I have you. You are safe."
It was the sweetest of nights in Rivendell. But all nights come to the dawn, and moonlight yields to sunlight, even for lovers.
"Mr. Frodo. Wake up, sir. Have a little lembas, then we'd best be going." Sam's cheery voice jolted Frodo from his dream.
Frodo sat up, automatically reaching for the Ring. It was inside his shirt, nestling against the Mithril vest. He let it lie there... for a little while, at least.
A breeze had sprung up around the three walkers, carrying with it the foul, acrid stench of the marsh ahead of them. Frodo felt the Ring awaken and begin its litany. He squared his shoulders to deal with the onslaught, his resolve strengthened. Where the cold hard band might intrude, he would, for a time at least, think only of warmth.
Of one sweet night in Rivendell. Of Aragorn.
The End