The Citadel

[claudia603]

This isn't a new fic. Again, I don't really have this in one post on LJ or DW, so I'm just putting it here for index purposes...


Title: The Citadel
Author: Claudia
Pairing (if applicable): Frodo/Faramir
Rating: PG - NC17
Summary: An AU and yet…not. Frodo wakes in a strange village. He befriends a Ranger from Ithilien named Faramir. For trianne!
Warnings: There is one part that seems like character death toward the end.



Frodo shifted his weight on the firm wooden bench, clutching his arms together, trying to control his shaking. Even with his jacket on, now torn on his right elbow, a chill wormed itself down to his bones. His feet dangled, and the bench sat too far from the stone wall for him to rest his back. For the past hour, since he had awakened curled on the bench, he sat bone-straight with no support for his feet or back.

He studied the unfamiliar room, his heart thudding. Just where was he and how had he come to arrive?

He heard low, grumbling voices and the thud of boots upon stone (clearly Big People…possibly even Dwarves). But he saw nobody yet.

The stale odor of damp stone permeated the room and that along with the biting chill to the air, made his surroundings most uninviting. This was no cozy hobbit hole. But of course – he had left the Shire. Beyond that, he remembered nothing. His stomach flip-flopped and he clutched his belly, and for an unpleasant moment he thought he might vomit, which was most awkward since he saw not one sign of a rubbish bin. His brow broke out into cold sweat, and he blinked and swallowed until his stomach stabilized.

He glanced upward to the high ceiling. Narrow windows, too high for him to catch an outside view, were placed every few feet around the room. Muted winter sunlight streamed in the window and gave weak golden light to the gray walls. Not more than a few feet in front of him, an oak desk, about Frodo’s full height, stretched across the width of the room.

Frodo winced as he caught a whiff of his own scent. He was filthy. His shirt was torn in several places, singed, stained with droplets of dried blood. His jacket was ripped at the elbow. Half of the buttons on his vest were missing. He reeked of stale sweat. His wrists were bruised with large fingerprints. His forefinger on his left hand smarted as if it had been snagged and bent backwards.

“You, Halfling.” Frodo startled when he saw a large man with a scar down his cheek beckoning to him. He wore a green cloak over broad shoulders and a hood pulled over his head, shadowing his face.

“Come,” he repeated in irritation. He rested his enormous hand on the thick hilt of a sword that was longer than Frodo was tall. “Follow me now.”

Frodo dropped down from the bench, feeling awfully small beside the towering desk and the hooded man. His bruised stomach throbbed, and he wondered if he had tried to scuffle with this man or his companions. His lips quivered into a half smile at the absurdity of the idea. It was not his style to tussle, much less against those many times his match in strength.

Frodo followed the man down twisting, stone corridors. He clutched his arms in front of his stomach, pulling his jacket closed across his chest in a hopeless attempt to keep out the chill. He wondered where his cloak was or whether he had even been wearing one. And surely if he left the Shire he must have been carrying a pack. Of course, if there was a scuffle, they would have taken it from him.

The man stopped in front of an arched door and pushed it open. He signaled for Frodo to follow him into an austere chamber, furnished only with a table, a chair, and a stool.

He sat in the chair and motioned for Frodo to sit on the stool. Frodo’s back ached from sitting for so long on the bench with nothing to support his back and he was in no hurry to do so again. All the same, he feared to disobey.

Humph, how discourteous, Frodo sniffed to himself as he settled on the stool. I know now for sure I’m not in the Shire, where it’s customary to offer the guest the more comfortable chair.

Moths fluttered in his belly and a clammy sweat beaded his brow. He could not seem to keep his mind from frenzied chatter in the form of imaginary conversation with Bilbo.

Big People clearly do not appreciate cozy – everything is stone and cold and hard. This hulking brute of a man offered me the least comfortable seat and nothing to eat or drink, not even a cup of tea. Very uncouth in my opinion, but what do you expect from Big People? Bilbo, you were lucky to meet much more courteous people on your journeys. Of course, I might consider myself lucky if I get through this in one piece, considering how they seem to enjoy beating on folk much smaller. He touched his bruised wrist.

The man unrolled a yellow parchment on his desk and dipped his quill into ink. “Your name?”

“Where am I?” Frodo asked. His voice came out as a barely audible croak. He tried to peer over the man’s shoulder, out the window behind him, but it was too high up. He caught only the cold glare of sunlight.

The man’s voice was severe. “It would be wise to answer the questions and otherwise keep silent.”

Frodo’s cheeks flushed. He swallowed against a fluttering panic of not knowing where he was. But he was a Baggins, a gentlehobbit, friend of Elves and wizards, and he would not be spoken to as if he were criminal.

He met the man’s gaze, forcing his voice to come out steady. “If you insist upon treating me like a villain, then please first do me the courtesy of telling me where I am and who you are.” He released a nervous breath and his heart echoed in his ears.

The man leaned forward, quill between his thick fingers. “Do you wish to spend this night in prison?”

Frodo could not begin to imagine the terror of a prison meant for Big People – no doubt filled with grimy, rude, hooded men like this one. The threat sobered him and closed his throat so that he could not speak at all.

“Your name.”

But Frodo had to get a sense of place or he would go mad. This time, instead of being stern, he tried to appeal to the man’s kindness, if of course he had any at all. “Please, sir…I do not wish to cause trouble. But I do not know where I am. I will be happy to tell you what you ask if you tell me.” He clutched his hands together, upset that they trembled against his will in front of this man who could break his neck with a flick of his hand.

Surprisingly, the man’s lips twitched slightly into what looked almost like a brief smile before they clamped together into a grim line. “You are in a village called The Citadel.”

Frodo frowned. “Am I in some sort of trouble? Sir, please…I remember nothing, but I think…I think there must have been a struggle.” He flexed his bruised wrists.

“Whether you are in trouble, as you say, is not for me to judge. As far as I know, you are here because of something you have done in another time and place. The length of time you spend here in the Citadel shall be determined by you.”

Frodo’s cheeks heated in alarm. “I don’t understand. Have I committed a crime? Is this a prison? Can I not return to my home?” He thought about Bag End with sudden and fierce longing. Bag End seemed far away, a place he left years ago instead of just…well, he simply could not remember.

“Your name?” The man asked, reminding Frodo of his promise with a raised eyebrow.

Frodo could not stop the involuntary shuddering that wracked his body. He shook so hard that he could scarcely form words. He had left the Shire, his beautiful feather bed and full pantry and friendly, hobbity companionship, and he somehow got himself into a mess of trouble, but he could remember nothing about it or how it had come to be.

“Fr—Frodo…,” he finally managed. He took a deep breath and finally managed to control the shaking in his voice as he lifted his chin with all the dignity he could muster. “Frodo Baggins of the Shire.”

“Your age?”

“Fifty-one.”

The man looked somewhat surprised but wrote it down. “Halflings must age at a wholly different rate. You look not much older than twenty. Trade?”

“Pardon me?”

“In the Shire, what was your trade?”

“Well…” and Frodo flushed. “Nothing in specific. I worked, of course. Always plenty to do about Bag End and in Hobbiton, but Bilbo made certain I was left very comfortable…”

A stab of heartache assailed him. He would give anything to see Bilbo again – just one more time. And now he was trapped in this…this Citadel, far from anything he was familiar with. He did know how far The Citadel was in relation to the Shire or why or how he came to be here.

“You have no skills?”

Frodo flushed again, and then a new surge of bravery overcame him. “I can read in both the Common Tongue and Elvish, and I am good with figures. And of course I can cook.”

“Can you ride a horse?”

“It may be difficult, but I suppose I could manage—”

“In your case, perhaps a pony.”

Frodo nodded in relief. “I can ride a pony.”

The man held Frodo’s gaze. “Tomorrow you will find out what your duties are to be in The Citadel. For everyone who dwells here for however long must have a part. But for now, I am going to take you to your lodging. You are no doubt weary from your journey.”

Frodo’s heart sank. “Where shall I live?”

“In a cottage. Three men live there already. You will be the fourth lodger.”

Frodo felt nearly faint at the idea of sharing a cottage with Big People. He barely knew anything about them, only enough to generally stay out of their way. Well, there was Gandalf, but he was a wizard, after all, and quite different from the bumbling, sometimes wicked Big People that were whispered about in the Shire.

Frodo was breathless as he asked, “Are there no…are there lodgings with hobbits?”

“Hobbits?”

“Halflings. Are there other Halflings here that I could lodge with?”

“None that I know of. I can tell you that these men you will lodge with are Rangers, a grim and strange folk. I will place you with them because they are good men, high-minded, and more familiar with the foreign places of Middle-earth than most of the others here. They’ll do you no harm.”

Frodo swallowed, once again wondered what he could have done to deserve such a strange and frightening fate.


He followed the hooded man who at last introduced himself as Mendril down the twisting corridors again, until at last they made it outside. Mendril had returned to him his backpack, and the straps dug into his shoulders. Once outside, he blinked against the setting sun and a world that seemed glaring and cruel in its unfamiliarity. Mendril led him behind the building and through a gate to the stables.

Frodo noticed the land surrounding him. It was hilly, much like the Shire, but not nearly as green, and there were many wooded areas. Snow-capped mountains towered around the village, giving it a closed-in, trapped feeling.

They reached the stables, and Mendril untied his horse. He swung Frodo astride it and climbed up behind him. He guided the horse swiftly to the main road through The Citadel. Frodo stared in wonder as the road twisted into the village center. The buildings were so tall and sharp-edged, so different from the soft roundness of Hobbiton. He saw no hobbits or even children. Mendril led them past many stands where men sold fresh fruit and other produce. Many gave Mendril and Frodo curious looks, and Frodo wondered if any of them had ever seen a hobbit before. Despite himself, excitement and curiosity fluttered in his chest. The next chance he got, he must remember to write down his observations thus far. Bilbo would want to know every detail of this adventure.

Mendril guided his horse off the main road and down a winding, narrow path that cut through an orchard, a field. At last a cottage came into view. The sun set behind the mountains, and it was difficult to see much, but Frodo could make out a front garden enclosed by a rickety gate. A weed-infested stone walkway led to a warped front door with peeling paint.

“Follow me,” Mendril said after he helped Frodo down from the horse. Frodo’s heart sped as they approached the door. It was one thing to interact with Big People as was sometimes necessary but quite another altogether to live with them with their loud, growling voices and thudding footfalls.

Mendril knocked on the door. Frodo straightened his shoulders, determined at least to look brave.

The door creaked open, and a hooded man, tall and grim, with one large, gnarly hand covering the hilt of his sword, stood at the doorway. Frodo took an involuntary step backward and gripped Mendril’s arm.

He could see behind the grim man, inside where two other men, similarly attired, sat around a wooden table, playing cards. A jug of wine centered the table. A fire sputtered and spit in the hearth.

Mendril freed his arm from Frodo’s tight grip. “Strider, this halfling will be living with you as your fourth lodger, and he is rather shy. He has little experience with men.”

All the Rangers stared at him, and his stomach sank and flopped.

“A hobbit,” the man called Strider said. His demeanor was grim, his eyes keen. “How did he come to be in The Citadel?”

Mendril spoke in a low voice, but Frodo’s sharp ears caught his words. “He fought valiantly against my men outside the gates. Aside from that, I do not know how he came to arrive here. Time will tell, I reckon.”

“He reeks,” Strider said under his breath. “In dire need of a bath.”

“Frodo Baggins at your service,” Frodo cut in, bowing just a little. His legs trembled so badly that they barely held his weight.

Strider then did something for which Frodo was grateful. He bent on one knee so that Frodo did not have to look up at him and took Frodo’s hand in both of his, squeezing gently. “I am called Strider. Welcome.”

“Forget not,” Mendril said to Frodo, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You must return to the Citadel tomorrow to find out what your duties shall be. Farewell.”

Frodo nodded, and he was in truth sorry to see him go, since after he left, he would be alone with these strange and grim Rangers.

Strider stood to his full height and beckoned to Frodo. “Come.” Frodo followed him into the front room. The fire warmed the room and for the first time since awakening on the bench in that stone building, he no longer felt so chilled. Strider gestured to a man with curly dark hair and green eyes. He had a scar just above his upper lip. “This is my kinsman, Halbarad. A Ranger from the North, he is.”

Halbarad nodded but said nothing. He continued to deal cards.

Strider pointed to the third man. “And this is a worthy Ranger from the fair land of Ithilien, Faramir.” Again, a nod and no words. But something in his brief glance startled Frodo, like a spark, and he felt his cheeks warm. It lasted only a moment, but it left Frodo somewhat dizzy and breathless.

Foolishness and that’s all. You’re just weary and tired and very overwhelmed.

“Frodo Baggins at your service.” Frodo said again, and his voice caught. He bowed, as was courteous in the Shire. But Halbarad and Faramir turned back to their card game, and Frodo was left feeling foolish.

He was relieved when Strider beckoned him toward a room in the back of the cottage. The room was plain, furnished only with four narrow beds and a wobbly desk pushed against the window that looked barely held together by loose nails and flimsy wood. Strider gestured to a bed beside the desk. “This will be yours.”

“Thank you.” Frodo’s throat closed with weary misery. This room, a place he was to call his bedroom, was stark and unfriendly – and he had to share it with three Rangers out of the wild, who had no concept of homely comfort. The sagging bed looked hard and uncomfortable with only a thin wool blanket folded at its foot. The thin pillow could hardly be called a pillow by hobbit standards.

There ought to be feather down, that’s what, and at least a real blanket.

The fire had long since burned out in the fireplace. Everything was gray and drab and cold, with not even a painting on the wall or a vase of fresh flowers. Frodo dropped his pack on the bed and rubbed his sore shoulders. He longed to ask about a bath, but he thought it might be too late in the evening. He felt bone weary.

“Come,” Strider said. “Allow me to show you around the cottage.”

First he led Frodo to the large kitchen. Frodo stared upward in awe at the towering pantries. An enormous kettle in the hearth had recently been used for stew, and the smell still lingered. Frodo’s stomach growled, but he saw no sign of prepared food and he was embarrassed to ask.

“We mostly eat a simple diet of cured meat and take turns going to market for fresh produce and bread. We divide tasks, such as cleaning and cooking. Nobody here much enjoys cooking duties--”

“I take pleasure in cooking,” Frodo said, glad to anchor himself to a task that might make him useful among these grim men. The diet of cured meat – Frodo shuddered -- would certainly stop if he were in charge of cooking. He went on, looking around with concern. “But there is the small matter…well, this kitchen is not built with hobbits in mind and—”

Strider smiled in full then, and Frodo’s heart lifted that he might indeed find a friend in this kindly Ranger. “I shall fetch you a stepstool, or make you one if one is not to be found.” Then his smile faded. “Frodo, may I ask what brings you here to The Citadel?”

“Pardon me?” Frodo’s cheeks heated. He heard what Strider asked, but it shook him. He still had only the vaguest memory of a struggle.

“I don’t imagine you could have done anything too evil. Your eyes are too kind and innocent.”

“Evil? Is this…Do you know what this place is, Strider? Mendril would tell me very little.”

“You are in The Citadel, which means you are rather…on trial for something, although more often than not, folk do not remember why or how they have come here.”

“I remember nothing,” Frodo said in bewilderment. “Only that I must have been knocked about because I’m very bruised. Why are you here, Strider?”

Strider looked suddenly weary and melancholy. “I remember only that there was a dark road and a destiny that I have refused.”

Frodo scrambled to change the subject from what was clearly an uncomfortable topic for Strider. “What of the privy and where do you take baths? I know I am rather…ripe.” He laughed in an embarrassed manner.

Strider beckoned him to the back door, smiling. “Come. I am glad you asked…”




The next morning Frodo woke, stiff and sore but at least clean after a brief and chilly bath the night before. He had been right to assume the bed would be hard and creaky, and he winced at how sore he was. The other beds in the room were empty and made. He dressed in the extra clothing that he packed. He would mend and wash his other shirt today.

He heard the clumping of boots in the front room and the growling voices of the Rangers, although he could not hear what they said. Boots thudded in the direction of the bedroom, shaking the walls, and Frodo hastened to busy himself with tidying the wobbly desk. Since none of the Rangers claimed it, he set to work piling it with the few books he packed and his quill and ink. Before setting down his leather journal, he sniffed it. The scent evoked Bilbo in his mind and heart, and he cradled the journal, gazing out the window into a foreign landscape. He still had no memory of how he had come to be here. But for now he was stuck, and he might as well make the best of it, for what it was worth. At least it would make a fine tale.

“Elvish,” Strider said, making Frodo jump. His elbow knocked into an empty cup on the desk, and it fell, shattering on the floor.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry.” Flushing, Frodo knelt to pick up the pieces.

Strider bent to help him. “Careful not to cut yourself.”

“I’m quite clumsy at times, as you can see,” Frodo said with a wry smile.

“I apologize for startling you.”

“No matter.”

“Can you read this?” Strider tapped on one of Frodo’s books.

“Yes.” Frodo’s cheeks turned red. “Sila. Star.”

“A hobbit who reads Elvish…that is special indeed. Where did you learn?”

“I don’t read it very well…my cousin Bilbo taught me long ago. My knowledge is rather rudimentary.”

“It comes off your tongue like music.”

Frodo did not think his cheeks could get any hotter.

The lean, wiry man stood before Frodo, hands on his hips in obvious contempt. Just that morning Mendril, who was far friendlier than he had been the day before, found Frodo a pony in the stables and directed him to ride to this building in the village center. He was to work for Fomhal, delivering messages for him.

Frodo named the pony Prim and tied her to a post outside Fomhal’s building. He tried not to fret too much over a sign on the post that stated: Do not tie horses for longer than one hour’s time or they will be taken away and penned, by order of The Citadel. He did not know what it meant to be penned, but he did not want to find out on his first full day in this strange land.

Now Frodo stood inside a large windowless room with rickety wooden floors, a few chairs, and a desk.

Fomhal had beady eyes and greasy dark hair. He stroked his short beard. “I can’t believe they sent me such a runt. Just how are you supposed to ride a horse for me?”

Frodo’s heart stuttered at the man’s bluntness. At last he managed, “I have a pony.”

“A pony ain’t as fast as a horse, runt—”

“Frodo Baggins is my name,” Frodo cut in, flushing with prideful indignation.

Fomhal stepped toward Frodo double quick and grabbed him by the front of his vest, bunching it in his fist and shoving him against the wall. “You’d better learn about respect or you’re going to end up with a black eye or two. Is that understood?”

”Yes…yes, sir.” This quick violence was new and bewildering to Frodo and he did not quite know how to respond to it. It seemed rather more Orc-like than anything typical of the Big People.

Fomhal released him and went on. “This is what your duties will be: People come to me with messages they want sent to other parts of The Citadel. They pay me one coin to have it delivered within the day. I send you – and my other messenger Arkin,” he nodded to a young man who stared at Frodo in fascination, “with the messages. You deliver them. It’s very simple. Now tell me. What is a little thing like you going to do against being robbed?”

“Robbed?”

Fomhal spit right on the floor, far too close to Frodo’s foot for comfort, and Frodo winced. Even the most countrified of hobbits would never do that in a public place, much less indoors.

“Yes, robbed. I might have to send you into some not very nice areas at times. Although I’ll try to save those for poor Arkin.” He sneered at Arkin, who turned away in nervous haste and set to work sweeping the floor.

“Well…” Frodo’s heart began to beat. The idea of riding into danger had never occurred to him. He could tell Fomhal was waiting for an answer, and as much as he would rather work for someone less crude, he was not sure anyone else would be better. “Well, I shall take with me a handful of stones…it is a hobbit’s best weapon.”

“Show me.”

“Pardon me?”

“Aim a rock at me.”

“Sir, it might knock you out.”

“Please.”

“No, truly. I will hurt you. I cannot do it.”

“If you’re so worried, hit that cup.” Fomhal pointed to a cup of tea on the desk behind him.

“It will shatter.”

Fomhal’s face darkened with impatience and remembering how quickly he had shoved him against the wall, Frodo took that as an ominous sign.

So Frodo threw the stone and Fomhal startled at the shattering clay. He stared at Frodo with new respect.

“You’ve got deadly aim, halfling. I’ll give you that.”



Frodo returned home after his first day of delivering messages utterly exhausted. His bottom was sore, for he was not used to riding for so many hours. He learned some rather interesting things about The Citadel that he would note in his journal later. There seemed to be no womenfolk or children. Certainly he saw no other hobbits. He saw a few dwarves and he wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have seen an elf from afar. Frodo attracted all kinds of attention. Some merely stared at him in wonder. Others were overly friendly and solicitous, helping him from the pony, patting his head, speaking to him in a gentle voice as if he were a child. Still others, and Frodo shuddered in memory, took a different sort of fancy to him and made crude, rather frightening remarks that suggested what they might do behind a nearby shrub. At these times, Frodo fingered the stones in his pocket.


“So, what are your duties?” Strider asked. He sat on the stool in front of the fireplace in their cottage, cleaning one of his knives. Frodo lay curled on his side on the sofa, warm and in a near doze. His body ached.

“I am a messenger,” he said in a sleepy voice. “I ride my pony, which I have already named Prim – that’s after my mother, you see – and I deliver messages. Pretty soon I’ll know the village better than even you Rangers.”

Strider nodded, but he did not smile. “Have a care. Not all of The Citadel is safe, even with a large number of Rangers and other lawmen.”

“I know…I hardly look as if I can defend myself. But I have wicked aim with a stone. I think I made Fomhal think twice today. And my feet? I hope you never need find out what it is like to be kicked by a sturdy hobbit foot.” Frodo wiggled his toes and then suddenly felt a bit self-conscious. His feet seemed so large and cumbersome in comparison to Strider’s elegant feet inside his boots.

“I hope not either,” Strider said, chuckling. “Oh, and I found a step stool for you today – it’s in the kitchen.”

“Oh, thank you!” Frodo did not expect him to remember, much less so soon, and he was filled with a deep gratitude for Strider’s friendliness.

The front door creaked open and slammed shut, and Faramir tramped into the front room. He nodded at them with a grunt and settled on a chair on the other side of Strider. He said nothing to either of them. He did not take off his cloak and in fact was still fully hooded. He looked sour and disgruntled.

Frodo blushed a little, remembering the strange thrill that Faramir’s gaze the night before sent through him. He felt eager to befriend him.

“Faramir,” he said shyly, “I am cooking supper tonight. Is there anything that you would prefer? I can still go to market. At any rate, you must be tired of the cured meat day after day.”

Faramir did not meet Frodo’s gaze, and Frodo could see that for whatever reason, his words irritated the Ranger. “It is of no concern to me. And I see nothing wrong with the usual fare.”

Frodo was stunned into silence by his unfriendly reply.

“I’ve double duty today,” Faramir said to Strider. “I’m going to have a short sleep before I leave after sundown.” He got up and clumped to the back room.

“Have I offended him in some way?” Frodo whispered.

“I think not,” Strider said. “He can be rather dour. I have come to learn that he is here in The Citadel because of a conflict with his father that has wounded him deeply.”

“Oh,” Frodo said. “But I should think a good meal could give momentary relief to any ill.”

“Perhaps,” Strider said. “But as for myself, I’m afraid I must take my leave now.”


After Strider left, Frodo looked around the living area through eyes bleary with lonely exhaustion. Like the back room where they slept, the front room was grim and dismal. Despite his physical weariness from his duties, Frodo went to work sweeping the floor, dusting the hearth, and stirring the embers in the fireplace to coax the fire back to life. How nice and toasty it was when the fire roared and crackled! He next went on to hammering a hook to the wall in the front hall at his height for his cloak and jacket so that he could keep the step stool that Strider brought him in the kitchen where it belonged.

He had no sooner begun to hammer when he heard behind him, “This is hardly courteous.”

Frodo startled at the sound of Faramir’s growling voice, and his heart sank. He had in truth forgotten that he was not alone in the cottage and that Faramir was attempting to sleep. “Oh…” His cheeks heated with shame. “I’m so sorry, Faramir. I forgot you were still here.”

“Allow me some peace and quiet or I shall rip down that hook with my bare hands.”

And he wheeled about and clumped away.

Frodo retired to bed after an unsatisfying meal of cured meat, feeling lonely and bewildered.


The next day was much the same. Frodo delivered messages all day, and at least this time, nobody made crude remarks to him, for which he was grateful. He delivered twice to Beregond the Healer, who asked him curious questions about the Shire and about hobbits and who invited him for tea some time when he was off duty. Eomer the Horse Master instructed him for a long time on the proper food with which to feed Prim and he gave him a brush for her coat. While Frodo loved talking to him, his accent was difficult to make out at times.



That evening, Frodo found himself alone in the cottage with Faramir, as both Halbarad and Strider had patrolling duties. Frodo guessed that Faramir would wish to avoid him and keep to the back room, but instead he sat at the table in the front room, studying a map that he had unrolled. The silence was palpable, nearly unbearable. Frodo stared at the same page in his book, too anxious to read. He grasped for just the right thing to say to break the silence. But each time he took a breath, he found he could not speak.

He hungered for the courage at least to ask him about the map. He adored maps and he knew that the map Faramir studied would wildly differ from anything in the Shire.

Faramir glanced at Frodo, possibly annoyed that Frodo kept looking in his direction, but he said nothing. Frodo’s courage nearly fled altogether and he closed his book, ready to retire early to bed.

But he decided to try one more time. He took a breath. “Pardon me.”

Faramir turned to look at him. Again, Frodo was caught breathless by his eyes – startling. Their soft blue belied his brusque nature and spoke of a buried but deep kindness.

“May I…may I have a look at the map?”

When Faramir did not answer, Frodo added, “I’m sorry…never mind.” He swallowed his embarrassment and gathered his book.

But Faramir finally answered. “You’re welcome to have a look – I am only surprised that it is interesting to anyone at all.” His voice was low and comforting now, like distant thunder on a cozy indoor morning.

Frodo smiled with relief. “I love maps and I’ve not seen many drawn outside of the Shire. Only sketches that Bilbo did – that’s my cousin who is the most well traveled hobbit in the Shire. Faramir, would you like some tea?” He was breathless with new courage and he struggled to stifle his eagerness, frightened that already he had talked too much.

He half expected Faramir to refuse the tea, but instead the man nodded and said, “Thank you.”

Frodo scuttled to the kitchen, where he boiled water and prepared the tea. His cheeks burned, and he wondered why Faramir’s presence sent him into such a flighty state. He longed for Faramir to smile at him. His heart flopped in anticipation. If Faramir’s mere glance could send him reeling, then what could his smile do?

After the tea was ready, he brought it out, striving to keep his hand from trembling as he set it on the table.

“Thank you,” Faramir nodded again, but no smile yet. He beckoned for Frodo to sit beside him. “You have never seen a map outside your country?”

Frodo shook his head. He scooted a chair beside Faramir’s and then knelt on it so that he could comfortably lean over the map. He was overwhelmed by the detail. So many lands spreading in all directions away from the Shire! He trailed his finger over the thick parchment. “Where is Ithilien?”

Faramir smiled at last, and Frodo was left breathless. His smile was fairer than Frodo imagined. It lit up Faramir’s face and rendered his eyes playful and dreamy. “You remembered.”

Frodo could only nod.

“Here.” Faramir took Frodo’s hand and placed it on the southeast corner of the map. Frodo barely controlled a shiver as Faramir guided his finger to a wooded area beside the thick line that represented the Great River. “Here is Ithilien.”

“So close to--” Frodo shuddered. Mordor, the Land of Shadows, lay just beyond Ithilien.

Faramir interrupted, “The eastern shore in Ithilien has long been in constant battle with the Enemy and Enemy spies. Here is Minas Tirith, the stronghold of Gondor, where once I lived.”

“Faramir, why are you here, in the Citadel?”

The warmth fled Faramir’s eyes like a candle blown out by icy wind, and he pulled away. He rolled up the map in rough haste. “That is none of your affair.”

He tied a string around the map, shoved it inside the drawer of a desk beside the mantel and headed for the back room without saying good night. Frodo’s cheeks warmed with bewilderment, by the unfriendly manner of these strange Big People. After sitting in wounded silence for several moments, he at last curled up on the sofa with his book, although he still could not focus on reading it. Not long after, he fell into a quick sleep.



“Confound it!” Faramir’s gruff voice startled Frodo awake, and it took him several moments to realize that he had fallen asleep on the sofa, fully clothed. He blinked in the early morning sunlight, wondering what time it was and whether he had slept for too long. “I have searched everywhere and that brooch is nowhere to be found. It was on the mantel.”

“Are you certain you left it there?” Halbarad asked in a quiet voice, using more words at one time than Frodo had ever heard him speak.

“It appears that things have been moved around. Was the halfling cleaning in here last night?”

Ice clenched Frodo’s stomach, first at Faramir’s rough usage of “the halfling,” and second because Frodo indeed had cleaned recently and he had dusted the mantel and swept the floor. In doing so, he removed a few items from the mantel. But he was certain he returned them. Oh, of all the bad luck – to have lost something of Faramir’s. If it had been Strider, or even Halbarad, he would not have had such an ugly hitch in his belly.

Frodo rolled to a sitting position, blinking and smoothing the wrinkles in his shirt. “Faramir, I am sorry, I did move some things from the mantel.” He stood, looking around, trying to remember where he set them.

Faramir wheeled to face him, and his eyes – those lovely eyes that looked so warm and kind the night before – darkened. “Where did you set my brooch?”

Frodo stepped backward, looking up at Faramir in alarm. He did not know what sort of violence these Rangers were capable of if angered.

“I will look…half a moment.” He padded to the mantel, his heart thudding, trying to retrace his steps. With Faramir now glaring at his back, he simply could not focus.

“Best you should find it by the time I return,” Faramir said with a grunt, fastening his belt around his tunic. Frodo wondered why a brooch could mean so much to him, and now he regretted moving anything or attempting to clean. For neither the first nor the last time, he longed fiercely for Bag End, to be among hobbits who cared for him and spoke in gentle voices and laughed. Most of all, he missed the sound of merry laughter and casual, affectionate touch. He ached for someone to embrace him in a friendly manner, as was natural for hobbits.

Halbarad’s voice was low but not gentle. “The brooch is dear to him. It was his mother’s.”

“Hush,” Faramir said, clearly embarrassed, sheathing his sword with an angry thrust. “He does not need to know that.”

All at once, Frodo spied it on the floor between the sofa and the corner of the room, along with several other trinkets. “There!” He snatched up the brooch, only to have it crack in half in his hands. His triumph turned to a sickening mound of ice in his stomach. He held the broken brooch in his palm, blinking in dismayed misery. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Faramir took it from him without a word and laid it back on the mantel. “In the future, keep your hands from my belongings.”

Faramir, of course, could not know that his words stabbed and twisted in Frodo’s heart like poisonous knives. He deeply regretted causing Faramir grief of any kind, and he would gladly have taken it back, but after all, it had been an accident, and there was nothing more to be done about it but to move on. But why then was Faramir so determined to hold a grudge -- or, at the very least, to remain so maddeningly aloof, indifferent to him? Frodo longed to think of something to make up for it, but Faramir seemed to want nothing more to do with him.

He began to enjoy his duties as messenger around The Citadel. Beregond the Healer was always delighted to see him and always greeted him with enthusiasm and invited him inside for a bite to eat or a cup of tea, which Frodo gladly accepted if he had extra time.

Eomer the Horse Master taught him about horses and ponies, and now when he talked in his lyrical accent, Frodo could better understand his words. He talked often about his beloved country of Rohan, about his proud sister Eowyn, and less often and in a sad tone about his uncle, who had banished him, but he would say no more about that.

Arkin, the other messenger, was friendly and helpful. And most of the folk to whom he delivered messages were decent folk who made pleasant conversation with him. It was not long before Frodo had many friends throughout The Citadel.

But at the end of every day, he had to head for home.

Out of the Rangers, only Strider spoke to him kindly, but he was naturally reticent and at times seemed to prefer beasts to people. Frodo sometimes saw him brushing Prim and speaking soft words in her ears.

Halbarad rarely spoke to anyone and seemed quite content to remain that way. He spoke occasionally to the other Rangers, but to Frodo he offered only grunts and nods.

As for Faramir, it seemed that no matter how Frodo tried to avoid blunders with him, he always ended up in just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once, Faramir crashed into him hard enough to knock him backwards to the floor on his bottom. Instead of begging his pardon, he merely yanked him to his feet with a gruff, “Are you hurt?” And when Frodo shook his head, he walked on. But the worst was when Frodo yanked open the door to the privy – when Faramir was inside. If Faramir’s scowl could have slain him, then Frodo would have fallen to the ground, lifeless.


One day Frodo arrived home and was on his way to the back room to take a brief nap. He heard Faramir’s voice, and it made him pause in the corridor.

“Why is that witless halfling forever in the kitchen?”

Frodo froze, and his cheeks numbed.

“He’s a hobbit,” Halbarad said. “They are fond of eating.”

“The food is to be for all of us. We ought to lock everything away in a high cabinet.”

“That is hardly courteous,” Halbarad said. “Come now, Faramir. I think he is merely lonely. Hobbits are such social creatures.”

But Faramir went on, and Frodo, whose heart plunged at “witless halfling,” felt sickened. “He vexes me…always skulking about like a rabbit, getting in the way. Of what use are halflings anyway? It seems that they can’t fight, they eat all the time, and did you know that before I showed him my map, he had never even seen a map of anything outside of his country? They are crudely educated at best, it seems.”

“They are indeed a rustic folk,” Halbarad said. “But be not quick to misjudge Frodo or his worth. He can read Elvish, it seems,” he added, as if an afterthought.

Faramir only snorted. “Well, that’s a useful skill, I warrant.”

Frodo turned around, crept as quietly as he could, which was far quieter than any of the Rangers knew, and he slipped out of the cottage. He sat outside on the step, shaking with misery. Witless halfling? Skulking about like a rabbit? Not educated? What he had done to earn such disdain from Faramir, he could not imagine.

And he could not seem to control how deep the claws of Faramir’s contempt for him dug into his heart.

After that, he could not bear to look upon Faramir and avoided him, even if that meant lonely evenings curled in bed alone, rereading one of his few books while the men played cards in the sitting room.



One day Frodo bought sour apples at the market, and he decided to make a pie out of them, just like Bilbo used to make. He smiled wistfully, thinking of the green of the Shire, apple blossoms, and the merry laughter of hobbit children.

He had enough apples to make several pies, and so he planned to deliver a few to his favorite friends throughout The Citadel the next day.

Thankfully he was home alone, and it felt marvelous to not have to tread quietly, to feel Faramir’s scorn for once again haunting the kitchen. Muted winter sunlight streamed through the window, and Frodo found himself first humming and then breaking into song. At first his voice wavered, for this kitchen was cold and tall and not used to merry singing, but as he continued to slice apples, his voice rang sweet and loud. He sang a favorite song of Bilbo’s about the coming of spring and apple blossoms.

Faramir’s gruff voice startled him nearly into falling from the stepstool, and his song choked in mid note. He had not heard him come home. He was embarrassed to be caught singing and cooking and everything that Faramir scorned about him.

“I came to see what the clamor was.”

Frodo whirled around, breathing hard, and before he could stop himself, torrid words poured from his lips. “If it bothers you, you can leave. I am weary of treading quietly around you. As a matter of fact, I should prefer it if you take your surly self elsewhere.”

But Faramir merely laughed and glanced at the several half-made pies. “You plan to eat it all this yourself?”

“Only if you continue to be so abominable. Otherwise, you are more than welcome to some.”

“I find it unbelievable how much one of your size eats. It is just like having an Oliphaunt around.”

“Humph.” Frodo glared at him as he sliced with extra vehemence. “That is exactly what I think about you, hearing you stomp about the cottage, shaking the windows with each step. And I might point out that an Oliphaunt is less ill-mannered than you.”

Faramir looked smug as he turned to leave, and in doing so, his elbow knocked into a container of flour, dumping it to the floor. He continued to walk toward the door.

“Pardon me!” Frodo said, heart pounding.

Faramir looked back over his shoulder, clearly surprised by the fury in Frodo’s voice.

“Do you not see what you’ve just done?” Frodo gestured to the flour spilled all over the floor. “In the Shire, where at least rustic courtesy is practiced, it is only polite that you help clean a mess that you have caused.”

Faramir did not answer, but he did grab a cloth and set to work cleaning the mess. Before long, white sprinkles stained Faramir’s tunic and sleeves, and Frodo could not help it -- his lips began to twitch.

“Are you content now?” Faramir asked when it was cleaned. Flour even coated his golden-red beard.

Frodo covered his mouth to hide his smile, although a giggle slipped out. “Yes. Thank you.”

“And thank you for a lesson in courtesy.” Faramir nodded stiffly.

“Gladly.” Frodo felt better than he had in weeks. His heart no longer beat with rage, only with the thrill of banter.

Faramir leaned against the counter. “You’re a bore, Frodo Baggins.”

Frodo stared at him but said nothing. There was something peculiar, almost fraught, in the tone of his voice, and Frodo took no offense. Instead he waited, nearly breathless, for Faramir to continue.

And he did. “Always reading, always writing, always cooking. You care not to join us in the evenings for cards.”

Frodo’s heart started, and a flush crept up his cheeks. “I’ve not felt welcome.”

“Certainly you are welcome. Although I know nothing of your skills.”

“Can you even read?” Frodo asked.

“Very well.”

Frodo wiped his damp hands on his vest. “Do you even own any books? I’ve not seen any in this cottage, save for the ones I’ve brought myself.”

“I do. But not here.” Faramir fumbled, and Frodo was glad to see him flush. “I’ve many back at home.”

“I might be able to beat you at cards,” Frodo said thoughtfully, “despite being a witless halfling.”

“We shall see,” Faramir said without showing the least bit of embarrassment for the witless halfling comment, and he added as he left, “Have a care today, if you ride Prim. I noticed her front foot is bothering her. You might want to take her to get it looked at by Eomer or she might spill you.”

Frodo was left rather bemused that Faramir had noticed Prim at all, much less that he knew her name or was aware of any of her ills.


The next afternoon, Frodo dug into the cold soil in the front garden. The air was frigid, the clouds thick and ominous. He had purchased flower bulbs at the market. The man who sold them said that if Frodo planted them today, there was a chance that they might bloom come spring, even though it was later than usual to plant. The air was swollen with the promise of snow, perhaps by nightfall.

“Now, what kind of foolishness is this?” Faramir asked, gripping the hilt of his sword. Frodo startled and looked over his shoulder. Faramir’s hood was drawn over his face, and for the first time, Frodo truly noticed just how broad-shouldered he was, how powerful, and how frightening he might appear to an enemy.

Of course this was all the more reason to never act as though the Ranger intimidated him.

Frodo straightened his shoulders. “I do not know of which foolishness you speak.”

“This planting of seeds in winter. Do you know just how cold it still is yet to get? We’ve not even had the first snowfall.” He held his hand outward as if to catch imaginary snowflakes in his palm.

Frodo laughed. “Honestly, Faramir. What do you know about flowers and bulbs that you must plant ahead of the winter?”

“Enough to know that a harsh winter will kill a delicate flower.”

“Humph. Then you know little indeed.”

Faramir walked past him, chuckling a little, and let shut the front door to the cottage.

Strider arrived not long after, and he examined Frodo’s gardening work so far. “This is a very fine place for flowers. Come spring, the sun’s angle will be such that it will allow just the right amount of sun to shine on them.”

But Frodo barely heard him. He instead stared at the door to the cottage in wistful exasperation. “Strider, why do you suppose Faramir detests me so? Is it still because of the brooch? There is nothing I can do about that.”

Strider asked, “Whatever makes you think he detests you?”

“He finds every reason to belittle me, he dislikes my cooking, he thinks I skulk about like a rabbit, and I am witless and rustic, to wit.”

Strider chuckled. “Some folk have odd ways of showing affection. Just this morning, he bid me to take a look at Prim’s foot and I believe I have eased the trouble, although you might speak to Eomer about it, too. Faramir was dreadfully concerned about you being spilled on some narrow, hilly trail while delivering your messages. Does that sound like someone who detests you?”

“Faramir…? Concerned?” Frodo asked, stunned. Secretly he warmed with pleasure. Surly, ill-mannered Faramir was actually concerned about him? It did not seem possible. And yet it made his heart patter with happiness.

But to Strider he shook his head. “You’ll never make me believe it. Now, come…” He took Strider’s hand. “Tell me everything about the herbs that we will have, come spring.”

He crouched beside Strider, listening with great contentment to Strider’s gentle, rumbling voice as he explained the various herbs and their uses. At one point, Strider clasped Frodo’s hand to emphasize a point, and Frodo startled as if stung.

“Are you all right? Are you chilled?”

“Oh…” Frodo flushed, and he felt an embarrassing swelling in his groin. “I’m all right…really…” It was the touch, the friendly, gentle, hobbit-like touch that had done him in. Just how could he explain to this Ranger how a simple touch left all his body aching for more?


After Strider left, Frodo crawled behind the cottage, out of view, and unfastened his breeches, panting, as he pulled them down past his hips. He grasped his arousal and rubbed with frantic need, unable to hold back gasps and groans. His breath came out in puffs of smoke in the frigid air.

An image filled his mind then, of Faramir holding his shoulders, looking down on him with concern and love instead of his usual smugness. Then Faramir kissed him with violent need, ripping his shirt over his shoulders with rough hands.

“Faramir,” he gasped, rubbing faster.

Those hardened hands slid under his shirt, rubbing everywhere, out of control with desire, and then Faramir took Frodo’s arousal between his hands with brute strength. Frodo thrust his head back, not holding back his gasps.

As his pleasure peaked, he imagined Faramir fully taking him, hard and quick and desperate. His gasps grew louder, and sticky warmth filled his hands. He looked up and –

His entire body jolted.

Faramir stood not far from him, gazing down upon him in either fascination or disgust, Frodo could not tell. Here Frodo sat, with his member in his sweaty palms, his breeches hugging his thighs, utterly vulnerable. There was nothing he could do to hide what he had been doing.

“Sorry,” Faramir mumbled, turning red, and he wheeled away, striding quickly around the corner. Frodo pulled his breeches up, shaking with humiliation. Oh, dear. He could not go back into the cottage. Whatever in the world would he say? How could he face him again? It was bad enough that Faramir found every opportunity to disparage him, but now he had seen him at his most vulnerable. This was far, far worse than when Frodo stumbled upon him in the privy. Far worse.

An even more humiliating thought occurred to him. What if Faramir overheard him whisper his name? Oh, this was abominable. And just why had he whispered Faramir’s name? He again imagined Faramir ripping his shirt over his shoulders and kissing his collarbone with rough need.

Because he wanted it. He wanted Faramir to caress him, to be a little rough with him, even to tease him while he made love to him. Most of all, he wanted Faramir to be weakened by his need for him.

The window flew open just over his head. “Come in,” Faramir said. “It’s cold out there.”

Frodo gathered as much dignity as he could. “I’m on my way in. I was just checking…I was just checking to see if there would be enough sun if I were to plant more flowers back here.”

“You’re planting flowers?” Faramir asked, looking puzzled.

Frodo stared at him in disbelief. How could Faramir have already forgotten that he teased him about planting flowers in winter? “You don’t remember?”

“I have a dreadful memory,” Faramir said, and his lips twitched, just a little. And he winked.

Frodo turned away. “Ah, well, that is good.”

And that was that. Frodo came back into the cottage and Faramir said nothing about what he saw. And this was perhaps the beginning for Frodo of a realization that Strider might be right and Faramir cared – just a little.



All the way home, Frodo hunched over Prim, unable to rid his ears of the dreadful crack Fomhal’s fist made across Arkin’s face. And all because Arkin forgot to deliver a message. The sound of Arkin’s nose breaking had caused Frodo’s stomach to heave. Arkin bled terribly from his misshapen nose. Fomhal stormed out of the building in a temper, and Frodo helped a very shaken young Arkin put a cold cloth over his nose to stop the bleeding. He then bid Arkin go home for the day and promised to finish the end of the day cleaning.

Now Frodo’s sleeve was soaked with Arkin’s blood.

“What is it?” Strider asked, leaping to his feet when Frodo entered the cottage. “Are you injured?”

Faramir’s head jerked up from where he was oiling his sword.

Frodo glanced at his bloody sleeve and shook his head. “No, it is not mine.”

Faramir went back to his task.

“What has happened?” Strider asked.

Frodo sat on the stool before the hearth. “Fomhal hurt Arkin, one of the other messengers. The lad forgot to deliver a message. But Fomhal lost his temper and hit him – hard. The sound–”

Strider reached over and squeezed Frodo’s shoulder. “I am sorry you saw that. I know such violence is not commonplace among your people. Please, do not let it distress you too much. Put it out of your mind.”

“The Shire must be a peaceful realm indeed,” Faramir added without looking up from his sword, “that the sound of fist hitting flesh should be so distressing to one full grown.”

Frodo nodded and clenched his jaw. “The Shire is indeed a peaceful realm.”

“Frodo.”

Frodo looked up in surprise. Rarely did Faramir seek him out, and his heart skipped. He tried not to look too eager.

“Can you ride a horse at all?”

“I can,” Frodo said with a nervous laugh, “although I might have difficulty getting on or off of it without help.”

Faramir paused and let out a ragged sigh. “I regret asking such a favor of you on a day when you have no duties, but something rather unpleasant has come up--”

Frodo looked at him in concern. “What is it?” Ever since breaking Faramir’s brooch he hoped for such an opportunity to do something for him to make up for his clumsiness.

Faramir’s usual smugness was replaced with uncertainty and a little embarrassment.

He sighed. “I erred by riding my horse to the village center. I tied him to a post while I spoke to Mendril about an unpleasant matter about which I do not need to offer more detail at the moment. Alas, my meeting with Mendril lasted longer than I wished, and when I came out, the horse had been taken.”

Frodo looked at Faramir in alarm. “Someone stole it?”

“Nay, it had been taken by the law.” Faramir let out a rough laugh. “The lawmen in The Citadel are so eager to perform their duties that they do not allow a horse to be tied a single moment over the time allowed. Now they have the horse in the stables behind the law building – you are familiar with that building, where you met Mendril.”

Frodo nodded.

Faramir went on. “I will patrol without my horse today, but I must set off immediately. I will not be home until late and will have no time to bargain for my horse. If you will, I will be grateful if you could go to the law building, to Rekin, not Mendril (he can do nothing about horses that have been penned). Ask for Rekin and offer him this payment in return for my horse.” Faramir handed Frodo a bag of coins. He managed a small smile. “It is far more than is usually offered, but he is not fond of me, and he may expect more. Then again, he may act with less harshness toward you, or perhaps even be charmed.”

“What if it is not enough?” Frodo asked, blushing at Faramir’s last remark.

“Fret not about it. I shall deal with it then. And…thank you.” He smiled and squeezed Frodo’s shoulder.




Rekin was a hulking man with brooding eyes and an abrasive voice. Up to this point, Frodo had nearly overcome his shyness around Big People, even the temperamental Fomhal, but something about Rekin made him anxious and small and … rather vulnerable. Rekin beckoned him into his study, which like Mendril’s, was stony and cold with hardly any furnishings. Frodo stood before him, clutching Faramir’s bag of coins.

Rekin smiled then, but the smile failed to reach his eyes. “You’re Frodo the Halfling messenger, aren’t you? Do you have a message for me?”

“I…well, no, not today.” Frodo smiled, although his lips trembled. “This is a personal matter, actually. A friend has sent me here.”

Rekin looked suddenly suspicious, dangerous, and it sent a sobering shiver through Frodo. This was a man to fear, Frodo thought.

“And?”

“My friend Faramir has had his horse penned. I came to offer coins for its release.”

Rekin sneered then. “Faramir.” He shook his head, as if he considered Faramir on the same level as a dung beetle, and Frodo felt his chest burn with indignation on Faramir’s behalf. “How much do you have?”

“Ten. Ten coins, sir.”

“That’s not enough.”

“Pardon me?” Frodo’s cheeks reddened.

“I need twenty.”

“Please, good sir.” Frodo held Rekin’s gaze. He desperately wanted to do this one thing for Faramir, and he did not wish to give in so easily.

Rekin shook his head. “Good day.” He stood and gestured for Frodo to leave.

“Please,” Frodo said in a low voice. “Can I offer you anything else? I could help you with your duties or bring you the coins later–”

Rekin suddenly smiled, but it was a wolfish smile that turned Frodo’s insides cold. “Faramir must be a dear friend for you to go to such lengths. Come here.”

You’re a fool, Frodo Baggins…You should have known when to keep your mouth closed.

Rekin kept beckoning Frodo closer until he stood between Rekin’s legs. Rekin grasped Frodo’s cheeks in large, meaty hands. Frodo glanced down and to his horror, he saw that the man had noticeably hardened.

“Never mind,” Frodo said, breathless with revulsion. “I will go now. Faramir will get the horse later.”

He tried to twist away, but Rekin kept him anchored in place. “I didn’t say you could go. Just relax.”

“What do you want?” Frodo whispered.

“Touch me.” Rekin glanced down at his arousal.

Frodo’s throat dried and he could not move.

“Touch me,” Rekin said, louder, shaking Frodo’s shoulders. Then he pulled Frodo’s hand by force to touch his arousal, holding it in place, guiding it over the wooly fabric of his leggings. “Mmmm…that’s nice. Very nice. Have you thought about doing this as part of your duties? Many men in The Citadel would enjoy it.”

Frodo yanked his hand away in disgust and pulled out of Rekin’s grasp. “I don’t need the horse,” he said, feeling as if he might throw up. “I don’t need it.”

“You can tell Faramir that it is now fifteen coins instead of twenty.” He winked at Frodo.

Frodo left, shaking with rage and loathing. Rekin was supposed to be a lawman, and he sank to this disgusting -- Frodo swallowed in disgust, wiping his hand on his vest. He might never rid his hand of the sensation of touching bulk through wool.

If he went home and explained what happened, Faramir would likely be enraged on his behalf – Frodo certainly did not believe that Faramir would have sent him on this errand if he had even an inkling of what Rekin would do. But Faramir would see him as helpless, useless, and once again witless.

Burning filled his chest and as he stumbled outside the building, he thought about Rekin’s piggish face and wanted to do something to hurt him for what he did.

I’ll bring Faramir his horse, regardless.

So caught up in the fog of repulsed outrage, he did not stop to consider how foolhardy was his determination. His mind churned only with the tempest of vengeance, the need to strike back at Rekin, to pull the rug from under his feet. Frodo had earned that horse, after all. More than earned its worth.

He straightened his shoulders and stalked around the building to the back, where he could see the stables. He was small enough to slip through the slats of the fence, and once he had Faramir’s horse (he would consider how he would mount him once he found him), he could let himself out from the inside.


Sweat poured down Frodo’s face as he slid through the slats of the fence. He barely fit, and splintery wood dug into his back, ripping his jacket. If he got caught, he’d be hauled to prison or worse. He shuddered, wondering if Rekin might take personal charge of him if he were arrested for horse thieving. Well, he wasn’t really thieving, so there wasn’t really much to about which to fret. He would leave the bag of coins in the stables. If they came to question him about it -- the idea sickened his stomach enough to almost make him turn back -- he would tell them where they could find the coins, more than enough in restitution. If not, he could give them more.

A stable man was in the stables, and Frodo’s heart banged so hard he could barely hear what the man was saying to him. Caught, he was caught, oh this was dreadful, he was a fool.

“Pardon me?” he asked in a near squeak.

“Which horse are you picking up, little master?”

Frodo recognized Faramir’s horse immediately. Now that Frodo got a closer look at the stable man, he could see that he looked none too smart, and so of course Frodo played along, pointing at Faramir’s horse. “That one.” He dropped the bag of coins on the ground, hoping the stable man would not notice. That might make him suspicious.

“Sir, might you be able to help me?” Faramir’s horse was far taller than he remembered. He only hoped he could straddle him well enough to control him.

The man grunted. “Here.” He offered his hand as a step and helped Frodo on the horse. He even shortened the stirrups for him. Frodo was far too high up and his legs felt uncomfortably stretched out. Frodo hoped he could control it. Faramir always said his horse was gentle, too gentle at times. He planned to take the back road as to avoid riding past the law building. He need not have worried about getting through the fence, because the stable man let him out. Frodo rode forward, flushed with determination and somewhat giddy with the audacity of what he had done. With a grim smile, he imagined Rekin’s piggish face when he realized that the horse was gone and that the halfling was not so easily bullied.

But by the time Frodo reached home, a nasty case of the jitters over what he now realized was a foolish, lawless act nearly rendered him too weak and shaky to get down from the horse. Rekin was unlikely to accept his flimsy plea that he left coins for him in the stables. He would see it as willful thievery and there would be no doubt who had done it – the stable man was unlikely to have forgotten Frodo.

Nearly breathless with nerves, Frodo led Faramir’s horse, which in truth had been very gentle on the journey home, through the gate. He tied him next to Prim. Once inside the cottage, Frodo threw himself into his bed and fell into an immediate sleep. He did not again wake until Strider and Halbarad arrived home.

Frodo padded out to greet them. Strider offered him a smile.

“You’ve not cooked tonight. Does this mean you are not well?”

Frodo smiled, but his lips trembled. “I’ve not much of an appetite today, I’m afraid.”




A banging on the door made Frodo jump.

“Who would be disturbing us at this time?” Halbarad put his hand on the hilt of his sword. Strider answered the door.

Three lawmen stood there. Frodo stood beside Halbarad, cold fear curdling his stomach. They had come for him.

“We need the halfling Frodo Baggins.”

“Why?” Strider stepped forward and blocked the door.

“We’re to arrest him for horse thieving.”

Halbarad set his hand on Frodo’s shoulder, glancing down at him. He laughed. “There must be some mistake, good sirs,” he said. “Between me and you, his legs are far too short to straddle a horse.”

The lawmen did not laugh. “Step aside.”

“Where will you take him?” Strider asked in a low voice.

“That’s up to Rekin to decide.”

A black haze fell over Frodo’s eyes. To be at Rekin’s mercy! He could not bear it. What had he been thinking? This was clearly the most foolhardy decision he had ever made.

But Strider placed his hand over his breast and stepped forward. “Take me instead. I’ve seen the insides of your prison and it’s not…” He glanced back at Frodo. “There’s no protection for a hobbit amongst men in there.”

Frodo released a deep breath, and Strider’s voice whispered in his mind, …if by life or death I can save you, I will, and it seemed very much like something he might say, but yet Frodo had no memory of him having actually said it.

“Did you steal the horse?”

Strider met the man’s eyes. “Yes, I did.”

Frodo started to jerk forward, a cry of protest behind his lips, but Halbarad gripped his arm with bruising force, holding him in place.

“Stay,” he mouthed.

“Then you must come with us. Ranger or not, you’re still under the jurisdiction of The Citadel. Your friends can bargain for your release tomorrow morning.”

Frodo watched in deep, shivering shame mixed with overwhelming gratitude as Strider’s hands were tied behind him in a most undignified manner. After they left, Halbarad did not release Frodo’s arm and he dragged him none too gently to the stool in front of the fireplace, whereupon he shoved him down on it and loomed over him, his face grim and dark.

“Tell me what happened.”

Frodo shook so hard that his teeth chattered.

Strider…being dragged off to prison in his place…Rekin’s arousal through the wool of his leggings…Rekin’s meaty hand around his wrist, guiding him…the black fear that he was about to be dragged back to Rekin as a prisoner…poor, dear, sweet Strider being led away with his hands bound behind him.

And all this because he wanted to please Faramir, to bask in his favor. No explanation was likely to make sense to Halbarad, to not sound foolish and selfish, and he struggled to find any words at all.

“Speak!”

Frodo looked up at Halbarad. “What…what will happen to Strider?”

“He’ll be locked up for horse thieving, forced to spend a night in a dank cell with thieves, murderers and others. He, at least, can survive the night. Tell me how this happened, Frodo.”

Frodo had never seen Halbarad so put out, and it shook him badly. Halbarad was always so calm, so silent. But it was his dearest friend and kinsman in prison. Frodo found himself wondering why Halbarad was here in The Citadel. He had caught hints about Strider and Faramir, but not one thing about Halbarad.

Frodo explained in a halting voice what happened, carefully leaving out what Rekin had forced him to do. And as he suspected, the tale – with the two critical points of his yearning for Faramir’s affection and Rekin’s repulsive behavior left out -- sounded more foolish than ever off his tongue.

Halbarad said, “They will seize Faramir’s horse again and make him pay double for it, for all your efforts. Pardon me for being frank, Frodo, but you are a gentlehobbit, intelligent and refined. What made you do this foolish act? If one of the guards had seen you slip through the fence, your life would have been forfeit.” He let out a rough laugh. “And of course for all your foolish determination, you did not think about how this might affect him or anyone else. I do not envy your plight in explaining to him that he will now have to pay double for his horse.” Halbarad left him then, and Frodo stared into the fireplace, mesmerized by the flames, full of self-disgust. And no matter how often he rubbed his hands together, he could not rid his hand of the sensation of Rekin’s leggings and the bulk beneath it.



“You didn’t get the horse?” Faramir asked.

Frodo startled at the sound of his voice. He was in such deep thought he did not hear Faramir enter.

Frodo clutched his hands together.

“What is it?” Faramir asked.

“I’m afraid it’s much worse.”

After Frodo told his tale yet again, Faramir said nothing for several moments. He paled and turned away, and when at long last he spoke again, he said, “I told you not to fret, that I would take care of it.”

“I know it was foolish. I will pay for it all, Faramir. Please do not be cross with me right now.” He felt suddenly weary of it all, of trying to please Faramir, of trying always to prove his worth.

Faramir’s pale silence turned to fury, and he paced the room, shaking the windows with his strides.

“It’s not like you to do something this foolhardy. You risked your life and now Strider’s freedom for a horse because you were five coins short. Did I not tell you that I would take care of it? Frodo, I do not understand.”

Frodo shook his head, and his eyes burned with misery. “Nor do I. Truly. I am sorry.”

“You could have been slain,” Faramir murmured, leaning against the mantel.

Frodo glanced up at him in surprise at the feeling in his voice.

Faramir turned away roughly. “No matter. Tomorrow morning, early, you and I shall go and fetch Strider.”



Frodo shuddered when Rekin laid his hand on his head in a friendly manner. He said, “You’re lucky you have such a loyal friend, little fellow. I doubt you’d have lasted the night –” He ran his fingers through Frodo’s curls and over his cheek. Frodo did not dare cringe. “Soft and pretty little fellow like you. Although your rat feet might be a turn off –”

“May we bargain for the prisoner please?” Faramir cut in, his voice strangled and harsh. Rekin smiled at Frodo, but his eyes gleamed with cruelty. Then he met Faramir’s gaze.

“Sixty coins and a kiss from the halfling.”

Frodo’s heart stuttered. “Pardon me?” He could not believe that Rekin asked for such a favor right in front of Faramir and anyone else passing by. His stomach turned.

“No.” Faramir clutched the hilt of his sword until his knuckles paled. “That is no deal.”

“All right then. 100 coins and Strider stays another night.”

Frodo broke in. “I’ll do it.”

“No, Frodo,” Faramir said. “You need not. Strider can take care of himself.”

“I will do it,” Frodo said.

Faramir shoved the coins into Rekin’s hand with a wretched sigh and turned away, jaw clenched.

Frodo felt a jolt of fury at him. How dare he turn away! And suddenly he remembered that Faramir told him how Rekin might be charmed by him. With a deep chill in his stomach, he wondered if Faramir knew about the kind of man Rekin was. Had he in truth hoped that Rekin might give him the horse in return for favors? Surely not. No. He could not believe this of Faramir. But his cheeks grew hot and he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Rekin knelt in front of him and cupped his cheeks. His lips pressed hard and violently over Frodo’s and he thrust his tongue inside. The kiss, which was really a mockery of how lovely and gentle a kiss was supposed to be, seemed to last forever, but it was finally over and Frodo struggled not to gag, wince or wipe his mouth in Rekin’s presence. Then Faramir’s hand was on his shoulder, calming him, claiming him, and despite being dry-mouthed with fury at him, Frodo allowed it, needing something to anchor him.

“Let us fetch Strider,” he said in an even voice. They followed Rekin down the slimy-cold steps. They walked down the corridor of the prison. The chill and dark was dreadful – Frodo could not imagine if he had needed to spend the night in such a place. As they walked by cells, prisoners banged on the bars and their mocking shouts echoed. Although Frodo was furious at him, he clutched Faramir’s arm for support.

Ugly voices came out of the dark. “Who’s the little treat? Can we taste him?”

“Be silent,” Faramir said. “Or you shall feel my blade.”

Finally Rekin stopped and opened a cell. “Ranger, your friends are here.”

Once they were safely outside, away from Rekin, away from the law building, Frodo flung his arms around Strider’s waist, hugging him fiercely, weeping with gratitude for a dear friend who had put himself into danger and misery to spare Frodo. Strider bent on one knee and hugged Frodo back with such fervor that Frodo could scarcely breath, kissing the top of his head.

“Thank you, Strider…I’m so sorry. I cannot begin to repay you.”

“I did it gladly. That prison is no place for a hobbit.”

Nobody spoke on the way home. For once, Frodo was grateful for the Rangers’ taciturn natures.

But when they reached the cottage, Frodo wheeled to face Faramir. “Did you know?”

Faramir was taken aback by the heated rage on Frodo’s face.

“Pardon me?”

“Did you know about Rekin? That he would do that?”

“Do what?” Strider asked.

Faramir struck the wall, shaking several items on the mantel. “No. Of course not! You need not have done it, Frodo.”

Frodo’s words came out in a rush. “When you sent me to him, you said…you said he might be charmed by me. Did you know? Did you send me to him thinking he might give me your horse in exchange…” He wiped his mouth in disgust. “…for his filthy…”

“What has happened?” Strider asked, his voice deadly-calm. “Did Rekin harm you?”

Faramir angrily set his sword down with a clang. “I did not. I bear no love for the man, but never did I think he was this depraved. Strider, he should be run out. He is no man to have such a position of power.”

“Did you know that he took five coins from the price of your horse because he forced me to touch him?” Frodo demanded.

Strider ripped the hood back over his head. “I shall…speak with him at once. This cannot be borne.”

“I will go with you,” Faramir said.

“No,” Frodo said. “Strider, you’ve done enough for me. Both of you. I want only to forget this has happened. I just want an answer from Faramir and then I never want to speak of it again.”

“When I said he might be charmed by you,” Faramir said quietly, his jaw still clenched, “I meant it in the purest manner. I thought perhaps your merry ways might soften his heart, just as they have…many in The Citadel. That is all.” And he walked out of the room without another word.

Frodo stared after him, rendered silent by the wounded tone of his voice.




The sound of Strider retching into a basin in the middle of the night woke them all. Halbarad lit the lantern on the rickety desk beside Frodo’s bed. Frodo blinked, rubbing his eyes.

“What is the matter with him?” he whispered.

“He is very ill,” Halbarad said. “He must have eaten something unkind to his stomach. Perhaps while in prison.”

“I ate nothing in prison,” Strider said, groaning. “I know better.”

Now fully awake, Frodo scrambled out of bed and into the kitchen to fetch a wet cloth. It alarmed him to see his stoic friend so weakened.

When he returned, he knelt on the side of Strider’s bed and wiped his brow.

“Frodo…” Strider clutched his wrist. “Thank you. That feels wonderful. I’ve not felt this wretched in many years.”

“What have you eaten, Strider, since last night?” Faramir demanded.

“Only Frodo’s mushroom pie—“

Faramir glared at Frodo. “Then perhaps we should look into that. Are you truly so skilled at finding harmless mushrooms?”

Frodo met his gaze, speaking in an icy manner. “I ate plenty of it, too, and I am not ill.” He turned back to Strider. “Now lie back. Just relax.”

“What else have you eaten?” Halbarad asked.

“I remember nothing besides cured meat—”

“Which Halbarad and I both have eaten,” Faramir added.

Frodo handed Halbarad the cloth and made his way to the kitchen.

He heard Faramir’s voice. “It’s the mushrooms, Strider. I will have Bereg check them for you. He will know for certain if the mushrooms are poisonous. Perhaps the halfling is immune to it.”

Indignation burned in Frodo’s chest. After everything that happened, that careless referring to him as “the halfling” again when he thought Frodo was out of earshot.

And it was most certainly not the mushrooms that made Strider ill. Frodo had handpicked mushrooms all his life. Every hobbit understood the difference between edible mushrooms and toadstools by the time he could walk. And one of the most hurtful insults that one hobbit could hurl against another was to accuse him of making him ill through a meal.

Faramir followed him and hovered in the door frame to the kitchen. “I think perhaps that it is better that you no longer cook, not at least until we get to the bottom of what has made Strider ill.”

Faramir’s words felt like blows to his stomach. There was something in his tone of voice that went beyond gentle mockery – it was almost cruel, vengeful for the hurt rendered to him earlier.

“Perhaps it is better that we do not speak to one another further,” Frodo said as he poured boiling water into a mug and added slices of gingerroot. His words sounded nearly weak, resigned, but his chest and throat ached, and the burning pain seeped down to his belly and sickened him.

Seeing Strider pale and sweaty, groaning and clutching his stomach, sobered Frodo. Now it mattered only that Strider got well.

Strider murmured, “You don’t have to do this, dear Frodo.”

Frodo squeezed his clammy hand and said nothing. “I do. And I do it gladly.”



When the sun rose, Halbarad and Faramir left. Frodo again had the day free from duty, and so he continued to care for Strider through the morning. He held the basin under him, ignoring the churning in his own stomach as Strider was sick again and again. He wiped Strider’s brow, and he lifted his head up far enough to allow him to sip ginger tea on and off, as much as he could keep down. Strider at last fell into an uneasy doze, and when he did, Frodo collapsed into bed himself and slept.

When Halbarad returned in the late afternoon, he startled Frodo awake.

“How is he?” he asked.

Frodo smiled sleepily and looked at Strider, glad to see that he looked still in peaceful sleep. “I think he is much better.”

“Thank you, Frodo,” Halbarad said. “He is lucky you were here today.”

“No thanks for duty,” Frodo said with a teasing smile.

Halbarad sighed, returning the smile. “I have discovered why Strider is ill. Everyone who drank from the water pump down in the village center is ill.”

Frodo gasped. “How many? Oh, poor Bereg must be overwhelmed! Is he all right?”

“Many are ill,” Halbarad said. “But no more than Bereg and his assistants can handle. Like Strider, it should only cause about a day of misery.”

“Humph,” Frodo said. “Now where is Faramir so that he can eat his words about my cooking?”

Frodo checked his pockets again, feeling sick to his stomach. He had lost the message. He looked everywhere, and now his hands and feet were numb from cold and poor Prim was panting from thirst. He retraced his path, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of paper or envelope. Now the sun began to set and he had to admit defeat. He straightened his shoulders and imagined being able to brag to Faramir just how brave he had been in facing Fomhal. As he tied Prim to a post in front of the building, he whistled to disguise his anxiety.

As he knocked on Fomhal’s study, he cringed, his spirit sagging. When Fomhal looked up, his beady eyes darkened with ill temper.

“What is it? Can you not see I’m busy?”

“The message…from the blacksmith to Mr. Omnal—”

“Yes?”

“It is lost. I cannot find it. I have searched everywhere.”

Fomhal sprang to his feet. “You dropped it?”

“I do not know –”

With no warning, Fomhal stepped across the room and backhanded Frodo, hard, splitting his lip and slamming him against the wall, knocking the breath from him.

Arkin, who was just outside the study, dropped his bag and cried, “Sir!”

“Stay out of it,” Fomhal said, yanking Frodo to his feet again. “Where last did you see it?”

But Frodo could not get enough breath to answer. His head smarted like he had been stung by dozens of wasps.

“Where. Did. You. Lose. It?” Fomhal emphasized every word before a hard fist slammed into Frodo’s belly, so hard that it stole his breath, and he barely heard the crack, like a twig snapping inside him. He felt his knees hit the ground and the world sank into darkness, and he could only barely hear the dull drone of Fomhal’s voice.

Then the blackness lifted a little, and he was lying on the ground on his side and Fomhal’s voice now sounded anxious.

“Frodo?” His beady eyes looked no longer angry, and they were fearful. “Frodo?” He patted Frodo’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.” He helped him into a sitting position and rubbed his arms with frantic worry. He wiped the blood from Frodo’s lip with a cloth. “Are you all right then? I swear it, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

Frodo could not answer. The pain in his upper left abdomen was excruciating with every wheezing breath.

Fomhal helped Frodo to his feet. “All right. You’re all right,” he said, more, it seemed, to convince himself. “Go on home and rest. Come back tomorrow and you can go and return the money to the blacksmith and tell him what happened. I’m sorry I hit you so hard. I really meant nothing by it.”

Frodo staggered out of the study in a black, pain-filled haze, and then Arkin was there, guiding him, helping him toward his pony. “Do you need me to take you home?” he asked. The lad looked pale with concern. “I can’t believe he hit you like that. That was just…uncalled for.”

“I’ll be all right,” Frodo said faintly. “Only…please. If you could help me onto my pony, I can make it home.”

“Are you sure you oughtn’t see Bereg? Your breathing don’t sound too good.”

“I just want to go home and lie down,” Frodo said. He felt faint and dizzy, and his abdomen throbbed like angry hornets. If Strider thought it was serious, he would send for someone.

“Do you need me to ride with you? I’m worried about you making it all that way on your own.”

“I’m all right,” Frodo said. “Please. Go on. I don’t want Fomhal angry at you, too.”


He leaned forward on Prim, struggling to stay conscious. He began to regret that he had not asked Arkin to ride home with him. Each breath set off a fire of agony in his belly. He was dizzy, and the world tilted several times, threatening to spill him. Prim’s feet were steady at least. She was a good pony, mindful of her rider. Frodo’s stomach rolled with nausea. The road home seemed longer and far more dim than usual.

At last he reached the cottage. He barely was aware of tying Prim up. A numbness seeped over his abdomen, save for a throbbing pain in one small area. His brow was clammy, and everything fell into shadows. His memory of what happened fell into fog. Walking up the steps seemed nearly insurmountable, but at last he staggered to the door. Faramir was the only one likely to be home, and Frodo dreaded having to explain why his face was swollen. Faramir might jest and say that it was about time that someone knocked some sense into the witless halfling. But now he could not bear such teasing. Well, he would slip past Faramir and just crawl into bed. Surely he’d feel better later, after some rest. He was thirsty. He wondered if he had the strength to draw water for himself.’

It was more important to lie down.

Alas, Faramir was sitting at the table, studying a pile of papers, when he came in, right in plain view.

“Frodo!” His voice was hoarse as he jumped to his feet.

“Faramir,” Frodo whispered, “please do not jest right now.” He staggered to his knees, holding his stomach, struggling for breath that whistled in his ears.

“What has happened?” Faramir cried, holding Frodo’s shoulders. “Did someone do this? Did you fall?”

“I don’t…” Frodo hesitated. Faramir’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. He once imagined Faramir holding his shoulders like this, but it was under a far lovelier circumstance. Everything tilted and darkened.

“Frodo?” Faramir’s voice was grim in the darkness. “Frodo?”

Suddenly he was cradled in Faramir’s strong arms. Faramir carried him to his bed, and placed him there. Everything was cold and dim and he could not stop shaking. He wanted to be covered with a blanket, but he could not form the words to ask for it. Faramir was checking his arms and legs, examining them for injuries. Frodo had never seen him look so concerned and shaken. It was bewildering.

“You remember nothing?” Faramir’s eyes were dark blue, nearly black, with fury. There was no sign of jesting or banter anywhere on him.

“I…something…I lost a message…Fomhal…he hit me…It hurts…Faramir, it hurts.”

Faramir looked grieved, pale, but Frodo’s heart lifted just a little to see it – he was certain that Faramir scorned him. But he was wrong. The pain in Faramir’s eyes was raw, and real, and it was all Frodo could see now.

“Hold on, Frodo,” Faramir said. He unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt. He let out a barely muffled gasp. “Oh, no,” he whispered. His face hardened. He sprang up and slammed his fist into the wall, startling Frodo. “For this I will slay him.”

Frodo peered down and saw how red and distended, rigid, his upper left abdomen was. It hurt to breathe.

“He didn’t mean to hurt me…not like this.”

Faramir’s gaze on him was fierce. “Using such force on one so much smaller?” He rubbed his thumb over Frodo’s swollen lip and sighed in disgust. “Do not tell me he did not mean to hurt you.”

“Faramir…” Frodo managed a shaky smile and took his hand. “You’re a good man.”

Faramir forced a tight smile in return and squeezed Frodo’s hand. “And you are a witless halfling still.”

“Surly man.”

Faramir chuckled, but his eyes were filled with worry. “I must send for Strider. His healing skills are far superior to mine.”

The room grew dim, and Frodo could barely hear Faramir.

“I suspect I might be doing rather poorly.”

“Nay, you’re of rabbit kind, remember?” Faramir said, pausing in the doorway. “Very difficult to kill or maim. Do not forget it.”

Frodo faded in and out of dizzy consciousness and soon he heard urgent speaking and then Strider and Halbarad both entered the room. They were shadowy, hulking figures in the doorway, and Frodo groaned, unable to focus for the dizziness that assailed him.

It is gone forever, and now all is dark and empty.

“There’s not much I can do but stop the bleeding the best I can.”

“Bleeding?” Faramir asked in alarm.

So Frodo did not dream that Faramir was pale with concern for him.

”Bleeding…inside.”

Halbarad’s voice broke in. “He is in deep shock, Strider. You must do something or he will perish within the hour.”

“I know.” Strider’s voice sounded harsh, impatient.

Frodo felt his feet being lifted and placed on something soft like stacked pillows. Strider held his wrist and held two fingers over it, feeling for life pulse. He looked tense and grim. “Boil some water, Faramir. Then take a few large pinches of salt and put it in. The salt will slow the bleeding. His heartbeat is very weak and rapid.”

Frodo was so cold that his teeth chattered. “Strider…”

“Try to relax,” Strider said, putting his hands on Frodo’s injury. “This might hurt a little.”

It hurt more than a little, but Frodo bit his lip and tried to be brave as sweat poured down his face. He must be brave in front of these stoic rangers, all of whom had most certainly faced much worse. He caught Faramir’s gaze and he was alarmed to see how shaken he was. But somehow it made him all the more determined to be brave, to pull through it.

Strider left for a moment and returned with a mug of steaming water. “Now, Frodo, this is not going to taste good. It is boiled water and salt. I need you to drink as much as you can. The salt will slow the bleeding inside. Can you do this for me?”

Frodo nodded, although his stomach churned ominously and he hoped he would not vomit.

Strider put his arm behind Frodo’s neck, lifting his head just enough so that he sipped the salt water. It tasted horrific, but Frodo forced himself to continue to sip it, knowing that it could save his life.

“What happened to him?” Strider asked Faramir. “Did he tell you?”

“Fomhal struck him,” Faramir said in a near growl, swallowing his rage. “And he shall pay for it in blood.”

“It is a brutal blow,” Strider said in disgust. “He got his face, too. He is already starting to bruise around the mouth and nose.” He stroked Frodo’s cheek in a comforting manner.

Strider then beckoned for Faramir to follow him out of the room. None of the Rangers truly understood how sharp hobbit hearing was, and so Frodo overheard everything through a haze of pain.

“Faramir,” Strider said. “I must be frank with you. This injury is grave and it is possible he will not survive it. Fomhal,” Frodo heard him swallow in disgust, “hit him hard enough to cause dangerous bleeding inside—”

“Why would anyone wish to hurt him?” Faramir asked in a shaking voice. Frodo longed to see his face. Was he actually weeping? Frodo struggled to stay alert, although the pain throbbed mercilessly, making it difficult to hold one thought for long. He curled to his side, groaning, clutching the sheet until his knuckles paled.

“Frodo?” Halbarad asked, coming to him with concern. He wiped Frodo’s brow with a wet towel, and for a moment everything darkened and Halbarad’s voice was a distant hum.

But then he caught a muffled sound form the other side of the door again, and Faramir’s voice, low and flat, continued. “I’ve treated him despicably. I would take back so much. I know I’ve hurt him, perhaps not physically, but just as badly, especially when you were ill, and he surely must detest me.”

Then Strider’s voice, low and soothing, answered. “Have you not looked into his eyes, Faramir? They mirror the most gentle of hearts. I must ask you, why do you resist your affection for him?”

“It cannot be natural.”

“If it is love you feel, then it cannot be wrong. We do not choose those we love, however long the road ahead is.”

“He is…Strider, he consumes my thought and heart, and yet I push him away always.”

Strider’s voice dropped. “Do not allow the harsh judgment of your father to ever rule and block your heart. Forget not how your men looked to you as one who could govern man and beast.”



Faramir stepped back in the room again, pale and determined. He knelt beside Frodo’s bed and took his hand and kissed it, holding it to his lips and then resting it on his cheek. Frodo felt what felt like tears on his hand.

“Faramir?”

“I am deeply sorry, Frodo,” Faramir said in a hoarse voice, “sorry for the way I have treated you. I am deeply fond of you and know not how to say it – ” Suddenly he looked alarmed. “Strider, come quickly!”

Vicious pain gnawed at Frodo’s belly. He felt faint and suddenly nauseated, and he knew he was going to get sick. He did not want to, not in front of Faramir. He did not want Faramir to witness his misery.

Strider rushed in.

“Sick…” Frodo gasped. A black haze fell before his eyes and he did not have the strength to lift his head over the basin. Strider did everything for him, just as Frodo did for him not long ago.

The pain ripped him inside as he heaved into the basin. Frodo never knew that his body was capable of such agony. He clutched Strider’s arm with all his strength, grateful for Strider’s calm grip on him. When it was over, Strider helped him to lie back against his pillow and wiped his brow again.

“Fara…” he whispered, and a veil fell before his eyes.

“I am here,” Faramir said from somewhere in the darkness.

Then Frodo knew no more.



Frodo woke next to find Faramir asleep in a chair nearby his bed. Frodo smiled at him for a long time, too weak to move, feeling in pain but not nearly as much so as before. Faramir’s eyes opened and he startled at Frodo’s gaze. “You’re awake.”

His face looked shadowed in places – bruises!

“What happened?” Frodo asked in alarm.

“I paid a visit to Fomhal and spoke with him on a few matters, and he did not allow me to do it without a fight. I explained that if he laid a hand on you again that I would slay him without question.”

“You fought him?”

“Fear not. I do not think you shall see him again, dear Frodo.” Faramir’s smile was grim.

“I begged you not to slay him. He is wretched.”

“He deserves death,” Faramir said with vehemence.

“And yet I pity him,” Frodo said, and the voice of an old friend whispered in his mind, Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give that to them? Then be not too eager to deal out death n the name of justice, fearing for your own safety. Even the wise cannot see all ends.

“I am not the only friend you have in The Citadel, Frodo. Do you know how many visitors Strider has had to turn away since word has spread about your injury?”

Frodo just looked at him in wonder. “No, who?”

“Eomer the Horse Master -- he has a way with a sword and I was not able to convince him that Fomhal did not deserve a taste of it. Not that I tried very hard, mind you. And Bereg the Healer –he’s old, but he is quite dangerous when stirred. It was said that he was a Ranger of the North many, many years ago. You have many friends, far more than I knew about, and none of them are pleased that you nearly perished at Fomhal’s bullying hands. Nay, I think we need not worry about Fomhal. How do you feel?”

“I’m sore.” Frodo touched his wound and cringed at even the light touch of the tip of his finger. And he felt so utterly weak. His eyes closed against his will.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’ve no appetite, I’m afraid,” Frodo said, forcing his eyes open again.

“Now this is a grievous blow. I miss the scent of baking pies. I miss your foolish cooking.”

Frodo smiled. “And I can’t wait to get out of bed so that I can cook again. For now I shall be content with tea. Perhaps a few mushrooms if that can be managed. But not now. I wish only to sleep again.”

“You’re so absurd, Frodo. That does not change.”

“I know. And you’re still surly and clumsy, like a big, stomping Oliphaunt.”



Frodo healed rather quickly, for hobbits recovered far quicker from injury than did men. After about a week he was out of bed, cooking and baking and reading again. He was not expected to go back to duties for several more weeks, as he weakened so easily. When he did, he would be working as apprentice to Eomer the Horse Master, which utterly delighted him. It was no longer advised that he ride Prim over treacherous paths to deliver messages, as Strider and Bereg both warned him that he was not to put himself into a position where a second blow could hit the same injury. Until the injury fully healed, which could take months, a second blow could cause him to bleed to death within a short time.

And nobody grieved over Fomhal’s loss. Arkin in fact seemed happier than ever in his messenger duties.


One afternoon soon after, Frodo was reading and warming his toes before the fireplace when Faramir arrived home, limping.

“Are you all right?” Frodo leaped to his feet.

“Oh, it’s not too bad. But I erred by having new boots made for me and then wearing them for a full day of patrols.” He winced as he sat down.

“Sit down, Faramir. I’ll fetch water.”

“Yes, master,” Faramir said in a mocking manner, although not unkindly. He had barely teased Frodo since his injury, and there developed between them a comfortable companionship that was lacking before. Faramir had opened his heart while Frodo had been so ill, but Frodo still did not know what it meant. Faramir made no move toward him beyond friendship. All and all, it was puzzling.

When Frodo returned with the water, Faramir was sitting on the edge of the sofa, wiggling the tiniest bare toes that Frodo had ever seen on someone full grown. He set down the jug of water, staring in fascination. For as long as he had lived in The Citadel, he had seen their bare feet only from a distance, never so close.

“What is it?” Faramir asked, looking down at his own feet in puzzlement. “What do you see?”

“Oh…” Frodo blushed. “I am sorry…it is only your feet.”

“Are they so fascinating to you?” Faramir wiggled his toes with exaggeration.

Frodo knelt in front of Faramir. “May I touch the top of your foot?”

Faramir lifted his eyebrows. “Certainly, although far be it for me to understand the allure.”

“Well, you wouldn’t, would you?”

Frodo ran his fingers over the bare foot, awed by the soft, hairless skin. Well, there was some hair, but it was very fine, golden-red. Faramir chuckled and jerked his foot away.

Frodo looked up at Faramir in triumph. “Are you ticklish?”

“Ticklish?” Faramir looked suddenly quite uncomfortable, and he shifted on the sofa.

Smiling slyly, Frodo ran his finger over the top of Faramir’s foot again, stroking with the lightest touch he could manage.

Faramir hid his foot behind the other, barely containing his laughter. “Stop! I’m likely to kick you in my misery.”

“Well,” Frodo said with a sigh, leaning back on his heels. “That is a new sight indeed. A big, forbidding Ranger brought helpless by tickling. I shall have to remember this.”

“Your turn…” Faramir said. “May I see what a hobbit foot looks like?”

“You see it every day,” Frodo said with some suspicion.

“I’ve never touched it.”

As Frodo settled beside Faramir on the sofa, he caught a glance between Faramir’s legs and saw why Faramir was so uncomfortable at Frodo’s touch. There was a distinct bulge that had not been there before.

Flushing pleasantly, Frodo lay down so that his head rested against the arm of the sofa and his feet in Faramir’s lap. He was ever so tempted to nudge the bulge in his leggings, but he restrained himself. Faramir handled one of his feet as if it were precious treasure found deep in a dragon’s lair. He scratched under Frodo’s foot. Frodo barely felt it. Faramir did it again.

“Nothing?” he asked in amazement.

Frodo shook his head. “I can step on the sharpest of rocks and feel nothing. You do not expect me to feel your silly finger, do you?”

Faramir chuckled ran both of his hands through Frodo’s thick, curly foot hair. Frodo let out a pleasurable gasp, and he soon found himself with the same predicament between his legs as Faramir. Faramir massaged his feet, digging his fingers in, clearly enjoying Frodo’s uninhibited groans of pleasure.

“Ah, so the way to a hobbit’s heart is through his feet, I see,” Faramir said in a soft voice.

“There’s no telling which way will lead to a hobbit’s heart,” Frodo murmured.

Faramir released Frodo’s foot and adjusted himself so that he leaned right over Frodo. “There is but one way to find out.”

And he bent down and kissed Frodo. Frodo half expected it, had longed for it for so long, but yet he was taken by surprise. His mouth fell open and Faramir took full advantage, pushing his tongue inside, exploring with gentle fervor. Frodo slipped his hands around Faramir’s neck and answered the kiss. Their kiss lingered sweet and gentle. Faramir’s hand moved to Frodo’s shirt, tugging it out from where it was tucked into his breeches.

But at that moment, the front door creaked open, and Faramir jerked away from him. Frodo scrambled into a sitting position, smoothing his clothes and trying to sit as far from Faramir as possible. They glanced at each other, smirking, blushing, as Halbarad walked into the front room.

Halbarad nodded at them, unclasping his belt from around his tunic. He seemed to think nothing was amiss. Or at least he showed no sign of it.

Faramir climbed to his feet, stretching as if sleepy. “I think then that I shall turn in. Good night, Halbarad. Good night, Frodo.” He winked, and Frodo covered his mouth to avoid laughing aloud.

But he was left frustrated, and his arousal was so stiff that it was uncomfortable for him to shift his legs. Oh, how unfair it was that he should at last have a taste of Faramir – the kiss, oh the kiss that could have lasted all night and he’d still not have been satisfied – and to have been interrupted. When Halbarad left with a curt good night, Frodo stroked and rubbed his arousal until his pleasure crested.




Faramir paused, rubbing his hands, blowing into them to keep them warm. He turned to Frodo with a smile. “It’s a bit of a walk. And it’s cold today. Are you certain you want me to show you?”

“It’s a beautiful winter day, and I miss a good walk.”

It had snowed slightly overnight, and the snow glittered amidst the brown blades of grass like thousands of jewels.

“Follow me.”

Faramir led Frodo through the field beyond their cottage, through a wooded area, up a rocky trail, and soon the path grew steep. Frodo gasped for breath, wiping sweat from his brow despite the chilled air. He was still weak from his injury, and Faramir helped him up sharp steps that at times were too high for short hobbit legs to manage. “It is only like this for a short time…have a care here…we cannot have you fall here in the wild.”

They staggered around a bend and Frodo stopped, breathless with wonder.

“Oh, Faramir!”

“I come to this place often when I need peace. I call it the Forbidden Pool. Foolish name, perhaps, but it reminds me of a haven I once knew.”

A soft bed of snow-sprinkled grass under oak trees led into a deep blue pond that glimmered in the sunlight.

“I used to do that in the Shire,” Frodo said, smiling. “I used to take a book and find a nice shady tree to sit under. Nobody would know where I was, and it was like a secret between me and my book.”

“That is it, isn’t it? Like a secret.”

Frodo took Faramir’s hand. “I’m honored that you took me here.”

Faramir squeezed his hand. “I knew that you’d understand more than anyone else.”

A distant waterfall splashed over gray rocks like an Elvish veil, glittering like mithril in the bright sun.

The grass was soft surrounding the pond, and Faramir took off his cloak and set it down as a blanket. They settled on it, under the shade of a mossy oak tree.

“Spring will come soon, and wild flowers will make our view even fairer.”

“Tell me everything, Faramir,” Frodo said, leaning into Faramir and allowing the man to put his arm around him. “Tell me about when you were a lad. Leave nothing out. Nobody can interrupt us here.”

“There is much to learn between us, isn’t there? For I cannot wait to learn the same from you.”

The afternoon sun became surprisingly warm, and soon the snow melted, and all the while Frodo listened, entranced, to Faramir’s voice as he talked about his brother Boromir, his father who seemed to despise him, his mother who had died so young, and his adventures in the winding, stone streets of Minas Tirith. Frodo in turn told him about Bag End and Hobbiton and Bilbo and his youth spent in Buckland by the Brandywine River. They lay on the cloak, facing one another, and Frodo’s eyelids felt heavy. Faramir drew Frodo into his arms and held him, cradling him close, to ward off the chill.

Frodo woke not long after, his cock stiff and enlarged, his belly filled with delicious quivering. In sleep he had moved his leg and foot between Faramir’s warm legs. Faramir’s hand groped under his shirt and was roaming his body in half sleep, his callused hands a maddening friction against his soft skin. Frodo realized also that he was grinding his bottom against Faramir’s arousal. Frodo twisted around to face Faramir, and now mostly awake, their lips met, searching, loving, hungry. Faramir’s lips traveled down Frodo’s neck, stealing kisses all the way to his collarbone. He groaned, pushing against him, grinding, thrusting. He reached down, working at the lacing on Faramir’s leggings, cursing how clumsy his fingers felt.

Faramir suddenly pulled away, making at least one man’s space between them. He sat up, holding his head in his hands. The sun gleamed perilously bright on the pond.

Frodo shivered, speechless, afraid that Faramir was going to tell him that it had been a terrible mistake.

“Frodo, I’m sorry.”

“What?”

“I’ve never felt this way…I thought…well, I never thought I…”

“You’ve never been with a man before?” Frodo asked, scooting beside Faramir again.

Faramir cupped Frodo’s cheeks in his hands and looked down at him. “You’re exquisite, like a precious Elvish jewel and I could not bear it if you cut me off or came to fear me.”

“Faramir…” Frodo covered Faramir’s hands with his own. “I am desperately fond of you. I’ve yearned for you to do this for quite some time. Will you please go back to kissing me?”

“You mean it? You’ve wanted this for a long time?”

“With all my heart.”

“Your eyes…so expressive. Strider was right. He said that your eyes—”

“Are mirrors to a gentle heart,” Frodo finished flatly. “I heard that conversation. He exaggerates, of course.”

Faramir looked at him in surprise and a little relief. “You heard that? So then you know…what is in my heart.” He tilted Frodo’s chin upward. “I’ve loved before. It was always my way, in the style of romantic poetry, for my heart to burn wildly for some maiden that I knew I could not have. I have kissed no one before you.”

Frodo stared at him in surprise. “You…? As fine-looking as you are, you have never been kissed? Well, we have much time to make up for!”

Frodo leaned toward Faramir again, gripping his knee for balance and stretching up to meet his lips.

“Wait…” Faramir released Frodo’s cheeks and held his shoulders. “Allow me to finish. This is the first time I’ve been in love, really in love. You’ve consumed my thoughts ever since you came to us. I’ve not been able to rid my heart of you. And now I see that beyond hope and despite all I have done to push you away, you return those feelings…or at least you could.” Faramir squeezed Frodo’s shoulders. “Let us savor it for awhile, not rush in too fast.”

Frodo nodded, shivering and somewhat disappointed. “As long as I know there will be more to come. But I must insist that you have a real kiss. Again.”

“Wait. What about you?” Faramir asked. “Have you done this before?”

Frodo flushed with impatience. “I will say no more other than that I am not completely new at this.”

Faramir laughed. “I am not surprised, a comely lad like you. You must have been a jewel. Maidens must have crowded your door.”

Frodo blushed. “Not maidens.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows. “No?”

“My gardener, Samwise. Also, my dear friend and cousin Merry. Among a few others.”

Frodo climbed between Faramir’s legs and slid his hands behind his neck. He clamped his lips over Faramir’s, and Faramir pulled them both down so that Faramir lay on the ground with Frodo on top of him, and this kiss was long and hard and fully conscious. Frodo ran his hands through Faramir’s thick red-gold hair, and they pulled apart only to breathe, before plunging in with new fervor, losing track of the time.

“We should go back,” Faramir finally said in a husky voice. “We do not want to chance those steep trails after dark.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Frodo said. The air had grown quite chilly again.

Faramir grinned with sudden mischief. “Do you remember when I saw you outside behind the cottage with your breeches down?”

Frodo’s cheeks heated. “I remember it well.”

“Even then, it was maddening for me. I wanted to have you right there.”

Frodo met his gaze. “I would not have pushed you away.”



They made it home just after dark, but before they reached the front door, Faramir pulled Frodo around the corner and pushed him against the wall. He knelt before him and kissed him with frantic, greedy heat.

“What is this?” Frodo gasped, his breath quick.

“Forget what I said earlier, about savoring…I must…” He pushed his lips on Frodo’s again.

His hands slid under Frodo’s shirt. Frodo shifted his legs, rubbing his foot between Faramir’s legs, over the stiff bulge in his leggings. Faramir undid half the buttons on Frodo’s shirt and roughly pushed his shirt over his shoulders. He then tugged at Frodo’s breeches until the braces snapped off and they fell around his ankles.

He shoved his own leggings down with breathless haste. He then switched positions with Frodo, falling to his backside against the wall and pulling Frodo to sit upon his lap. Frodo kicked his breeches aside so that he straddled Faramir. They ground against one another, flesh to flesh. Frodo held Faramir’s shoulders, his head thrust back, and he felt such breath-catching pleasure – this wild need for Faramir to fill fill him. They writhed against each other, Faramir’s rough cheek against Frodo’s soft skin, hot breaths on cool, wanting lips. Faramir still did not enter him, but he thrust against Frodo until they both reached their peak at nearly the same time, gasping and clutching at one another, sweating despite the chilly air.

Frodo collapsed in Faramir’s arms, and Faramir cradled him, murmuring, “I love you…love you so much.” He kissed Frodo’s ear. “Whatever shall we do?”

Frodo looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“We cannot forever take furtive kisses, pretending only we are dear friends. I wish to hold you whenever I want, to sleep with you each night in my arms.”

“Strider and Halbarad surely know. At least Strider does.”

“Are they aware of this?” Faramir kissed Frodo’s bare shoulder. “Or this?” He kissed Frodo’s neck.

Frodo laughed and pulled away. “Stop…”

“Why?”

“Faramir, why did you not take me? I ache still for you inside me.”

“I do not know,” Faramir said. “I want to, but I don’t know…Is it possible?” He stroked Frodo’s belly. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

Frodo laughed. “I am no delicate flower as you seem to think. I am smaller than you and that is all. If I feared you would hurt me, I would not have given myself so freely.”

“Then you trust me far more than I trust myself. My heart and body burns for you, and I want to crush you, pound into you with all my strength, and still that would not be enough to rid myself of this fire that haunts me day and night.”

“I want this.”

Faramir kissed Frodo’s ear. “But I would not. I could not do this. I want you only to know gentle love and pleasure from me, to make you happy and to listen to your laughter…and merry songs for the rest of my days. I want your jeweled eyes to be the last thing I see when I die.”

“And if I should die first?”

“Speak not of that, even in jest.”

Frodo laughed. “You are maudlin, my love. What has changed my surly Ranger to a lovesick puppy that eats from my hand?”

Faramir kissed the inside of Frodo’s wrist. “When the witless halfling stole my heart.”

As winter passed over to spring, the snow melted and the sun burned warm and clear. On some days a gentle, cleansing rain fell over the greening land, leaving everything clean and fresh. Snow still covered the highest peaks of the surrounding mountains, but now a sweet mingling lingered in the air, of renewed soil, deadened grass rekindled, honeysuckle, and budding blossoms.

The flowers that Frodo planted in winter began to peek out of the soil, and when at last the first flower bloomed, bright yellow as the sun, striking and lavish as a maiden at a ball, Frodo pulled Faramir outside with him, laughing and falling to his knees before the flower, yanking Faramir down beside him.

“See now? What did I tell you?”

Faramir touched the petal between thumb and forefinger. “You were right. What did I know about flowers? They are far sturdier than I imagined.” He turned to Frodo. “And as beautiful as it is, it is no match for the beauty of your eyes, those mirrors to a heart that shall ever belong to me.” He planted a soft, affectionate kiss on Frodo’s mouth. Frodo’s heart filled with adoration, so much that he could scarcely breathe.

Faramir became everything he thought about, dreamed about, yearned to touch. Every morning when first he woke, his thought turned always to Faramir. During his duties with Eomer, he hummed and chattered and listened with curiosity to Eomer’s tales, but he itched always for the end of the day when he could return home and nestle in Faramir’s arms in front of the fire, reading by candlelight, and listening to the rain patter against the windows. Naturally Strider and Halbarad became familiar with their deep affection for one another.

Frodo taught Faramir how to cook, a near disaster that ended with a fire (quickly put out with damp towels), runny soup and charred seedcake. Faramir taught Frodo how to track, and Frodo took to it far quicker than Faramir clearly expected. Frodo thought he might have detected a touch of jealousy. Frodo taught Faramir the history of pipe-weed and pipe-smoking in the Shire, although regretfully he had none for Faramir to sample. In return, Faramir told Frodo about Numenor, of the land of Westernesse, and of the great dark wave that had engulfed the green lands and hills there.

“That is not a cheerful tale at all,” Frodo said, shivering.

“It is not meant to be.” Faramir’s face clouded. “Often I dream of it. Of a wave ineluctable, of a great shadow covering the land. I thought once that it was because of my father – he sent me to die once.”

“Oh, no!” Frodo’s heart started at the very idea.

“After my older brother died, my father made it no secret that he wished it had been me. He sent me into a battle against which we had no chance. I despaired -- for me, my City, my father, Middle-earth. I wished for such a dark wave to cover the land, a blanket of darkness to bring the end swiftly for us all. I remember no more.”

Frodo wrapped his arms around Faramir’s waist. “There shall be no darkness for you, not while I live.”



On a rare evening when Halbarad and Strider were both gone, Frodo laid down a perfect hand of cards on the table, beating Faramir yet again. Faramir grabbed his wrist.

“You cheat.”

“No, sir, I am simply more clever than you,” Frodo said with a smile.

“Do you know what used to happen to cheaters among my men in Ithilien?”

“What?” Frodo said, lifting his eyebrows.

Faramir unsheathed his hunting knife. “They were punished.”

“Oh,” Frodo said in mock shame. “I suppose I did cheat, just this once, but I promise I will never do it again, Captain Faramir.” His heart fluttered and he felt himself swell with desire. What a pleasant change to make love somewhere more comfortable than a grassy field or against the stone wall of the cottage.

Faramir’s voice was stern. “Stand up.”

Frodo obeyed. “Yes, Captain.” His arousal pressed against his breeches.

“Take off your vest, halfling.”

Frodo unbuttoned his vest and took it off, flinging it to the floor while holding Faramir’s gaze. “This is just an awful punishment.”

“The penalty for cheating is harsh,” Faramir said, unsheathing a hunting knife and running it down the front of Frodo’s shirt. He stopped at the first button and cut the hole so that the button popped out. “But you’re so lovely that it would be a pity to slay you. What will you be willing to do for me in exchange for your life?”

“Ah,” Frodo said, laughing. He slid his braces off his shoulders so that they dangled at his sides. He then unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, running his tongue over his lips. “How about this?”

Faramir ran the dull side of his knife down Frodo’s chest and belly, making Frodo shiver at the feel of the cold blade. There was still a faint bruise from his old injury, stark against his pale skin. “Not good enough.”

Frodo ripped off his shirt and threw it to the ground. His arousal was so hard, uncomfortably tight now against his breeches, and it was a relief when Faramir gestured to his breeches with his knife.

Frodo pushed down his breeches and stepped out of them with nearly delicate grace. Now fully unclothed, he smiled as Faramir eyed his arousal like a wolf coming in for the kill. But before Frodo could react, Faramir lifted him around the waist and flung him over his shoulder and was striding to the back room.

“Faramir!” Frodo laughed, punching his back. “What are you doing?”

Faramir dropped Frodo on his bed and scrambled to rid himself of his clothing. So many leather ties on his tunic, it was maddening to watch. But then he, too, at last was unclad. Oh, it had been far too long since they last pressed against each other, flesh to flesh, with no clothing to push out of the way.

After a time, Frodo was aware of something cool and oily being rubbed over his skin and over his arousal. He trembled, gasping for breath, craving more, but each time he nearly peaked Faramir withdrew his hands and explored elsewhere on his body with his slippery hands – over his hips, his buttocks, his nipples. Frodo’s slick belly slid against Faramir’s, driving them both nearly over the edge.

“Faramir…” Frodo gasped, writhing under his weight. “What is that? What are you putting on me?”

“Cooking oil…I think it will ease my way. Is this what you wish?”

“Yes…” Frodo gasped. “Oh, yes.”

Faramir shifted so that his full weight rested on his forearms instead of on top of Frodo, and he pushed inward, slowly, gradually, pumping in and out several times, each time pushing a little further in. Frodo gasped and looked at the dark ceiling, trying not to show pain – he knew even from his experience with hobbits that it would hurt at first – and he did not want Faramir to stop.

Faramir of course was far larger than any hobbit, and it did hurt – it pinched and stretched, and he grunted in pain, which he desperately tried to disguise as pleasure.

“All right?” Faramir asked, panting. Sweat beaded on his brow and Frodo could tell he was desperately trying to rein himself in. His fists clutched the bed sheets on either side of Frodo’s shoulders, and his arms quavered.

“Are you…in?” Frodo asked, biting his lip. He wasn’t sure he could take much more. Any more and he would surely break in two.

“Nearly so…are you in pain?”

“Well, it almost always hurts at first, but go on – it will pass.”

“I didn’t need to be reminded of your past exploits.”

“Shhhh…go on!”

Then Faramir began to thrust again – first gently, almost like nudging, and at last Frodo’s pain was interrupted by pleasurable flutters. Faramir lost control of himself and his gentle thrusts turned to harsh shoves. It hurt – really hurt – just as it surely must hurt to be cloven in two -- and Frodo cried out, clutching Faramir’s hair, pulling. But suddenly the pain gave way to extraordinary bursts of delight that rippled through all his body, and he shoved his hips upward to meet Faramir’s rough thrusts. They merged together, and now Frodo needed him inside him and still it would not be enough -- he needed more – more – more --

Afterwards, they clutched each other, gasping, sweat dripping down their faces. Faramir, still inside Frodo, rolled over to the side as not to crush him, pulling Frodo to face him. Frodo’s face was pressed into Faramir’s oily chest, and he struggled for breath, delighting in the pleasurably gentle throbs that coursed down his limbs.

Faramir pulled out and took Frodo in his arms, and he now oh so gently planted kisses on his head, the tip of his ear, his neck. “I love you,” he murmured. “Love you so much.”

“Mmmm,” Frodo answered, half asleep.

“My love, your clothes are scattered all over the front room.”

“I know,” Frodo said with a smile before falling asleep.




One warm spring day, Frodo arrived home from his duties to find Strider in the garden holding a tiny golden bloom in his hand. He held it to his nose, a soft dreamy look over his face, as if lost in a sad memory.

“What is it?” Frodo asked.

“Elanor,” Strider said. “And I am astonished to have found it here in The Citadel. It fills my heart with hope.” He showed it to Frodo.

“Estel,” Frodo said with a smile.

Frodo caught a barely discernible wince on Strider’s face, perhaps something that Strider himself was unaware of. “Why did you say that?” he asked.

“Estel…Elvish for hope.”

“Yes.”

Frodo studied the flower –petals of delicate gold, glimmering as if under moonlight. “Why, it’s beautiful!” He was surprised that his throat filled. “Why do you gaze upon it with such sadness, Strider?”

“Because it is a reminder that beyond all dark roads we must tread there is always light. But even now under the spring sun, I feel like that light is fading.”

Frodo clasped Strider’s hand. “I do not know what has happened to bring you here to The Citadel, Strider, any more than I understand why I am here, but no matter how dark your path, to me, you are always in the light.”

“A light from the shadows shall spring,” Strider mumbled, and it seemed that something stirred in his heart.



When Frodo entered the cottage, he grinned when he saw that Faramir had picked one of the sun-bright flowers and put it in a wine jug filled with water. Frodo looked upon it with some pride. To think it sprouted and bloomed from an ugly little bulb that he planted before the coldest part of winter.

Faramir came home soon after, and they fell into one another’s arms, chatting eagerly about their days, interrupting one another with fervent breathless kisses, mercifully unaware of the coming wave ineluctable.

Frodo lay in bed, his coverlet crumpled over him. He was terribly weak, could barely lift his hand, and his vision was fuzzy. Every breath took immense effort, but at least there was very little pain any more. It took great effort to keep his eyes open. But he must. At least for a short while. Faramir was on the way. Halbarad had rushed to fetch him from his patrols.

It had all happened with bewildering speed.

When he woke that morning, he felt a nagging ache in his abdomen, an unpleasant rigidity in his old injury, but he thought nothing much of it, beyond a general thought to have Strider look at it later. After the jostling ride to Eomer’s stable, his belly began to throb with wicked strength, and he grew dizzy. Pain spread up to his shoulder and the root of his neck. He said nothing, hoping it would pass, and for a brief time it seemed to. He climbed on a stool to help Eomer brush one of the horses under his care, and suddenly he fell into darkness.

Strider did all he could to ease him now, but he knew the truth, could feel it in all his being. Strider could make him comfortable and that was all. With every breath he felt the life seep from him.

“Hold on, Frodo,” Strider said, his eyes red-rimmed with grief. “I shall fetch a cool towel.”

“Faramir…”

“He is on the way. He should be here at any moment.”

On the other side of the closed door, in the corridor where once Frodo had overheard Faramir refer to him as a witless halfling, Eomer paced in misery.

“May I see him?” Frodo heard him ask Strider as Strider left the sleeping room. “Will he be all right?”

“He’s bleeding heavily, far beyond my healing skills. He’s dying.”

“I blame myself,” Eomer said roughly. “If he hadn’t fallen –”

“The fall did not slay him,” Strider said. “This injury…there was always a chance it would rupture again, although I had hoped—”

Faramir, Frodo pleaded with a sudden burst of grief, closing his eyes and imagining Faramir’s blue eyes and smug smile. I cannot leave him. A strangling filled his throat and tears slid down his cheeks. With great effort, he opened his eyes. He had to keep them open – for Faramir.

Please…If I could have but one wish…I would wish to see him again. To open my eyes and see his smile.

But Frodo slipped into a feverish doze.

He stood in a brightly lit room before a table. Among the many Elves, he saw Gandalf, but he was dressed in white, and a strange light surrounded him. His gaze fell upon Frodo with keen understanding.

On you alone a charge was laid, neither to cast the Ring aside, nor to deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save another member of the Fellowship.

Frodo clutched at his neck, expecting to feel cool metal, and grasped at air instead.

I did none of the above, but in the end I claimed it.

Gandalf continued. When the King sent you into the sweet forgetfulness of sleep, you fought this because you decided you had failed.

Did I not?

Do you have the strength to stop yourself from bleeding to death now?

No. Of course not. That is far beyond my strength-- He met Gandalf’s sharp gaze. Oh.

Gandalf touched Frodo’s brow and murmured, and it echoed in Frodo’s ears as he woke to find Faramir beside his bed, holding his cold hand. He wept as he kissed Frodo’s hand again and again before holding it to his cheek.

“Please…” His voice was hoarse. “Make an effort. You cannot leave me.”

“You’re here…” Frodo whispered, managing a weak smile. “You came…my surly Ranger.”

Faramir turned away from him. “Strider,” he pleaded. “Can you not do what you did the last time? Why can you not stop the bleeding this time?”

Strider’s eyes gleamed with tears. “The only way I could stop the bleeding is to cut into him, and he hasn’t the strength for it. He’s lost too much blood.”

Faramir released Frodo’s hand and jumped to his feet, grabbing Strider’s arm. “Try it. We’ve nothing to lose.”

Strider pulled Faramir aside and whispered, naturally still loud enough that Frodo caught his rough words. “Do you wish him to die in pain? As it is, he’s going to go easily. Do you not see the grief that crosses over his face when you beg? He wants only to please you. He always has. You must let him go.”

Faramir sat beside Frodo again. He kissed Frodo’s hand and held it to his heart. Frodo’s heart cracked open. He was not ready for farewell.

“Someday,” Faramir whispered, trying desperately to keep his voice steady, “we will sit together again under a new sun and laugh at the passing of shadows.”

“Love you…” Frodo whispered. The room grew hazy and he could hardly feel Faramir’s touch.

Everything darkened, and the last thing he felt was Faramir’s tears on his hand.


***


Frodo opened his eyes. Birds chattered and sang, sunlight poured gently through beechen boughs, giving golden light to a soft white coverlet that lay over him. A sweet mingled scent carried on a breeze, and he remembered Ithilien.

Faramir…

The name caused a wistful throb in his heart that faded as he blinked and focused on a white figure that sat in a chair, puffing a pipe. Could it be -- ? No, Gandalf had fallen into fire and darkness. He saw a second bed nearby. There Sam slept, his face smoothed with the peace of restful sleep.

Dear Sam…

“Where am I? And what is the time?” He wondered aloud. It seemed he had been ill for a long time. He ached everywhere, and his finger throbbed. How long had he been asleep? It had not been dreamless. Dream images burned away like mist under a warm spring sun (cottage…snow-capped mountains…kind blue eyes…surly man…estel…sour apple…a touch that strummed song in his heart --)

“It is early morn on the eighth of April in the Shire reckoning. But in Gondor the New Year will always now begin upon the twenty-fifth of March when Sauron fell, and when you were brought out of the fire to be tended by the King.”

Frodo sat up in delighted surprise. “Gandalf!” He looked around, bewildered. “What has happened? I thought you were dead!”

“A great shadow has departed,” Gandalf said, and he laughed.

Frodo noticed then a vase filled with spring flowers resting on the bedside table. Yellow flowers, bright as the sun, lavish, like an opulently clad maiden. Frodo grasped a petal between thumb and forefinger wondering why his heart tugged so.




Then came the crowning of the King, of Frodo’s dear friend Strider, who had embraced his destiny while Frodo and Sam had walked in darkness.

While Aragorn sang in the Elven-tongue, and flower petals dropped like gentle snowflakes, Frodo came forward and took the crown from Faramir. He glanced upward into startling, kind eyes – and a strange jolt passed through him. Everything paused, breathless, hung in a sweet moment where together they passed in thought to a place where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness. Frodo’s heart lifted and sang, and only reluctantly did he turn away to complete his honorable duty. He bore the crown to Gandalf; and then Aragorn knelt and the Gandalf set the White Crown upon his head and said, “Now come the days of the King, and may they be blessed while the thrones of the Valar endure!”

And sunlight caught the jewel upon the crown’s summit, setting it afire, bathing Aragorn’s face in light, giving hope to all.


END