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Sep. 9th, 2004 12:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603I can't believe I got this done tonight! Go me!
Title: The Shire Slave 5/?
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Way AU (there’s a shock!). Pre-coming of age, Frodo is kidnapped and sold to Anborn of Gondor to be brought to Denethor as a toy for his sons.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
A heavy thudding on the door startled Bilbo, who had fallen into a light doze in the sitting room. “My gracious! Come in, come in!” The knock was too loud for Frodo, and at any rate, it was unusual of Frodo to knock before entering, even if he was bringing Aragorn and Gandalf. Bilbo rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but lately, he could not always help it. The stew had a few moments to simmer, and then they could all enjoy a warm meal. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Gandalf and Aragorn entered, bent over to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling, and they both looked weary. They closed the door behind them.
“Where’s Frodo?” Bilbo asked.
“Why should we know the whereabouts of the lad, old friend?” Gandalf asked.
Bilbo’s stomach sank. The sun had nearly set. “He went to meet you. You did not see him?”
“Perhaps he did not hear us pass,” Aragorn suggested lightly, but his eyes shifted with unease.
“Not hear?” Bilbo snorted, trying to hide a churning fear that turned his stomach. “Hobbits can hear you Big Folk coming from a mile away.” He peered out the window, but he did not see Frodo running up the road. “Well, that is mighty peculiar. It’s getting dark.”
“Perhaps he encountered friends or got lost in a book,” Gandalf said. “You know how lads can be.”
Bilbo frowned. “He could hardly sit still today, knowing you were coming back. I don’t think anything short of an invasion of dragons would have lured him away from his purpose.” Bilbo frowned. “This is worrisome, but I shall not worry too much yet. Come, I’ve forgotten my manners. Come in, come in.”
Gandalf and Aragorn kept their heads ducked until they were once again seated in the sitting room beside the fire. Aragorn still looked disturbed. He said in a soft voice that he thought would be only audible to Gandalf, “I do not like it that Frodo is not here. Remember the tracks we found?”
Bilbo froze in the entryway. “Aragorn, what tracks?”
Aragorn closed his eyes in resignation of Bilbo’s sharp hearing. He took a deep breath. “Gandalf and I discovered the tracks of Men and horses on the road, not far from Hobbiton. That was disturbing in of itself, as most men who enter the Shire do not do so with good intentions. But to know that Frodo was out there, waiting for us and may have encountered them, I must be honest. It chills my heart.”
Bilbo covered his mouth, sitting in a chair abruptly. “Gandalf, what should we do? If men have taken Frodo, we must go after them at once.”
“Now do not be hasty,” Gandalf said. “We do not know for certain.”
“Frodo has not come home,” Bilbo said, his voice rising with panic. The very idea of his Frodo falling into the hands of men with ill intention caused fear to worm through him, turning everything inside cold. He stood on shaking feet. “If you will do nothing to help, dear friends, then I must go alone. There is stew that I have just taken off the hearth, should you want some, but I am going to look for Frodo.”
Aragorn and Gandalf watched in amazement as Bilbo put on his cloak. Then they, too, stood and followed him out the door.
***
In his nightmare, Frodo was once again reliving what had happened just after the men had captured him in the Shire.
He leaned against a tree, and a campfire roared in front of him. Raucous laughter filled the chilly night. His hands and feet were not bound, but there was no way he could get up and bolt without being seen. The men drank a vile-smelling substance out of leather pouches and passed it around, growing ever clumsier and fouler of mouth. Frodo’s stomach growled just a little, but the men did not look like they were making any preparations to eat.
One of them clapped a hand under Frodo’s chin.
“How ‘bout we make this halfling squeak?” he said. “I hate these little Shire vermin.”
“Naw, we’ve got to bring ‘im in one piece if we wanna sell ‘im proper.”
“Who’s gonna buy ‘im?”
“Look at ‘im! He’s fairer than most. He’ll give someone a fair amount of pleasure.” They burst into more loud laughter that made the bile rise in Frodo’s throat. Nobody had ever told him about how wicked men could be. He had heard Bilbo’s tales about the men of Dale, he had met Aragorn, who was a jewel among Men, it seemed, and there was Gandalf, though of course he did not really count since he was a wizard. And now this. His lips turned in disgust.
Suddenly the man delivered a sharp slap to Frodo’s face, and the force of it slammed his other cheek into the bark of the tree.
“Hey,” one of his companions said. “I thought we weren’t supposed to damage the goods. Look, now you made ‘im bleed.”
“Little runt was looking at me funny. I’m gonna teach him who’s boss around here.” Frodo’s cheeks throbbed terribly – one from the slap and the other from being knocked into the tree. He remained frozen, his right cheek pressed against the tree, too frightened to move.
“You hear that?” The man yelled suddenly, jabbing his finger into Frodo’s chest. “You hear that, rat? You best treat me with respect…Hey – look at me!” He grabbed Frodo’s chin and wrenched it so that he was forced to face forward again. “Did you understand?”
“Yes,” Frodo whispered. Blood trickled out of his nose and over his lips so that he tasted salt.
Another hard slap slammed his face into the tree again. This time he cried out, shielding his face. The man wrenched his face forward again. “Yes…sir!”
“Yes, sir,” Frodo repeated in a shaky voice. His face was numb, but under the surface he felt the beginnings of hammering pain that would soon spread over all his face.
“No halfling is going to give me sauce,” the man said to his companions. “Don’t feed him anything tonight. Show him a lesson.”
Frodo had lost his desire to eat anyway. His stomach was tied into so many knots that he didn’t know if he would ever want to eat again.
***
Frodo woke with a start. He was swaddled in soft blankets on a comfortable bed. Golden sunlight streamed in through narrow stone arch windows. He immediately recalled where he was – Minas Tirith, that city of stone, in the care of the Steward’s son Faramir. His heart twisted with a sudden wrenching ache. He had reached a destination far, far away from his home. Bilbo would never know where to find him. And even if he did, what could he do against the cold Steward of Gondor? Frodo swallowed. He had to stop thinking about it. If he did, he would start weeping. He did not wish to weep in front of young Faramir, who was trying his best to make him comfortable.
He smelled fresh bread and pungent tea. Faramir was busy slicing the bread and arranging a nearby table with plates and silverware. Frodo watched him, breath held in silence. The young man hummed under his breath. He moved with grace on bare feet. “Bare” was a good way to describe the appalling lack of hair on his feet. Frodo found himself so mesmerized by the young man’s tiny, bare feet that he did not notice when Faramir had stopped and had turned his attention to Frodo. Frodo flushed and looked away.
“Good morning, Frodo,” Faramir said with a gentle smile. “I’ve just prepared some breakfast. I trust you have slept well?”
Frodo nodded.
“I am not certain what you like, so I asked for different things from the kitchen. Jam and bread and cold meat and cheese and fish.”
It was a marvelous spread, and Frodo’s stomach rumbled, though who had heard of such an odd thing as eating fish for breakfast? Faramir set several cushions on Frodo’s chair and helped him up. Frodo nodded his thanks.
The tea was marvelous. It eased his breath and tasted like the peppermint candies Bilbo used to bring him when he was a small lad in Brandy Hall. Just breathing in the steam made him feel much calmer than he had in days. He filled his stomach on fresh bread with jam spread on it, fruit, cheese, but he was not brave enough to try the fish.
“Would that I knew what you ate in your country. I would have our cooks make it. I wish you to be content here.”
Frodo lifted his eyes to meet Faramir’s gaze.
Faramir flushed and looked away. “I mean, as happy as you can be, considering you are not free. Then I promise – when I am of age, I shall take you home. I promise you that.”
Frodo continued to stare, the color leaving his face and his heart crushing inside him. This young man was fifteen or sixteen years old at the most. That meant he would not be of age for another eighteen to twenty years.
Even if Faramir remained true to his word, and there was no guarantee that anyone could keep his word for that long, then that was eighteen long years in which Frodo would not see Bilbo or Gandalf or Samwise Gamgee or his cousins in Buckland – or anyone he cared for. Eighteen long, treacherous years among giants who spoke in loud voices and bore weapons and stamped with heavy feet – and sometimes were violent for no reason at all.
Frodo could not help it. He pivoted away, so that Faramir could not see his face, he covered his face with his arms, and a terrible, mewling sound burst from his throat. He could not weep – his eyes remained dry, but all the pain from his heart came out in gasps and shuddering moans.
“Frodo…Frodo,” Faramir said, leaping from his chair and running to him. He put his arms gingerly around the hobbit. Frodo tensed. “I did not mean to upset you so. Frodo, I am sorry. I know. You must miss your home and I’m sorry you were ripped away. I cannot imagine…”
Frodo pulled out of Faramir’s embrace, stumbling off of the chair. “Leave me!” he shouted – before he realized that his throat had at last obeyed. Then he and Faramir stared at each other in astonishment. Frodo stroked his throat, swallowing several times.
“You can speak,” Faramir said, holding out his hands, palms up, to show he meant no harm.
Frodo sat on the edge of his bed. “I am sorry,” he said. Faramir could not help what had happened.
Faramir knelt in front of him. “Nay, Frodo. It hurts my heart that you are suffering so. I know you are far from your land and all you love. I do not have the command to allow you to go home, but perhaps you would like to write a letter, at least letting them know that you live?”
Frodo looked up, his eyes lit up with hope. Yes! He could write a letter to Bilbo, explaining where he was. Bilbo would send for Gandalf. Gandalf would set this to rights. Even the Lord Denethor could not thwart the will of a wizard. The clouds cleared before his eyes.
“Yes…yes, please,” he said softly. His throat ached from even the small effort.
“Do you know your letters?” Faramir asked.
Frodo raised his brows and started to laugh – until he realized that it was a serious question. Perhaps not everyone in Minas Tirith learned to read and write. He nodded.
Faramir found a few pieces of thick paper, some ink, and a quill. “Will this do?”
The smell of ink nearly brought tears to Frodo’s eyes again, as it reminded him so sharply of Bilbo. He took a breath. “Yes…and thank you.”
“I must go now for a time,” Faramir said. The young man’s quiet, gentle voice soothed Frodo. “I must report to Father and go to my own duties. You are free to look through any of my books or write as many letters as you wish. I do not suggest you leave my quarters just yet. It is easy to get lost in the winding corridors and I want to first make certain that everyone understands that you are not to be bothered or harassed. I shall take you around the city later today, if you like.”
Then, with a final nod, he left the room, letting it click behind him.
Frodo sat in silence for quite some time before he started to write. He wrote for at least an hour. During some parts of his tale, he wept, and teardrops smeared the ink. He wanted to keep writing, because while doing so, he could nearly picture Bilbo sitting across the table from him, listening to his tale, nodding at just the right times.
After he finished, he turned the papers over and wandered to the window. Outside the window was a balcony. Frodo could tell that even if he climbed out of the window that he would be unable to peer over the edge of the balcony. He could see that he was far up, and just the notion was dizzying. Heights terrified him, and he was glad that he was not tall enough to see over the balcony.
A sharp knock startled him. Perhaps Faramir had come back already. Frodo eagerly started toward the door, but then he stopped. Why should Faramir knock on his own door? Frodo’s heart began to thud deep inside his chest. It could be a servant bringing a second breakfast? He was not sure if Men ate with the frequency hobbits did. Anborn certainly had not – but then he was a Ranger and they had been traveling in the wild.
“Who is it?” Frodo called out in a weak voice.
“May I come in?”
Frodo recognized the voice, though he could not remember where he had heard it. The owner of the voice seemed harmless, and at any rate, if he truly wanted to come in, he could. “Yes, please come in.”
In walked Faramir’s older brother Boromir – and two other young men. All of them were dressed in armor, as if for battle, and most reeked of freshly earned sweat.
“So you do have a tongue, halfling,” Boromir said. The other young men laughed. “This is a gift Father sent for us from the North Kingdom. He’s in Faramir’s care.”
Frodo backed away, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He did not like the mischievous smirks on the faces of Boromir’s friends.
“Come now,” Boromir said, kneeling. “We’re not here to harm you. How is my little brother treating you?”
“Very well, thank you,” Frodo said, trying to stand without trembling. “He is a kind man.”
Boromir’s two friends burst into merry laughter. “Man?” One laughed.
Boromir shot them a dark look before turning back to Frodo. His tone became dangerous, though to Frodo’s ears, it seemed it was directed at his friends and not at Frodo. “What my friends mean is that Faramir is too young to be considered a man just yet. Would you like a tour of the city?”
Frodo turned bright red. “Well…er…Faramir said I should wait here.”
“What would you like to do?” Boromir asked. “I am certain my brother had a good reason to keep you here while he is at his lessons, but I assure you, you will be safe with us.”
Frodo looked from Boromir to the two young men behind him. Boromir spoke in a loud voice and his sudden movements were frightening. Still, he was Faramir’s brother and so could not be too bad. This would not be so bad.
“All right,” Frodo said.
A curl of excitement in his belly made him forget his apprehension.
TBC
Title: The Shire Slave 5/?
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13
Summary: Way AU (there’s a shock!). Pre-coming of age, Frodo is kidnapped and sold to Anborn of Gondor to be brought to Denethor as a toy for his sons.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
A heavy thudding on the door startled Bilbo, who had fallen into a light doze in the sitting room. “My gracious! Come in, come in!” The knock was too loud for Frodo, and at any rate, it was unusual of Frodo to knock before entering, even if he was bringing Aragorn and Gandalf. Bilbo rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but lately, he could not always help it. The stew had a few moments to simmer, and then they could all enjoy a warm meal. He rubbed his hands in anticipation.
Gandalf and Aragorn entered, bent over to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling, and they both looked weary. They closed the door behind them.
“Where’s Frodo?” Bilbo asked.
“Why should we know the whereabouts of the lad, old friend?” Gandalf asked.
Bilbo’s stomach sank. The sun had nearly set. “He went to meet you. You did not see him?”
“Perhaps he did not hear us pass,” Aragorn suggested lightly, but his eyes shifted with unease.
“Not hear?” Bilbo snorted, trying to hide a churning fear that turned his stomach. “Hobbits can hear you Big Folk coming from a mile away.” He peered out the window, but he did not see Frodo running up the road. “Well, that is mighty peculiar. It’s getting dark.”
“Perhaps he encountered friends or got lost in a book,” Gandalf said. “You know how lads can be.”
Bilbo frowned. “He could hardly sit still today, knowing you were coming back. I don’t think anything short of an invasion of dragons would have lured him away from his purpose.” Bilbo frowned. “This is worrisome, but I shall not worry too much yet. Come, I’ve forgotten my manners. Come in, come in.”
Gandalf and Aragorn kept their heads ducked until they were once again seated in the sitting room beside the fire. Aragorn still looked disturbed. He said in a soft voice that he thought would be only audible to Gandalf, “I do not like it that Frodo is not here. Remember the tracks we found?”
Bilbo froze in the entryway. “Aragorn, what tracks?”
Aragorn closed his eyes in resignation of Bilbo’s sharp hearing. He took a deep breath. “Gandalf and I discovered the tracks of Men and horses on the road, not far from Hobbiton. That was disturbing in of itself, as most men who enter the Shire do not do so with good intentions. But to know that Frodo was out there, waiting for us and may have encountered them, I must be honest. It chills my heart.”
Bilbo covered his mouth, sitting in a chair abruptly. “Gandalf, what should we do? If men have taken Frodo, we must go after them at once.”
“Now do not be hasty,” Gandalf said. “We do not know for certain.”
“Frodo has not come home,” Bilbo said, his voice rising with panic. The very idea of his Frodo falling into the hands of men with ill intention caused fear to worm through him, turning everything inside cold. He stood on shaking feet. “If you will do nothing to help, dear friends, then I must go alone. There is stew that I have just taken off the hearth, should you want some, but I am going to look for Frodo.”
Aragorn and Gandalf watched in amazement as Bilbo put on his cloak. Then they, too, stood and followed him out the door.
***
In his nightmare, Frodo was once again reliving what had happened just after the men had captured him in the Shire.
He leaned against a tree, and a campfire roared in front of him. Raucous laughter filled the chilly night. His hands and feet were not bound, but there was no way he could get up and bolt without being seen. The men drank a vile-smelling substance out of leather pouches and passed it around, growing ever clumsier and fouler of mouth. Frodo’s stomach growled just a little, but the men did not look like they were making any preparations to eat.
One of them clapped a hand under Frodo’s chin.
“How ‘bout we make this halfling squeak?” he said. “I hate these little Shire vermin.”
“Naw, we’ve got to bring ‘im in one piece if we wanna sell ‘im proper.”
“Who’s gonna buy ‘im?”
“Look at ‘im! He’s fairer than most. He’ll give someone a fair amount of pleasure.” They burst into more loud laughter that made the bile rise in Frodo’s throat. Nobody had ever told him about how wicked men could be. He had heard Bilbo’s tales about the men of Dale, he had met Aragorn, who was a jewel among Men, it seemed, and there was Gandalf, though of course he did not really count since he was a wizard. And now this. His lips turned in disgust.
Suddenly the man delivered a sharp slap to Frodo’s face, and the force of it slammed his other cheek into the bark of the tree.
“Hey,” one of his companions said. “I thought we weren’t supposed to damage the goods. Look, now you made ‘im bleed.”
“Little runt was looking at me funny. I’m gonna teach him who’s boss around here.” Frodo’s cheeks throbbed terribly – one from the slap and the other from being knocked into the tree. He remained frozen, his right cheek pressed against the tree, too frightened to move.
“You hear that?” The man yelled suddenly, jabbing his finger into Frodo’s chest. “You hear that, rat? You best treat me with respect…Hey – look at me!” He grabbed Frodo’s chin and wrenched it so that he was forced to face forward again. “Did you understand?”
“Yes,” Frodo whispered. Blood trickled out of his nose and over his lips so that he tasted salt.
Another hard slap slammed his face into the tree again. This time he cried out, shielding his face. The man wrenched his face forward again. “Yes…sir!”
“Yes, sir,” Frodo repeated in a shaky voice. His face was numb, but under the surface he felt the beginnings of hammering pain that would soon spread over all his face.
“No halfling is going to give me sauce,” the man said to his companions. “Don’t feed him anything tonight. Show him a lesson.”
Frodo had lost his desire to eat anyway. His stomach was tied into so many knots that he didn’t know if he would ever want to eat again.
***
Frodo woke with a start. He was swaddled in soft blankets on a comfortable bed. Golden sunlight streamed in through narrow stone arch windows. He immediately recalled where he was – Minas Tirith, that city of stone, in the care of the Steward’s son Faramir. His heart twisted with a sudden wrenching ache. He had reached a destination far, far away from his home. Bilbo would never know where to find him. And even if he did, what could he do against the cold Steward of Gondor? Frodo swallowed. He had to stop thinking about it. If he did, he would start weeping. He did not wish to weep in front of young Faramir, who was trying his best to make him comfortable.
He smelled fresh bread and pungent tea. Faramir was busy slicing the bread and arranging a nearby table with plates and silverware. Frodo watched him, breath held in silence. The young man hummed under his breath. He moved with grace on bare feet. “Bare” was a good way to describe the appalling lack of hair on his feet. Frodo found himself so mesmerized by the young man’s tiny, bare feet that he did not notice when Faramir had stopped and had turned his attention to Frodo. Frodo flushed and looked away.
“Good morning, Frodo,” Faramir said with a gentle smile. “I’ve just prepared some breakfast. I trust you have slept well?”
Frodo nodded.
“I am not certain what you like, so I asked for different things from the kitchen. Jam and bread and cold meat and cheese and fish.”
It was a marvelous spread, and Frodo’s stomach rumbled, though who had heard of such an odd thing as eating fish for breakfast? Faramir set several cushions on Frodo’s chair and helped him up. Frodo nodded his thanks.
The tea was marvelous. It eased his breath and tasted like the peppermint candies Bilbo used to bring him when he was a small lad in Brandy Hall. Just breathing in the steam made him feel much calmer than he had in days. He filled his stomach on fresh bread with jam spread on it, fruit, cheese, but he was not brave enough to try the fish.
“Would that I knew what you ate in your country. I would have our cooks make it. I wish you to be content here.”
Frodo lifted his eyes to meet Faramir’s gaze.
Faramir flushed and looked away. “I mean, as happy as you can be, considering you are not free. Then I promise – when I am of age, I shall take you home. I promise you that.”
Frodo continued to stare, the color leaving his face and his heart crushing inside him. This young man was fifteen or sixteen years old at the most. That meant he would not be of age for another eighteen to twenty years.
Even if Faramir remained true to his word, and there was no guarantee that anyone could keep his word for that long, then that was eighteen long years in which Frodo would not see Bilbo or Gandalf or Samwise Gamgee or his cousins in Buckland – or anyone he cared for. Eighteen long, treacherous years among giants who spoke in loud voices and bore weapons and stamped with heavy feet – and sometimes were violent for no reason at all.
Frodo could not help it. He pivoted away, so that Faramir could not see his face, he covered his face with his arms, and a terrible, mewling sound burst from his throat. He could not weep – his eyes remained dry, but all the pain from his heart came out in gasps and shuddering moans.
“Frodo…Frodo,” Faramir said, leaping from his chair and running to him. He put his arms gingerly around the hobbit. Frodo tensed. “I did not mean to upset you so. Frodo, I am sorry. I know. You must miss your home and I’m sorry you were ripped away. I cannot imagine…”
Frodo pulled out of Faramir’s embrace, stumbling off of the chair. “Leave me!” he shouted – before he realized that his throat had at last obeyed. Then he and Faramir stared at each other in astonishment. Frodo stroked his throat, swallowing several times.
“You can speak,” Faramir said, holding out his hands, palms up, to show he meant no harm.
Frodo sat on the edge of his bed. “I am sorry,” he said. Faramir could not help what had happened.
Faramir knelt in front of him. “Nay, Frodo. It hurts my heart that you are suffering so. I know you are far from your land and all you love. I do not have the command to allow you to go home, but perhaps you would like to write a letter, at least letting them know that you live?”
Frodo looked up, his eyes lit up with hope. Yes! He could write a letter to Bilbo, explaining where he was. Bilbo would send for Gandalf. Gandalf would set this to rights. Even the Lord Denethor could not thwart the will of a wizard. The clouds cleared before his eyes.
“Yes…yes, please,” he said softly. His throat ached from even the small effort.
“Do you know your letters?” Faramir asked.
Frodo raised his brows and started to laugh – until he realized that it was a serious question. Perhaps not everyone in Minas Tirith learned to read and write. He nodded.
Faramir found a few pieces of thick paper, some ink, and a quill. “Will this do?”
The smell of ink nearly brought tears to Frodo’s eyes again, as it reminded him so sharply of Bilbo. He took a breath. “Yes…and thank you.”
“I must go now for a time,” Faramir said. The young man’s quiet, gentle voice soothed Frodo. “I must report to Father and go to my own duties. You are free to look through any of my books or write as many letters as you wish. I do not suggest you leave my quarters just yet. It is easy to get lost in the winding corridors and I want to first make certain that everyone understands that you are not to be bothered or harassed. I shall take you around the city later today, if you like.”
Then, with a final nod, he left the room, letting it click behind him.
Frodo sat in silence for quite some time before he started to write. He wrote for at least an hour. During some parts of his tale, he wept, and teardrops smeared the ink. He wanted to keep writing, because while doing so, he could nearly picture Bilbo sitting across the table from him, listening to his tale, nodding at just the right times.
After he finished, he turned the papers over and wandered to the window. Outside the window was a balcony. Frodo could tell that even if he climbed out of the window that he would be unable to peer over the edge of the balcony. He could see that he was far up, and just the notion was dizzying. Heights terrified him, and he was glad that he was not tall enough to see over the balcony.
A sharp knock startled him. Perhaps Faramir had come back already. Frodo eagerly started toward the door, but then he stopped. Why should Faramir knock on his own door? Frodo’s heart began to thud deep inside his chest. It could be a servant bringing a second breakfast? He was not sure if Men ate with the frequency hobbits did. Anborn certainly had not – but then he was a Ranger and they had been traveling in the wild.
“Who is it?” Frodo called out in a weak voice.
“May I come in?”
Frodo recognized the voice, though he could not remember where he had heard it. The owner of the voice seemed harmless, and at any rate, if he truly wanted to come in, he could. “Yes, please come in.”
In walked Faramir’s older brother Boromir – and two other young men. All of them were dressed in armor, as if for battle, and most reeked of freshly earned sweat.
“So you do have a tongue, halfling,” Boromir said. The other young men laughed. “This is a gift Father sent for us from the North Kingdom. He’s in Faramir’s care.”
Frodo backed away, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He did not like the mischievous smirks on the faces of Boromir’s friends.
“Come now,” Boromir said, kneeling. “We’re not here to harm you. How is my little brother treating you?”
“Very well, thank you,” Frodo said, trying to stand without trembling. “He is a kind man.”
Boromir’s two friends burst into merry laughter. “Man?” One laughed.
Boromir shot them a dark look before turning back to Frodo. His tone became dangerous, though to Frodo’s ears, it seemed it was directed at his friends and not at Frodo. “What my friends mean is that Faramir is too young to be considered a man just yet. Would you like a tour of the city?”
Frodo turned bright red. “Well…er…Faramir said I should wait here.”
“What would you like to do?” Boromir asked. “I am certain my brother had a good reason to keep you here while he is at his lessons, but I assure you, you will be safe with us.”
Frodo looked from Boromir to the two young men behind him. Boromir spoke in a loud voice and his sudden movements were frightening. Still, he was Faramir’s brother and so could not be too bad. This would not be so bad.
“All right,” Frodo said.
A curl of excitement in his belly made him forget his apprehension.
TBC