Are we having fun yet?
Sep. 29th, 2004 07:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Title: Ranger from the North
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: varies
Summary: In the autumn after Bilbo leaves, Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk. Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.
Halbarad in The Return of the King
Frodo trudged along the dirt path, through dry, curled leaves, humming a tune. A refreshing breeze diluted the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. The sky was an expanse of crisp, October blue, a rare perfect autumn day with not one puffy cloud in the sky. The warmth was ephemeral, and Frodo knew that by sundown, a teeth-chattering chill would seep through his heavy cotton shirt and he would be glad that he had shoved his cloak in his pack. Late the previous night, Frodo had leaned out of his round bedroom window and gazed into the garden. Frost had spread over flowers, leaves, and grass, sparkling like fairy dust under a full moon.
He had gazed, mesmerized, upon the frost for a long while. For some reason it had signaled several thoughts, all of which brought a heavy clenched fist to his throat. Most obviously, frost was the first beacon of winter – gray skies and chilly nights – and this would be his first winter alone by the fireplace. Frost also brought to mind Elves with starlight on their brows and eyes filled with pity for the mortals who had the misfortune to love and to lose. Frodo had gazed beyond the frosted garden and down the dark, foggy road. A harsh truth had fallen upon his shoulders. Bilbo was not going to return. Frodo had not realized until then how dearly he had clung to the hope that Bilbo had left on a lark but would soon return for his favorite cousin.
The afternoon sun had begun to wane when Frodo came upon the rickety bridge that spanned a large creek. On the other side, he could see a clearing with soft grass on which to spread his lunch. Shade from a towering oak tree and the soothing gurgle of the creek beckoned him. It seemed a perfect place to eat and then take a short nap.
His throat clutched and he drew in sharp breath. This was the kind of trek he had always adored sharing with Bilbo. Wandering soothed his restless heart, but nothing could surpass wandering far from home with a kindred spirit among tall trees in twilight.
Frodo stepped upon the bridge. His toes curled cautiously on the first slat. As he put his weight on it, an ominous creaking made him pull back. Heart thudding, he noted the rushing water. This was no tiny brook. This creek had recently filled with heavy autumn rain, and a swift current rushed under his feet. Still, he began to feel a little foolish. Many others must use the bridge. Surely hobbits much more stout than he had successfully crossed, perhaps on ponies.
Frodo took a breath and walked onto the bridge with false confidence, taking long, hurried strides. The bridge groaned and shuddered beneath him, as if he were a troll many times his size. He had nearly made it to the other side, when a giant crack sent him plunging between broken slats. His heart froze just long enough to fill with ice before whacking against his chest in wild panic as he grabbed at air before icy water covered him. He flung his hands above surface, scrambling for any hold, but the current was swift and it pushed him under. His knees slammed into boulders, and he felt something sharp slice into his foot.
He managed to get his head above water long enough to shout hoarsely into a silent wilderness falling into dim dusk that cared not if he fell to the same fate as his parents. He choked on the muddy water, flailing, thrashing his arms around, getting out another desperate cry. A black haze descended before his eyes, and his limbs felt heavy and numb. He could no longer move as fast. The end had come at last and the sooner he stopped fighting, the easier it would be. He closed his eyes.
A strong hand gripped and yanked his arm, ripping him from under the surface. Whoever pulled him had great strength, for he felt himself lifted as if he weighed nothing at all before being set down on his back in a soft patch of grass. He struggled to open his eyes, but he felt pressure on his chest and strong lips upon his, blowing air into him, filling his chest with excruciating pain until something gave way and his mouth filled with dirty water. He coughed and coughed, vomiting water. A steady arm secured him, holding him in steady silence while he coughed the water from his lungs.
When at last he could open his eyes, he startled badly enough to start coughing again. He was staring into the craggy, hooded face of one of the Big People.
Whimpering in terror, he tried to scramble backwards, but firm hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him still.
“Don’t move,” a throaty voice said. Gray eyes gleamed at him from the shadows of his face.
The man moved suddenly, reaching for his belt. He unsheathed a knife, and Frodo cried out and threw his arms up to shield his neck. With a grunt, the man thrust the knife toward Frodo.
TBC
Author: Claudia
Pairing: Frodo/Halbarad
Rating: varies
Summary: In the autumn after Bilbo leaves, Frodo meets a Ranger of the Northlands in the Shire.
A little people, but of great worth are the Shire-folk. Little do they know of our long labour for the safekeeping of their borders, and yet I grudge it not.
Halbarad in The Return of the King
Frodo trudged along the dirt path, through dry, curled leaves, humming a tune. A refreshing breeze diluted the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun. The sky was an expanse of crisp, October blue, a rare perfect autumn day with not one puffy cloud in the sky. The warmth was ephemeral, and Frodo knew that by sundown, a teeth-chattering chill would seep through his heavy cotton shirt and he would be glad that he had shoved his cloak in his pack. Late the previous night, Frodo had leaned out of his round bedroom window and gazed into the garden. Frost had spread over flowers, leaves, and grass, sparkling like fairy dust under a full moon.
He had gazed, mesmerized, upon the frost for a long while. For some reason it had signaled several thoughts, all of which brought a heavy clenched fist to his throat. Most obviously, frost was the first beacon of winter – gray skies and chilly nights – and this would be his first winter alone by the fireplace. Frost also brought to mind Elves with starlight on their brows and eyes filled with pity for the mortals who had the misfortune to love and to lose. Frodo had gazed beyond the frosted garden and down the dark, foggy road. A harsh truth had fallen upon his shoulders. Bilbo was not going to return. Frodo had not realized until then how dearly he had clung to the hope that Bilbo had left on a lark but would soon return for his favorite cousin.
The afternoon sun had begun to wane when Frodo came upon the rickety bridge that spanned a large creek. On the other side, he could see a clearing with soft grass on which to spread his lunch. Shade from a towering oak tree and the soothing gurgle of the creek beckoned him. It seemed a perfect place to eat and then take a short nap.
His throat clutched and he drew in sharp breath. This was the kind of trek he had always adored sharing with Bilbo. Wandering soothed his restless heart, but nothing could surpass wandering far from home with a kindred spirit among tall trees in twilight.
Frodo stepped upon the bridge. His toes curled cautiously on the first slat. As he put his weight on it, an ominous creaking made him pull back. Heart thudding, he noted the rushing water. This was no tiny brook. This creek had recently filled with heavy autumn rain, and a swift current rushed under his feet. Still, he began to feel a little foolish. Many others must use the bridge. Surely hobbits much more stout than he had successfully crossed, perhaps on ponies.
Frodo took a breath and walked onto the bridge with false confidence, taking long, hurried strides. The bridge groaned and shuddered beneath him, as if he were a troll many times his size. He had nearly made it to the other side, when a giant crack sent him plunging between broken slats. His heart froze just long enough to fill with ice before whacking against his chest in wild panic as he grabbed at air before icy water covered him. He flung his hands above surface, scrambling for any hold, but the current was swift and it pushed him under. His knees slammed into boulders, and he felt something sharp slice into his foot.
He managed to get his head above water long enough to shout hoarsely into a silent wilderness falling into dim dusk that cared not if he fell to the same fate as his parents. He choked on the muddy water, flailing, thrashing his arms around, getting out another desperate cry. A black haze descended before his eyes, and his limbs felt heavy and numb. He could no longer move as fast. The end had come at last and the sooner he stopped fighting, the easier it would be. He closed his eyes.
A strong hand gripped and yanked his arm, ripping him from under the surface. Whoever pulled him had great strength, for he felt himself lifted as if he weighed nothing at all before being set down on his back in a soft patch of grass. He struggled to open his eyes, but he felt pressure on his chest and strong lips upon his, blowing air into him, filling his chest with excruciating pain until something gave way and his mouth filled with dirty water. He coughed and coughed, vomiting water. A steady arm secured him, holding him in steady silence while he coughed the water from his lungs.
When at last he could open his eyes, he startled badly enough to start coughing again. He was staring into the craggy, hooded face of one of the Big People.
Whimpering in terror, he tried to scramble backwards, but firm hands grabbed his shoulders, holding him still.
“Don’t move,” a throaty voice said. Gray eyes gleamed at him from the shadows of his face.
The man moved suddenly, reaching for his belt. He unsheathed a knife, and Frodo cried out and threw his arms up to shield his neck. With a grunt, the man thrust the knife toward Frodo.
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 05:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:07 pm (UTC)I mean
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*clears throat*
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 07:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 08:31 pm (UTC)Done.
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:22 pm (UTC)and bedrollwith him. Someone who fought to the end.Those rugged Rangers of the Dunedain, strong yet gentle, noble yet simple. (You can see what I'm hoping for...)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:46 pm (UTC)I've been reading Halbarad and yep, the strong, silent yet gentle type (yum) comes to mind...
Claudia's new OTP?? :-D
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:38 pm (UTC)And now he's wet, and cold and a little bit helpless, and a big, strong silent Halbarad has found him... *swoons*
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:47 pm (UTC)And yep...your description above? That's exactly what I was going for *g*
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 07:02 pm (UTC):)
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 07:07 pm (UTC)*sometimes wishes for boring deskjob in which daydreaming about hobbits is allowed*
no subject
Date: 2004-09-29 08:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-30 03:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-30 06:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-10-09 12:47 am (UTC)Oh my! What an exciting beginning! Great description! Great build up! Who is this guy? Is he a friend...or...?
Off to find out (I hope!) in your next chapter! :)
no subject
Date: 2004-10-09 03:14 am (UTC)Thank you for reading!