(no subject)

[claudia603]

Don’t own ‘em. Don’t make money off ‘em.
WAY AU vignette about Frodo and Boromir post-quest. Boromir is the Captain of Gondor to the King Elessar. Heh. Kind of an AU scenario to my own AU scenario from Captain of Gondor.
MPREG.



Not a Mathom


“How is he?”

Through a blur, Frodo heard the steady clump of Boromir’s muddy boots as he paced over stone floor; the air filled with the Man’s usual scents -- damp leather, horse, sweat, and the faintest nauseating stench of dried blood over metal from his unclean sword. Fresh from the battle. Which battle? Frodo had vague memory of their bitter argument, but that had been weeks ago. Or had it?

“You cannot fight, not this time,” Frodo had said, barely able to stand on his feet, so huge was his abdomen bulge, and his back already ached fiercely. “I will need you in just a few short days.”

“You would have me disobey my liege lord and your king to sit at your childbirth bed?”

That Boromir had so callously dismissed the effort it was going to take to birth had stung bitterly. “Yes,” Frodo had said, though it had come out in a weak whisper. “I am frightened.”

“You would be more frightened if you knew the forces from Harad that would conquer our fair city. You will have the best healers in Gondor at your bedside. My place is at battle so that it is not Haradrim soldiers at your bedside, spearing you to death.”

“Boromir, please.”

“Come, Frodo.” Boromir’s voice had grown softer, and he had put a large hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “You…and our babe…those are the chief reasons I am willing to fight to my death, if necessary.”

“You expect your death to be a comfort to me,” Frodo had said, clutching his aching back. “You expect—“ He had released a frustrated sigh. “There is more at stake than me right now. There is a little one who will need you perhaps more than I need you, Boromir! He…or she is our gift. Please do not throw it away.”

Frodo took in deep breaths, fully aware that though the pain had receded for the moment, like an ocean wave after it breaks on shore, it would be back soon. If the baby was born after midnight, he…or she…would share his birthday.

Frodo had grown so ill last October that Boromir had despaired for his life. He had gone to Arwen, desperate for anything, knowing that even if Frodo survived, the next anniversary illness could well be the end. Arwen had given Boromir a pendant. “The Ringbearer has chosen not to sail over the sea, and that cannot be changed now, as the last ship has departed. Have him wear this pendant, and let it be a symbol of your love for him and his for you. Only then will Frodo be granted new life.”

Frodo had clutched the pendant as he had watched Boromir prepare to go into battle, tears filling his eyes.

“But I would not take this life over yours. In the case you fall in battle, I shall hope to perish bringing this child into this world!”

“Do not say such foolishness!” Boromir had hissed as he finished garbing himself. “Will you not wish me well?”

Frodo had not answered, and Boromir had left, slamming the door so hard that the frame had shook.

The battle could not possibly be over; no, the clash of swords and wrenching pain which had raged on the fields and streets had instead seeped into Frodo’s belly.

“How is he?” Boromir repeated, his voice naked with fear.

Frodo longed to tell him that he was all right, but all that came out of his mouth was a weak cry. The last contraction had been close to unbearable, and he needed his strength to face the next. He concentrated on taking several deep breaths.

“Frodo…” Boromir collapsed to his knees beside the bed. “Frodo…I’m so sorry. The battle is over…the cowards have run home.” His voice caught, and Frodo realized with some alarm that the Captain of Gondor was near to weeping. Boromir clutched Frodo’s hand, rubbing vigorously. “The healer says you’ve had your pains since morning. I’m so sorry I was not here.”

Only since this morning? Frodo was certain the pain had gone on for several weeks. He kicked weakly at the cotton sheets that tangled around his ungainly feet. The drapes were drawn, and he could not distinguish the time of day. A few lanterns cast shadows on the walls, so he guessed it was after sunset. The breeze through the window was cooler than earlier when he become slimy with sweat and had kicked off his sheets, and the healer had sponged him down.

And now the squeezing in the center of his belly was coming back -- like two hands crushing an apple inside his belly. The pain began in that center and spread outward, over his belly and down his legs until not a part him was spared.

The pressure couldn’t possibly worsen. This pain had struck him again and again, and somehow he had endured…but he had no more strength this time. This time it took too much effort even to groan. Perhaps if he didn’t scream this time, the pain would leave him in peace. He kept his eyes closed, breath withheld.

“We cannot allow him to continue like this…” Aragorn’s voice – though that was absurd. Aragorn must have far more important duties after such a battle than to attend to a mere hobbit.

Frodo bit his lip, barely tasting the salt from the resulting blood. He would not cry out. The pain was waiting for him to cave, but he would not. Not this time.

“What…what can we do?” Boromir asked.

Aragorn sighed, and Frodo cracked his eyes open. Aragorn was indeed in the room. A cool cloth covered Frodo’s brow. No, Frodo wanted to cry out to Aragorn. Any effort to make him comfortable might only tempt the pain.

“I will give him some herbs to speed the birthing,” Aragorn said softly. “But there is danger.”

“My liege, tell me only this. Will he live? Can he?”

“Boromir, these herbs are very effective. They *will* push the babe out. But it might come at a grave cost to Frodo, with tearing and bleeding.”

“Then he will not survive.” Boromir thrust his arm violently over his eyes and leaned heavily against the wall. “Aragorn, I need…I need him. I cannot lose him. When we parted --”

Aragorn spoke in a husky, broken voice. “If he keeps going as he is now, if I do nothing…he will die, and so will the child. Nobody can labor endlessly in childbirth, and I do not see any signs that the babe has made progress since the healer’s report from this morning. Do you understand this, Boromir?”

Frodo cried out in fury, that all the pain thus far had been for naught.

“Do you understand, Boromir?” Aragorn repeated.

Boromir let out an open sob, which sent Frodo into shivers. He’d never seen the stoic Man shed a tear. Frodo only wished they had not parted in anger.

“But you say that the herbs will cause bleeding…”

“I will most likely be able to save the babe.”

“But not Frodo…?”

“I will do all I can for him.”

Boromir set his knee on the bed. He froze and seemed fixated by something under Frodo. He reached under Frodo’s nightshirt bottom and looked up in horror, displaying a bloody palm. “Aragorn, he’s bleeding.”

“Some bleeding is normal,” Aragorn said. “And I must ask that you clean yourself up before touching him again. He will not be able to endure an infection.”

“Boromir…” Frodo called weakly, stretching his hand toward Boromir’s filthy tunic.

“I am here. I will go and wash as bids the king, but I will come back. I promise you that.”

“I am sorry,” Frodo said. “I did not wish you well, but you still came back. I am sorry.”

Boromir nodded stiffly, clenching his jaw. It did not work, as Frodo could see his chin shake, the tears fill his eyes. “I know.”

***

The pain was lower now, jagged, like thousands of swords being thrust upward into him.

“Breathe, darling.” Boromir’s voice from a distance. A hand squeezed his, but he had no strength to squeeze back.

“I see the head,” Aragorn said with some excitement. “Push Frodo. You must push now!”

Frodo’s eyes were closed, and the sea was spread out before him, sparkling and soothing, beckoning to him, the waves singing on shore like soft, Elvish voices. Frodo ran down the shore, and the sand sifted between his hairy toes—

Another stabbing pain ripped him back to his bed.

“It is near sunrise,” Boromir said, choked. “His birthday.”

“It will be the babe’s, too.”

“Frodo gives presents on his birthday. A strange hobbit custom.”

Frodo felt towels tucked under his legs, and a soothing wet cloth over the burning pain. He cried out, weeping, clutching weakly at the sheets. The sea floated before him again, tantalizing him with rolling waves. This time he dipped his toe in the chilly water.

“Come Frodo,” Aragorn said sternly. “You must keep pushing. This is not the time to rest.”

“My liege, you are killing him!” Boromir said. “See to the blood…”

“Boromir, you must stay quiet or I will demand that you leave. Now push, Frodo!”

“No…no, I cannot.”

“You push now.”

Frodo closed his eyes again. This time he ran into the rolling waves, splashing and laughing in joy that he was free from the pain at last.

***

Frodo opened his eyes. When he breathed, his entire body hurt. When he moved, even just to wriggle his fingers, everything hurt. Heavy towels were pressed against his bottom.

Late afternoon sun came in through a crack in the drapes.

Boromir slept on the chair beside the window. He looked pale and exhausted.

“Boromir.”

Boromir’s eyes flew open and in an instant, he was on his knees beside the bed. “Frodo…how do you feel?”

“Pain…” Frodo managed a shaky smile. The baby must have come out, but he had no recollection of it. “How…where is…?”

“Finduilas Primula is sleeping.” Boromir ran his fingers through Frodo’s damp curls.

“She…” Frodo’s smile widened. “She is all right?”

“She is healthy,” Boromir licked his lips in his eagerness. “She has ten fingers and ten toes. She has big blue eyes and golden hair and yes…she has hair on her toes!”

“Our gift,” Frodo said, his heart soaring at the love for the child he heard in Boromir’s voice. “And not a mathom.”

“What is a mathom?” Boromir asked.

Frodo shook his head, squeezing Boromir’s fingers. “Never mind. It is not important.”

Boromir kissed Frodo’s lips, and this time when Frodo closed his eyes, the sea did not tempt him.

END