claudia603 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
claudia603) wrote2010-05-31 12:39 pm
claudia603) wrote2010-05-31 12:39 pm
Far Beyond, chapter 1
Title: Far Beyond
Rating: adult eventually
Pairing: Frodo/Elliot (Vik) Stablor (misspelling is intentional), possibly Frodo/Aragorn
Summary: Frodo travels far to the north of Fornost to a Ranger outpost to visit his friend Aragorn. Naturally he runs into more trouble than he expected when he encounters guards at the gate.
A/N: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
baranduin for a beta! :) Dedicated to moit who has been waiting! And also, I'm totally writing this for myself and I'm indulging all my kinks of all kinds! So...you know, I'm not going to gentle it down or try to make it more canon or relevant to Arda-verse or whatever. It's just Frodo and Detective Stabler and Aragorn and Rangers and jail and interrogation and love and domestic and scary hikes maybe and most definitely kittens and adventures and it takes place in Middle-earth and I'm just having fun with it and letting it go and do whatever! There may even be mpreg at some point! Or dolphins! Who knows! :D This is my summer fun project! :)
Frodo froze with dismay when he saw the three Rangers crouched around the campfire in front of the only gate to the outpost. He was still in the shadow of the woods, so they had not yet seen him.
Of course there are guards, you foolish hobbit.
Frodo was not sure what he had expected. This was not the Shire, and in fact it was nowhere near the Shire. Truswood was a Ranger outpost, far beyond Fornost, on the edge of dangerous wild country, in which rogue soldiers and orcs and other scary creatures could be found on a regular basis. Frodo had spent the last few days scurrying off the road every time he heard hooves or boots. He had been lucky that there had been no orcs. They did not necessarily use the road.
Frodo was now so exhausted that he wished he could slip into the village and knock quietly at Strider’s door. He did not want to engage with strange and grim armed men. The midday sun was intense and he was sweaty and needed water. He had not bothered to refill his canteen at the last stream he had crossed since he had been so close to the Ranger outpost, but now he regretted that. He felt light-headed.
And he could not help but feel shy. He had traveled and spoken to nobody in over two weeks. He had gone long beyond any land where most Big People would even know what he was. Except for Strider, of course.
The gate was forbidding, tall and gray with one padlocked door. The Rangers seemed at leisure now, and they had a fire over which they cooked some sort of bird on a spit. Grease dripped into the fire, causing it to leap higher. The men laughed in deep rumbles, still so foreign to Frodo’s ears, even after spending several months in Bree. The Rangers guarded the one gate he had to get through and he was certain their purpose was merely to protect the outpost. Surely they’d see no threat in an unarmed Halfling.
But Frodo was so weary and he didn’t want to be stared at and prodded and questioned. He did not like to admit it, but he felt terribly intimidated just at the idea of facing the men alone. He took pride in having engaged with Big Folk far more often than anyone else in the Shire, and he should not be shy around them. After all, Strider was a Ranger, and he had been one of Frodo’s dearest friends for the past ten years, coming in and out of the Shire to visit him, sometimes with Gandalf, sometimes alone. Always he spoke in a gentle voice and understood hobbits and he was kind and his eyes were filled with a soft Elvish magic.
If only Strider could have met him at the gate. But that was impossible since he was not expecting Frodo, not really. That is, he had given Frodo a general invitation to come to the Ranger outpost to learn healing techniques, but it had been a general invitation, one that Frodo could take at any time. Strider would be surprised (Frodo hoped pleasantly) when he saw that Frodo had actually taken him up on it this time.
Once he got past this gate and the Rangers, he’d get to see dear Strider. It had been far too long. If Strider wasn’t too busy, they would spend the rest of the day together, catching up and eating a hot meal (or two or three).
Frodo managed a smile at the thought of harassing Strider for a big, hobbity meal. He gathered his pack, took a breath, and started forward out of the shelter of the woods. Halfway to the gate, a terrifying shyness took him again, and he scuttled toward a crop of bushes nearest to where the Rangers were. The Rangers turned toward the sound, weapons drawn.
“Make yourself known, stranger!” one yelled.
Frodo tried to speak, but his throat had been so unused during the past weeks of travel that no sound came out. His heart thudded in his ears.
Now you’ve done it--
“Warning one!”
They would spit him like they had the bird they cooked over the fire if he did not act! He felt terribly foolish. He would never live this humiliation down when Strider found out how he had acted around his friends. The footsteps approached him. Now not only were they going to find him, but if they did not slay him, they were likely to arrest him for not following their orders. Strider was going to have to clean up quite a mess –
“We’ve got it! Right here in these bushes!”
Rough hands grabbed him, yanking him up and out.
“What is this?” the first Ranger asked. He would be handsome if not for his grim expression. His short hair was dark and short, his brows thick, his eyes a piercing blue. The hand he used to grip Frodo’s forearm was unyielding. “An Elf child?”
“A little thing,” a second Ranger said. His gray eyes and longish dark hair made Frodo think of Strider. “But not a child, though. Look to his feet.” He addressed the Ranger with the blue eyes who gripped Frodo’s arm. “Have you ever seen one of these creatures, Captain Stablor?”
“It’s a Halfling,” the third Ranger said. He had a softer voice and golden hair that fell to his shoulders.
“Do they not live in the Shire…and in Breeland?” the gray-eyed Ranger asked. Then he addressed Frodo. “Are you lost, Halfling?
The Ranger called Captain Stablor broke in, his tone harsh. “What is your business here and why were you skulking in the bushes like a rabbit?” He glanced at the other Rangers. “Halbarad, search him for weapons.” He shoved Frodo toward the other two Rangers with an air of impatience.
Rough hands searched Frodo’s body, poking and prodding, rubbing over him.
“He’s unarmed,” Halbarad said, stepping back. He looked down at Frodo. “What is your business here? You’ve not yet answered.”
Frodo looked up at the Rangers. All of them were tense, suspicious, and getting impatient. He tried to gather his thoughts into a coherent explanation.
“Speak!” Captain Stablor grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
“He’s trembling like a bird,” the Ranger with the golden hair said. “Ease up.”
“One of these days your soft heart will get you slain, Faramir,” Captain Stablor said, but he released Frodo.
Faramir leaned down to Frodo’s level. “What is your business here in Truswood?”
Frodo could not stop shaking and he felt utterly foolish for doing so, for showing these Men that he was afraid. “I’m …my friend…” he gestured toward the gate. “Strider.”
Captain Stablor fixed his piercing gaze upon him but said nothing, merely waiting for him to go on. Frodo found himself caught in his stern gaze and imagined running his finger along his smooth jaw line. Quickly he averted his eyes and his cheeks heated.
“I…Oh. Pardon me. Frodo Baggins at your service.” He fumbled, feeling more and more foolish. “That is, I just need to see a friend.”
Captain Stablor grasped the hilt of his sword and for a wild moment, Frodo wondered if they would tire of waiting for a coherent explanation and just slay him outright.
Finally, Frodo took a deep breath and managed to speak in a calm manner. “I am here to visit my friend Strider. He is living here, in your village, er, outpost.”
“Strider?” The Rangers looked doubtful.
“Have you ever heard of a Strider, Vik?” Halbarad asked Captain Stablor. Captain Stablor shook his head.
Frodo wanted to say more, but his throat closed. Their doubt of him flustered him more.
“I do not know a Strider,” Faramir said, his eyes still soft and kind. “Might he go by another name?”
“Strider lives here,” Frodo said. “I do not know what name he goes by, but he’s one of the healers – and he’s a Ranger, like yourselves.”
“Halbarad,” Stablor beckoned to him. “A word.” The two men walked to the side, speaking in low voices and looking at Frodo.
“Ah, I wonder if you perhaps mean Estel,” Faramir said.
“Yes,” Frodo said with enthusiasm. Estel meant hope and Strider had been raised among the Elves, so it would make sense that he might have an Elvish name. Frodo began to feel a bit more comfortable around Faramir, who was soft-spoken and seemed not as harsh as the others. He did feel an intense irritation with Strider for failing to tell him that he went by another name among his Rangers.
Faramir looked grave. “Estel is not in Truswood at the moment. He’s been gone for at least a month and could be gone another month, perhaps longer. Did he not tell you?”
Frodo let out a sigh of despair, feeling suddenly ill in his stomach. Of all the abominable luck! The idea of turning around and making his way all the way back the Shire filled his heart with dread. He had only packed enough supplies to get him to Truswood. At the least he would have to beg these Rangers to let him into their outpost long enough to buy food and replenish his water.
“Was he not expecting you?” Faramir asked.
“He was, but--” Frodo felt terribly foolish. He should have written to Strider first. But to write to him and trust the post would reach him, and to wait to hear back would have taken months and Frodo had been restless for an adventure.
Stablor and Halbarad returned. “We’ll need to search your belongings. I’m sure you understand.”
Frodo nodded. “Do as you must.” He let his backpack fall to the ground in front of him.
Stablor turned his full attention to Frodo then, staring down at him in a mixture of baleful irritation and wonder. Frodo swallowed and tried to look as stoic as possible. Even under less stressful circumstances, he found it next to impossible to hide his feelings. His nervousness must surely be mirrored in his eyes. To these Rangers, accustomed to being suspicious of all strangers, it would seem like guilt. He knew he must look ridiculous to them, small and unarmed with pointy ears and big, hairy feet.
“You’re far from home, I deem,” Stablor said. "You hail from Breeland?"
"No…er,” Frodo blushed. “Yes, indeed. I just came from Bree. But originally from the Shire. I just have been staying in Bree.” He started to babble breathlessly, “but that’s not where I come from. The Shire is actually--" The more he fumbled, the more foolish he felt, and the more foolish he felt, the more his tongue seemed to want to wag.
"These are your only belongings?" Stablor interrupted, gesturing to Frodo’s backpack. There was no warmth or welcome in his blue eyes.
"Yes."
"I’m not going to find anything in here that I shouldn’t?" He actually smiled briefly, but it was a grim, wolfish smile, as if he was used to dealing with people who swindled him and tried to get away with terrible crimes.
Frodo stared up at him in puzzlement. He had no way of knowing whether anything he carried might be deemed unacceptable inside a Ranger’s outpost.
"Yes or no?" Stablor demanded. His gaze was so intense that Frodo had to look away, heart pounding. What was it about his gaze that left him weak-kneed and shaken?
Don’t be ridiculous, you’re just nervous
"No…I don’t know…I don’t believe so." He licked his lips. He watched numbly as his belongings were rifled through and flung aside. He was light-headed from the heat and thirst. Just when he thought Stablor had rifled through everything, the Ranger paused. He pulled out a leather bag and sniffed it. Frodo stared in disbelief. He did not even own such a leather bag, and he certainly had not packed it. Stablor’s icy gaze met Frodo’s.
"We must take you into our custody for the possession of shimflower."
“Shimflower?” Frodo said, breathless, dizzy with confusion. “Wait, that’s not mine. I don’t know where it’s from, but it’s not even mine. I don’t even know what shimflower is—“
He felt as if he had been punched in the gut, but he bent down to gather his bag.
"Don’t touch it," Stablor demanded. A bruising grip on Frodo’s upper arm shoved him toward the other Rangers. “Bind his hands!” he barked out to his companions. Halbarad roughly tied Frodo’s wrists behind him. Frodo cried out in surprise and pain. Panic fluttered in his breast, and twisted and fought against the binds. "Let me go! That bag isn’t mine!”
Stablor kneeled in front of him. He no longer looked as angry, but rather pleased in a smug sort of way, pleased to have caught another wrong-doer in a world filled with evil. Frodo struggled for breath, knowing that his eyes looked wild like those of a trapped animal.
"This time let’s have the truth. What is a Halfling doing so far from home?"
"It is not against any law to travel,” Frodo said, fury heating his chest. “I came to see my friend Strider. He will vouch for me. I understand he is not here, though, and I don’t know where he is."
“Just like you don’t know where you got this leather pouch.” Stablor laughed grimly. “You certainly seem to have gotten yourself into a fix.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Frodo said. “Please let me go. I was going to beg you to let me buy food, but I will just leave. I’ll trouble you no more.”
"I found an illegal herb in your bag. You expect me to let you go?"
"Shimflower?" Frodo shook his head. “I do not even know what that is. That bag does not belong to me. Someone must have put it there.”
A slap on his cheek rocked Frodo back and he would have fallen backwards with his hands still tied behind his back if a strong arm hadn’t grabbed him for balance.
“Vik, that’s not necessary,” Faramir said under his breath.
Frodo’s cheek stung and while he realized that Stablor had barely used any of his strength to hit him, he did not know what would happen if Stablor grew more frustrated. Big People were unpredictable with their violence. This much he had gathered from Strider’s tales and the few encounters that Shirefolk had had with ruffian men on the borders of the Shire.
“I didn’t hit him very hard,” Stablor said. Then he patted Frodo’s cheek. “No harm done.”
Faramir explained in a far gentler voice. "Shimflower is a mushroom commonly used to give men extra strength. Unfortunately it often kills them in the end. We have had a problem with it being smuggled into our country. It grows best in the soil of Breeland. We lost a good friend last year to its poison."
Frodo shook his head, and dizziness nearly made him fall. "I am a hobbit, and we know mushrooms. I have never heard of shimflower and I would never carry one that is poisonous or harmful. I speak the truth when I say the pouch was not mine. I do not know how it got there."
“Is it possible someone planted it in your bag?” Faramir asked.
“Do not fuel that fire, please.” Stablor laughed grimly. He turned his gaze to Frodo again. "If you only knew how often I hear that."
Frodo looked at Stablor, his eyes wide and pleading. "Please. Is there nothing I can do to stop this? Anything I can offer?" He thought through any skills he might have, in reading and writing, or in cooking, but the surprised furrow of Stablor’s brows flustered him further.
Stablor looked at Frodo from top to bottom and half-smiled. "You are intriguing, and dare I say, maiden-fair, and I have had no touch of woman for far too long. All the same, my duty is to uphold the laws of Eriador and I am not bought so easily."
All the breath left Frodo as he realized the misunderstanding. His cheeks flamed and he was left tongue-tied, sick to his stomach.
“You go too far,” Faramir hissed.
Frodo twisted out of his grip and bolted. He had no idea where he was going to run, especially with his hands bound, he only knew he could not be captured by these Men in this harsh country with no friends anywhere near. His hands were still tied behind him but he ran fast, breathless, miraculously avoiding stumbling in holes in the ground. He had nearly made it to the woods where he knew he could escape, when something heavy slammed into him so hard that it took all his breath away. He struggled to get any breath at all, any, but the weight crushed down on him and he blacked out.
TBC
Rating: adult eventually
Pairing: Frodo/Elliot (Vik) Stablor (misspelling is intentional), possibly Frodo/Aragorn
Summary: Frodo travels far to the north of Fornost to a Ranger outpost to visit his friend Aragorn. Naturally he runs into more trouble than he expected when he encounters guards at the gate.
A/N: Thanks to
baranduin for a beta! :) Dedicated to moit who has been waiting! And also, I'm totally writing this for myself and I'm indulging all my kinks of all kinds! So...you know, I'm not going to gentle it down or try to make it more canon or relevant to Arda-verse or whatever. It's just Frodo and Detective Stabler and Aragorn and Rangers and jail and interrogation and love and domestic and scary hikes maybe and most definitely kittens and adventures and it takes place in Middle-earth and I'm just having fun with it and letting it go and do whatever! There may even be mpreg at some point! Or dolphins! Who knows! :D This is my summer fun project! :)Frodo froze with dismay when he saw the three Rangers crouched around the campfire in front of the only gate to the outpost. He was still in the shadow of the woods, so they had not yet seen him.
Of course there are guards, you foolish hobbit.
Frodo was not sure what he had expected. This was not the Shire, and in fact it was nowhere near the Shire. Truswood was a Ranger outpost, far beyond Fornost, on the edge of dangerous wild country, in which rogue soldiers and orcs and other scary creatures could be found on a regular basis. Frodo had spent the last few days scurrying off the road every time he heard hooves or boots. He had been lucky that there had been no orcs. They did not necessarily use the road.
Frodo was now so exhausted that he wished he could slip into the village and knock quietly at Strider’s door. He did not want to engage with strange and grim armed men. The midday sun was intense and he was sweaty and needed water. He had not bothered to refill his canteen at the last stream he had crossed since he had been so close to the Ranger outpost, but now he regretted that. He felt light-headed.
And he could not help but feel shy. He had traveled and spoken to nobody in over two weeks. He had gone long beyond any land where most Big People would even know what he was. Except for Strider, of course.
The gate was forbidding, tall and gray with one padlocked door. The Rangers seemed at leisure now, and they had a fire over which they cooked some sort of bird on a spit. Grease dripped into the fire, causing it to leap higher. The men laughed in deep rumbles, still so foreign to Frodo’s ears, even after spending several months in Bree. The Rangers guarded the one gate he had to get through and he was certain their purpose was merely to protect the outpost. Surely they’d see no threat in an unarmed Halfling.
But Frodo was so weary and he didn’t want to be stared at and prodded and questioned. He did not like to admit it, but he felt terribly intimidated just at the idea of facing the men alone. He took pride in having engaged with Big Folk far more often than anyone else in the Shire, and he should not be shy around them. After all, Strider was a Ranger, and he had been one of Frodo’s dearest friends for the past ten years, coming in and out of the Shire to visit him, sometimes with Gandalf, sometimes alone. Always he spoke in a gentle voice and understood hobbits and he was kind and his eyes were filled with a soft Elvish magic.
If only Strider could have met him at the gate. But that was impossible since he was not expecting Frodo, not really. That is, he had given Frodo a general invitation to come to the Ranger outpost to learn healing techniques, but it had been a general invitation, one that Frodo could take at any time. Strider would be surprised (Frodo hoped pleasantly) when he saw that Frodo had actually taken him up on it this time.
Once he got past this gate and the Rangers, he’d get to see dear Strider. It had been far too long. If Strider wasn’t too busy, they would spend the rest of the day together, catching up and eating a hot meal (or two or three).
Frodo managed a smile at the thought of harassing Strider for a big, hobbity meal. He gathered his pack, took a breath, and started forward out of the shelter of the woods. Halfway to the gate, a terrifying shyness took him again, and he scuttled toward a crop of bushes nearest to where the Rangers were. The Rangers turned toward the sound, weapons drawn.
“Make yourself known, stranger!” one yelled.
Frodo tried to speak, but his throat had been so unused during the past weeks of travel that no sound came out. His heart thudded in his ears.
Now you’ve done it--
“Warning one!”
They would spit him like they had the bird they cooked over the fire if he did not act! He felt terribly foolish. He would never live this humiliation down when Strider found out how he had acted around his friends. The footsteps approached him. Now not only were they going to find him, but if they did not slay him, they were likely to arrest him for not following their orders. Strider was going to have to clean up quite a mess –
“We’ve got it! Right here in these bushes!”
Rough hands grabbed him, yanking him up and out.
“What is this?” the first Ranger asked. He would be handsome if not for his grim expression. His short hair was dark and short, his brows thick, his eyes a piercing blue. The hand he used to grip Frodo’s forearm was unyielding. “An Elf child?”
“A little thing,” a second Ranger said. His gray eyes and longish dark hair made Frodo think of Strider. “But not a child, though. Look to his feet.” He addressed the Ranger with the blue eyes who gripped Frodo’s arm. “Have you ever seen one of these creatures, Captain Stablor?”
“It’s a Halfling,” the third Ranger said. He had a softer voice and golden hair that fell to his shoulders.
“Do they not live in the Shire…and in Breeland?” the gray-eyed Ranger asked. Then he addressed Frodo. “Are you lost, Halfling?
The Ranger called Captain Stablor broke in, his tone harsh. “What is your business here and why were you skulking in the bushes like a rabbit?” He glanced at the other Rangers. “Halbarad, search him for weapons.” He shoved Frodo toward the other two Rangers with an air of impatience.
Rough hands searched Frodo’s body, poking and prodding, rubbing over him.
“He’s unarmed,” Halbarad said, stepping back. He looked down at Frodo. “What is your business here? You’ve not yet answered.”
Frodo looked up at the Rangers. All of them were tense, suspicious, and getting impatient. He tried to gather his thoughts into a coherent explanation.
“Speak!” Captain Stablor grabbed his shoulders and shook him.
“He’s trembling like a bird,” the Ranger with the golden hair said. “Ease up.”
“One of these days your soft heart will get you slain, Faramir,” Captain Stablor said, but he released Frodo.
Faramir leaned down to Frodo’s level. “What is your business here in Truswood?”
Frodo could not stop shaking and he felt utterly foolish for doing so, for showing these Men that he was afraid. “I’m …my friend…” he gestured toward the gate. “Strider.”
Captain Stablor fixed his piercing gaze upon him but said nothing, merely waiting for him to go on. Frodo found himself caught in his stern gaze and imagined running his finger along his smooth jaw line. Quickly he averted his eyes and his cheeks heated.
“I…Oh. Pardon me. Frodo Baggins at your service.” He fumbled, feeling more and more foolish. “That is, I just need to see a friend.”
Captain Stablor grasped the hilt of his sword and for a wild moment, Frodo wondered if they would tire of waiting for a coherent explanation and just slay him outright.
Finally, Frodo took a deep breath and managed to speak in a calm manner. “I am here to visit my friend Strider. He is living here, in your village, er, outpost.”
“Strider?” The Rangers looked doubtful.
“Have you ever heard of a Strider, Vik?” Halbarad asked Captain Stablor. Captain Stablor shook his head.
Frodo wanted to say more, but his throat closed. Their doubt of him flustered him more.
“I do not know a Strider,” Faramir said, his eyes still soft and kind. “Might he go by another name?”
“Strider lives here,” Frodo said. “I do not know what name he goes by, but he’s one of the healers – and he’s a Ranger, like yourselves.”
“Halbarad,” Stablor beckoned to him. “A word.” The two men walked to the side, speaking in low voices and looking at Frodo.
“Ah, I wonder if you perhaps mean Estel,” Faramir said.
“Yes,” Frodo said with enthusiasm. Estel meant hope and Strider had been raised among the Elves, so it would make sense that he might have an Elvish name. Frodo began to feel a bit more comfortable around Faramir, who was soft-spoken and seemed not as harsh as the others. He did feel an intense irritation with Strider for failing to tell him that he went by another name among his Rangers.
Faramir looked grave. “Estel is not in Truswood at the moment. He’s been gone for at least a month and could be gone another month, perhaps longer. Did he not tell you?”
Frodo let out a sigh of despair, feeling suddenly ill in his stomach. Of all the abominable luck! The idea of turning around and making his way all the way back the Shire filled his heart with dread. He had only packed enough supplies to get him to Truswood. At the least he would have to beg these Rangers to let him into their outpost long enough to buy food and replenish his water.
“Was he not expecting you?” Faramir asked.
“He was, but--” Frodo felt terribly foolish. He should have written to Strider first. But to write to him and trust the post would reach him, and to wait to hear back would have taken months and Frodo had been restless for an adventure.
Stablor and Halbarad returned. “We’ll need to search your belongings. I’m sure you understand.”
Frodo nodded. “Do as you must.” He let his backpack fall to the ground in front of him.
Stablor turned his full attention to Frodo then, staring down at him in a mixture of baleful irritation and wonder. Frodo swallowed and tried to look as stoic as possible. Even under less stressful circumstances, he found it next to impossible to hide his feelings. His nervousness must surely be mirrored in his eyes. To these Rangers, accustomed to being suspicious of all strangers, it would seem like guilt. He knew he must look ridiculous to them, small and unarmed with pointy ears and big, hairy feet.
“You’re far from home, I deem,” Stablor said. "You hail from Breeland?"
"No…er,” Frodo blushed. “Yes, indeed. I just came from Bree. But originally from the Shire. I just have been staying in Bree.” He started to babble breathlessly, “but that’s not where I come from. The Shire is actually--" The more he fumbled, the more foolish he felt, and the more foolish he felt, the more his tongue seemed to want to wag.
"These are your only belongings?" Stablor interrupted, gesturing to Frodo’s backpack. There was no warmth or welcome in his blue eyes.
"Yes."
"I’m not going to find anything in here that I shouldn’t?" He actually smiled briefly, but it was a grim, wolfish smile, as if he was used to dealing with people who swindled him and tried to get away with terrible crimes.
Frodo stared up at him in puzzlement. He had no way of knowing whether anything he carried might be deemed unacceptable inside a Ranger’s outpost.
"Yes or no?" Stablor demanded. His gaze was so intense that Frodo had to look away, heart pounding. What was it about his gaze that left him weak-kneed and shaken?
Don’t be ridiculous, you’re just nervous
"No…I don’t know…I don’t believe so." He licked his lips. He watched numbly as his belongings were rifled through and flung aside. He was light-headed from the heat and thirst. Just when he thought Stablor had rifled through everything, the Ranger paused. He pulled out a leather bag and sniffed it. Frodo stared in disbelief. He did not even own such a leather bag, and he certainly had not packed it. Stablor’s icy gaze met Frodo’s.
"We must take you into our custody for the possession of shimflower."
“Shimflower?” Frodo said, breathless, dizzy with confusion. “Wait, that’s not mine. I don’t know where it’s from, but it’s not even mine. I don’t even know what shimflower is—“
He felt as if he had been punched in the gut, but he bent down to gather his bag.
"Don’t touch it," Stablor demanded. A bruising grip on Frodo’s upper arm shoved him toward the other Rangers. “Bind his hands!” he barked out to his companions. Halbarad roughly tied Frodo’s wrists behind him. Frodo cried out in surprise and pain. Panic fluttered in his breast, and twisted and fought against the binds. "Let me go! That bag isn’t mine!”
Stablor kneeled in front of him. He no longer looked as angry, but rather pleased in a smug sort of way, pleased to have caught another wrong-doer in a world filled with evil. Frodo struggled for breath, knowing that his eyes looked wild like those of a trapped animal.
"This time let’s have the truth. What is a Halfling doing so far from home?"
"It is not against any law to travel,” Frodo said, fury heating his chest. “I came to see my friend Strider. He will vouch for me. I understand he is not here, though, and I don’t know where he is."
“Just like you don’t know where you got this leather pouch.” Stablor laughed grimly. “You certainly seem to have gotten yourself into a fix.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Frodo said. “Please let me go. I was going to beg you to let me buy food, but I will just leave. I’ll trouble you no more.”
"I found an illegal herb in your bag. You expect me to let you go?"
"Shimflower?" Frodo shook his head. “I do not even know what that is. That bag does not belong to me. Someone must have put it there.”
A slap on his cheek rocked Frodo back and he would have fallen backwards with his hands still tied behind his back if a strong arm hadn’t grabbed him for balance.
“Vik, that’s not necessary,” Faramir said under his breath.
Frodo’s cheek stung and while he realized that Stablor had barely used any of his strength to hit him, he did not know what would happen if Stablor grew more frustrated. Big People were unpredictable with their violence. This much he had gathered from Strider’s tales and the few encounters that Shirefolk had had with ruffian men on the borders of the Shire.
“I didn’t hit him very hard,” Stablor said. Then he patted Frodo’s cheek. “No harm done.”
Faramir explained in a far gentler voice. "Shimflower is a mushroom commonly used to give men extra strength. Unfortunately it often kills them in the end. We have had a problem with it being smuggled into our country. It grows best in the soil of Breeland. We lost a good friend last year to its poison."
Frodo shook his head, and dizziness nearly made him fall. "I am a hobbit, and we know mushrooms. I have never heard of shimflower and I would never carry one that is poisonous or harmful. I speak the truth when I say the pouch was not mine. I do not know how it got there."
“Is it possible someone planted it in your bag?” Faramir asked.
“Do not fuel that fire, please.” Stablor laughed grimly. He turned his gaze to Frodo again. "If you only knew how often I hear that."
Frodo looked at Stablor, his eyes wide and pleading. "Please. Is there nothing I can do to stop this? Anything I can offer?" He thought through any skills he might have, in reading and writing, or in cooking, but the surprised furrow of Stablor’s brows flustered him further.
Stablor looked at Frodo from top to bottom and half-smiled. "You are intriguing, and dare I say, maiden-fair, and I have had no touch of woman for far too long. All the same, my duty is to uphold the laws of Eriador and I am not bought so easily."
All the breath left Frodo as he realized the misunderstanding. His cheeks flamed and he was left tongue-tied, sick to his stomach.
“You go too far,” Faramir hissed.
Frodo twisted out of his grip and bolted. He had no idea where he was going to run, especially with his hands bound, he only knew he could not be captured by these Men in this harsh country with no friends anywhere near. His hands were still tied behind him but he ran fast, breathless, miraculously avoiding stumbling in holes in the ground. He had nearly made it to the woods where he knew he could escape, when something heavy slammed into him so hard that it took all his breath away. He struggled to get any breath at all, any, but the weight crushed down on him and he blacked out.
TBC
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