Far Beyond, part 2
Jun. 10th, 2010 09:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603Title: Far Beyond
Rating: adult eventually, this chapter PG13ish
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: Dedicated to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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! :)
Previous chapters:
chapter 1
The holding cell was dark and cold, and Frodo could not stop shivering. He was humiliated, and fear had wormed deep into his chest. The leather pouch had not been his, but he now thought he could guess who had foisted it on him. He was furious at himself for trusting a stranger in Bree long enough for him to slip the shimflower into his bag. Gaion, who came from far to the south, with whom Frodo had spent several evenings drinking ale, sharing meals, and talking about their respective lands. Gaion had never met a Halfling and Frodo was delighted for friendly company. Most of the Bree residents, Big and Little, had treated him only with cautious politeness. And some time during their time together, after Frodo had revealed where he was going, Gaion must have pushed the pouch into his pack. For what reason, Frodo would never know. He swallowed against the bile that rose up from the back of his throat. He had enjoyed the man’s company, told him his name, revealed so much about his life, including where he was going.
What a fool you were, Frodo Baggins.
He then directed his fury toward Strider for being absent, leaving him to languish in a cell like some of the common thieves he had seen caged in Bree. He paced, his feet padding over cold stone back and forth in a fruitless effort to keep warm. He was cold, and his head hurt dreadfully and his muscles throbbed.
Next his thoughts turned to Captain Stablor, the dour Ranger who had discovered the shimflower in his pack.
Shimflower. What a queer name for a mushroom.
Frodo touched his cheek where Stablor had first slapped him and then caressed him with careless scorn. His hand had been large, strong, capable of breaking Frodo’s neck with barely a thought. A good man to have as a friend and defender, certainly not one to cross.
Just outside the cell a guard in garb like the other Rangers scribbled on rolled paper with a quill. He had dark hair and a fair face, again bearing a slight resemblance to Strider. Occasionally he paused to stare at Frodo.
"You’re the strangest prisoner we’ve ever had," he finally said.
Frodo had to keep moving or freeze to death. "Excuse me, sir, might there be a blanket I could use? It is very cold in here."
"Sorry, half thing. I don’t even get anything to keep myself warm. From whence do you come? I thought your kind stayed to the west, burrowed away in holes in the ground."
"The Shire.” Frodo managed a slight smile at the description of hobbits. “I would give anything to be back there now."
The guard chuckled indulgently. "Most people would pay anything to be anywhere else than where you are."
"Might you know how long I‘ll be here?" Frodo imagined weeks and weeks of this torture. Would he survive it? He could not say. “And what of Captain Stablor? I can’t remember how I arrived here. The last thing I remember is...” He stopped, not wanting to admit to the guard that his last memory was of trying to flee the Rangers. “Did he bring me here?”
“You were unconscious when you arrived. And they’ll keep you here no longer than ten years, I should imagine."
“Ten…” Frodo clutched the bars, feeling faint, like he had been punched in the stomach. “Ten years?”
“Forgive me, I jest.” The Ranger guard smiled. “Just until the trial, I imagine.”
“Trial?”
“Of course. We cannot hold you for any length of time without a trial.”
Frodo fell back on his cot. He had no strength left in his legs. If only Strider were back, he might be able to do something. The chills took him with new vengeance and he bit his tongue.
He curled up on the cot and fell into a miserable freezing doze.
“Wake up.”
Frodo startled awake. His head felt filled with cotton, and he was dizzy and terribly thirsty. His stomach felt empty because he had not eaten in nearly a day, but he was not hungry, only nauseated.
Captain Stablor was outside his cell, unlocking it. “You must come with me.”
“Where are you taking me?” Frodo asked, struggling into a sitting position. He swallowed several times, trying to stabilize his stomach.
“Will I need to bind your hands or will you give me your word you will not try to escape?”
Frodo’s stomach sank. He wondered if this was his trial or something worse. He did not feel up to standing in front of a group of hostile, suspicious Rangers, begging them to believe him that that the leather pouch was not his.
He lifted his chin. “It will not be necessary to bind my hands.”
Stablor gripped his arm with careless bruising force, yanking him to his feet. Frodo cried out in pained surprise. Stablor softened his grip but did not let go.
The stone fortress was far bigger than Frodo had imagined from the holding cell. Stablor led him through a maze of chilly corridors illuminated by flickering torches. After a time, his natural curiosity overcame his fear and discomfort. When Strider had originally told him about Truswood, he had imagined a primitive outpost with huts and tents, not enormous stone structures that had an ancient feel to them.
“Just when was this built?” he wondered aloud.
Stablor looked down on him in surprise. “Pardon me?”
“This fortress? When was it built? It has an ancient feel to it, like one of the citadels of old.”
“I am new to this outpost,” Stablor said. “But I should imagine this fortress was built by the Dunedain of old.”
He paused in front of an arched door. He opened it and pushed Frodo into a small, plain stone room. He gestured for Frodo to sit on a bench in front of a table on which lay a quill, some parchment, a clay pitcher, and some mugs. Frodo was able to climb onto the bench, but the table’s height made him feel ridiculously small. A new chill seeped deep down into his bones. It was colder in this room than in the cell.
“Would you care for a drink of water?”
“Please.” Frodo licked his chapped lips.
Stablor poured discolored water from the clay pitcher into a mug and pushed it toward Frodo. It smelled strange and dirty, but Frodo drank it anyway, grateful for the relief on his dry throat.
Stablor leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and glowered down at Frodo from under his thick brows. “Tell me about your travels, Frodo Baggins. From what I know about Halflings, they do not travel. They fear to leave the shelter of their land.”
“Hobbits,” Frodo said.
“What?” Stablor asked sharply.
Frodo flushed. “We call ourselves hobbits, not halflings.”
Stablor offered Frodo a humorless grin. He walked to the table and leaned on it with both arms, leaning over Frodo in an intimidating manner. “Hobbits then do not travel. Why have you gone so far astray?” He settled in a stool so that he could sit close to Frodo.
Frodo sighed. “It is not a crime to be hopelessly fascinated with the outside world and its inhabitants. It is true that hobbits of the Shire are very sheltered. Often to the point of dullness. The Shire is safe and quiet, a haven in an otherwise dangerous world.”
“Thanks to our efforts,” Stablor added.
“Thanks to the efforts of noble Rangers like Estel, at any rate,” Frodo said. “Hobbits do not even bear arms, nor do most know anything about war. Most of my neighbors in the Shire, they eat and drink and farm and love their peace and quiet.” Frodo looked defiantly at Stablor. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Stablor chuckled. Although he had a kind laugh, his eyes remained icy and sharp, always watching for weakness. “Nor would I. But you still have not answered my question. What brings a half--, excuse me, a hobbit so far from the Shire into these treacherous lands? Is Estel your lover?”
Frodo looked at him in surprise. Something about the way Stablor had said “lover” made Frodo’s stomach tingle with warmth. Frodo felt a blush creep up his cheeks, and he looked away, hoping Stablor had not noticed. “Estel is a dear friend who invited me here to learn about healing and to well, have an excuse to travel outside of my land.”
“All right then,” Stablor shrugged. “So you wanted to travel all the way to this grim little outpost in the middle of dangerous country to see your friend. Now, back to the original question. Tell me about your travels.”
“From the beginning?”
“Yes, everything. Everyone you spoke to, every place you stopped.”
“Does this mean you believe me about the bag not being mine?”
“That is no longer for me to judge, fortunately,” Stablor said.
“Then why should I bother?” Frodo said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It will do me no good and you’ll just put me back in that rat hole of a cell.”
“Would you prefer the dungeon down below with the rogue soldiers and thieves?”
Frodo looked up, his heart feeling cold. “Is that where they will put me if they find me guilty?” At the very idea of having to spend any length of time with unmannered criminals who could easily overpower him, deep down underground where he might never feel the earth under his toes or feel sunlight on his face brought a new wave of chills over him. He could not keep from trembling and he clutched his arms tightly together, clutching at the fabric on his sleeves.
Stablor’s smirk faded from his face and he looked at Frodo with pity for a long moment before speaking. “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that.” He paused. “It’s likely you’ll be put to death.”
Frodo’s hands dropped to his sides as if they were stone weights. After a long silence, he burst, “Why did you not slay me outright at the gate then? Why draw it out?”
“We do not slay people or creatures who do not pose an immediate threat to our lives. There is always a fair trial.”
“A fair trial? I think not,” Frodo said. “I have no way to prove that the leather pouch is not mine. You don’t know me, nor does anyone else here. And Estel, the only person who could speak for my character, is gone. For all you know, I wish you harm. How can I prove otherwise?”
“Be truthful and tell me as much as you can.”
Frodo sighed. He found that he was shaking so hard from the cold and shock that he could not keep his teeth from chattering.
“Are you that cold?” Stablor asked in a softer voice.
“I’ve been frigid since I woke in that cell.”
Stablor unhooked his cloak and put it around Frodo’s shoulders. It smelled of soot and sweat, but with that was mixed a pleasant scent of pine. The material was soft and warm, and Frodo burrowed into the folds, seeking its warmth.
“Thank you,” he said.
Stablor crossed his arms and leaned against the stone wall again. “Now, speak!”
Frodo took a breath. “I left over a month ago. From Hobbiton.”
Stablor looked immediately suspicious. “I thought you came from the Shire.”
“Hobbiton is in the Shire,” Frodo said with as much scorn as he could muster.
“All right,” Stablor shrugged. “You left Hobbiton. Go on.”
“I took the main road to the Brandywine River. I did not see anyone because I traveled mostly after dark.”
Stablor broke in. “Why after dark? What had you to hide?”
Frodo sighed. “Captain Stablor, you really know nothing about the Shire or its inhabitants. I was avoiding my relatives and neighbors. Why, you might ask? Because might appear as a friendly meeting on the road with a second cousin twice removed will turn into a three-hour tea, after which my dealings would spread like wildfire around the Four Farthings. And there is enough talk about Strider…Estel. Believe what you will, Captain Stablor about how noble you think your people are, but Big People are not highly regarded in my country and their beliefs are that any hobbit who has dealings with them can expect to end up just in such an abominable situation as I’ve found myself in. Some of my relatives would say I’ve gotten my comeuppance.”
“Go on,” Stablor said.
“After I crossed the Brandywine River, I stopped to see my cousins in Buckland.”
“I thought you were trying to avoid all your relatives,” Stablor broke in.
“These cousins are my dearest friends.”
Stablor sat at the table with his quill and parchment. “Their names?”
“That is none of your business,” Frodo said. He shuddered at the very idea of Merry or Pippin being harassed by these harsh Rangers.
Quick as a snake, Stablor reached across the table and grabbed Frodo by the front of his collar with both hands. He leaned in until he was nose to nose with Frodo. His voice was low and deadly calm. “In this room, during this conversation, everything is my business. Do I make myself clear?”
Frodo’s heart had burst into frantic pattering when Stablor grabbed him but he managed a terrified nod.
“I can’t hear you,” Stablor said.
“Yes,” Frodo whispered.
Stablor released Frodo roughly and settled back onto his stool, quill in hand again. “The names of your cousins?”
“Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.” Frodo swallowed hard. He wished he was Strider right now, that he could jump up and take Stablor in a physical fight. He longed to knock him down, to watch him squirm with fear, to have him beg for his life. He was beginning to hate Men. Except for Strider. He was an exception. But he had been raised by Elves, so perhaps that explained his wise and gentle nature. Men were coarse and violent, unpredictable, suspicious.
“Might the leather pouch have belonged to your cousins?”
Frodo flushed with anger. “My cousins would never do anything to harm me or anyone else.”
“I never said they did,” Stablor said calmly. “I asked you if the leather pouch might have belonged to them, not the shimflower. Even I know enough that shimflower does not grow in the Shire.”
“The leather pouch was not theirs. I have never seen it before.”
Stablor slammed his fist into the table. Frodo flinched and shrank back. Stablor had not hit him again yet, but it was clear that it was coming. His frustration was growing.
“You are lying to me.” Stablor flung the leather pouch on the table in front of Frodo. “This pouch did not jump into your pack on its own, nor was it stuffed in carelessly or furtively. This pouch was packed and wrapped in a cloth and buried deep down in your pack. Either you did it or someone you spent time with did it. I want to know who it is and you will want to tell me because I am losing patience.”
At that moment, the door to the room opened, and in walked Faramir. He nodded his greeting to Stablor. “What is happening?” he asked.
“This creature is still acting dumb,” Stablor said. “Perhaps he needs to be lashed.” He fondled a curled whip in his belt.
Frodo gasped. Being whipped was far worse than Stablor slapping him as he had done gate. He could not imagine a worse humiliation than to be whipped in front of and by these men and for a crime he had not committed. He was a gentlehobbit, educated and respected in the Shire. To have fallen into this situation was the worst kind of nightmare.
“I’m certain that will not be necessary,” Faramir said. He turned to Frodo. “You are cold?” he asked.
Frodo nodded, so grateful for the kindness in Faramir’s voice that he nearly wept.
Faramir turned to Stablor. “Has he had anything to eat?”
Stablor shrugged as if the matter irritated him.
“I’m not hungry,” Frodo said. His last meal had seemed an age ago, but he could not imagine being able to swallow anything now, at least not anything these men would serve up. Perhaps a gentle mushroom broth and fresh bread. He thought longingly back to Bag End. He imagined sipping tea and maybe having a bite of pound cake in his kitchen far, far from this harsh, cold room and these large creatures who hulked over him and threatened him with a whip. A whip, as if he were a hardened criminal.
Faramir sat across from Frodo. He put his hand on Frodo’s shoulder in a friendly manner but withdrew it when Frodo flinched. “If you know anything at all, Frodo, you must speak. Do not protect the person who has put you here. He cares not for you or your fate.”
Frodo closed his eyes. “There was a man in Bree,” he said, trying to look only at Faramir, who was gentle and kind. “I stayed in Bree for a week, at the Prancing Pony.”
“Ah, Barliman Butterbur,” Stablor said, nodding appreciatively. “His ale is the best in Eriador.”
Faramir chuckled his agreement.
“The man’s name was Gaion,” Frodo said. “He was not from Bree. He said he came from a village to the South. We spent most of our time together because the local Bree folk were not as friendly to outsiders and we were lonely.”
“What do you mean by spending a lot of time together?” Stablor asked.
Frodo stared at him in disbelief. “Do you mean to ask whether he is my lover?”
“What was your relationship with him?”
“He was my friend. We did not share a bed. We drank ale together, shared meals, and took walks around Bree. But as he is the only person who could have done this, then he was not even a friend.” Frodo ached all over now and his face burned. He was coming down with a nasty illness, he was certain, of all the rotten luck. He just wanted to lie down, even if it was on the rickety cot in his cell. “Please,” he added. “I’m very weary. Can we continue this later?”
Faramir and Stablor exchanged a glance.
“That’s enough for now, I think,” Faramir said. “I’ll take him back to his cell.”
“We shall talk again very soon,” Stablor said with a tight smile.
Frodo got off the bench, wondering how he would find the strength to make it back to his cell. He shoved Stablor’s cloak toward him. Stablor took it with a nod.
TBC
Rating: adult eventually, this chapter PG13ish
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: 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! :)Previous chapters:
chapter 1
The holding cell was dark and cold, and Frodo could not stop shivering. He was humiliated, and fear had wormed deep into his chest. The leather pouch had not been his, but he now thought he could guess who had foisted it on him. He was furious at himself for trusting a stranger in Bree long enough for him to slip the shimflower into his bag. Gaion, who came from far to the south, with whom Frodo had spent several evenings drinking ale, sharing meals, and talking about their respective lands. Gaion had never met a Halfling and Frodo was delighted for friendly company. Most of the Bree residents, Big and Little, had treated him only with cautious politeness. And some time during their time together, after Frodo had revealed where he was going, Gaion must have pushed the pouch into his pack. For what reason, Frodo would never know. He swallowed against the bile that rose up from the back of his throat. He had enjoyed the man’s company, told him his name, revealed so much about his life, including where he was going.
What a fool you were, Frodo Baggins.
He then directed his fury toward Strider for being absent, leaving him to languish in a cell like some of the common thieves he had seen caged in Bree. He paced, his feet padding over cold stone back and forth in a fruitless effort to keep warm. He was cold, and his head hurt dreadfully and his muscles throbbed.
Next his thoughts turned to Captain Stablor, the dour Ranger who had discovered the shimflower in his pack.
Shimflower. What a queer name for a mushroom.
Frodo touched his cheek where Stablor had first slapped him and then caressed him with careless scorn. His hand had been large, strong, capable of breaking Frodo’s neck with barely a thought. A good man to have as a friend and defender, certainly not one to cross.
Just outside the cell a guard in garb like the other Rangers scribbled on rolled paper with a quill. He had dark hair and a fair face, again bearing a slight resemblance to Strider. Occasionally he paused to stare at Frodo.
"You’re the strangest prisoner we’ve ever had," he finally said.
Frodo had to keep moving or freeze to death. "Excuse me, sir, might there be a blanket I could use? It is very cold in here."
"Sorry, half thing. I don’t even get anything to keep myself warm. From whence do you come? I thought your kind stayed to the west, burrowed away in holes in the ground."
"The Shire.” Frodo managed a slight smile at the description of hobbits. “I would give anything to be back there now."
The guard chuckled indulgently. "Most people would pay anything to be anywhere else than where you are."
"Might you know how long I‘ll be here?" Frodo imagined weeks and weeks of this torture. Would he survive it? He could not say. “And what of Captain Stablor? I can’t remember how I arrived here. The last thing I remember is...” He stopped, not wanting to admit to the guard that his last memory was of trying to flee the Rangers. “Did he bring me here?”
“You were unconscious when you arrived. And they’ll keep you here no longer than ten years, I should imagine."
“Ten…” Frodo clutched the bars, feeling faint, like he had been punched in the stomach. “Ten years?”
“Forgive me, I jest.” The Ranger guard smiled. “Just until the trial, I imagine.”
“Trial?”
“Of course. We cannot hold you for any length of time without a trial.”
Frodo fell back on his cot. He had no strength left in his legs. If only Strider were back, he might be able to do something. The chills took him with new vengeance and he bit his tongue.
He curled up on the cot and fell into a miserable freezing doze.
“Wake up.”
Frodo startled awake. His head felt filled with cotton, and he was dizzy and terribly thirsty. His stomach felt empty because he had not eaten in nearly a day, but he was not hungry, only nauseated.
Captain Stablor was outside his cell, unlocking it. “You must come with me.”
“Where are you taking me?” Frodo asked, struggling into a sitting position. He swallowed several times, trying to stabilize his stomach.
“Will I need to bind your hands or will you give me your word you will not try to escape?”
Frodo’s stomach sank. He wondered if this was his trial or something worse. He did not feel up to standing in front of a group of hostile, suspicious Rangers, begging them to believe him that that the leather pouch was not his.
He lifted his chin. “It will not be necessary to bind my hands.”
Stablor gripped his arm with careless bruising force, yanking him to his feet. Frodo cried out in pained surprise. Stablor softened his grip but did not let go.
The stone fortress was far bigger than Frodo had imagined from the holding cell. Stablor led him through a maze of chilly corridors illuminated by flickering torches. After a time, his natural curiosity overcame his fear and discomfort. When Strider had originally told him about Truswood, he had imagined a primitive outpost with huts and tents, not enormous stone structures that had an ancient feel to them.
“Just when was this built?” he wondered aloud.
Stablor looked down on him in surprise. “Pardon me?”
“This fortress? When was it built? It has an ancient feel to it, like one of the citadels of old.”
“I am new to this outpost,” Stablor said. “But I should imagine this fortress was built by the Dunedain of old.”
He paused in front of an arched door. He opened it and pushed Frodo into a small, plain stone room. He gestured for Frodo to sit on a bench in front of a table on which lay a quill, some parchment, a clay pitcher, and some mugs. Frodo was able to climb onto the bench, but the table’s height made him feel ridiculously small. A new chill seeped deep down into his bones. It was colder in this room than in the cell.
“Would you care for a drink of water?”
“Please.” Frodo licked his chapped lips.
Stablor poured discolored water from the clay pitcher into a mug and pushed it toward Frodo. It smelled strange and dirty, but Frodo drank it anyway, grateful for the relief on his dry throat.
Stablor leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and glowered down at Frodo from under his thick brows. “Tell me about your travels, Frodo Baggins. From what I know about Halflings, they do not travel. They fear to leave the shelter of their land.”
“Hobbits,” Frodo said.
“What?” Stablor asked sharply.
Frodo flushed. “We call ourselves hobbits, not halflings.”
Stablor offered Frodo a humorless grin. He walked to the table and leaned on it with both arms, leaning over Frodo in an intimidating manner. “Hobbits then do not travel. Why have you gone so far astray?” He settled in a stool so that he could sit close to Frodo.
Frodo sighed. “It is not a crime to be hopelessly fascinated with the outside world and its inhabitants. It is true that hobbits of the Shire are very sheltered. Often to the point of dullness. The Shire is safe and quiet, a haven in an otherwise dangerous world.”
“Thanks to our efforts,” Stablor added.
“Thanks to the efforts of noble Rangers like Estel, at any rate,” Frodo said. “Hobbits do not even bear arms, nor do most know anything about war. Most of my neighbors in the Shire, they eat and drink and farm and love their peace and quiet.” Frodo looked defiantly at Stablor. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Stablor chuckled. Although he had a kind laugh, his eyes remained icy and sharp, always watching for weakness. “Nor would I. But you still have not answered my question. What brings a half--, excuse me, a hobbit so far from the Shire into these treacherous lands? Is Estel your lover?”
Frodo looked at him in surprise. Something about the way Stablor had said “lover” made Frodo’s stomach tingle with warmth. Frodo felt a blush creep up his cheeks, and he looked away, hoping Stablor had not noticed. “Estel is a dear friend who invited me here to learn about healing and to well, have an excuse to travel outside of my land.”
“All right then,” Stablor shrugged. “So you wanted to travel all the way to this grim little outpost in the middle of dangerous country to see your friend. Now, back to the original question. Tell me about your travels.”
“From the beginning?”
“Yes, everything. Everyone you spoke to, every place you stopped.”
“Does this mean you believe me about the bag not being mine?”
“That is no longer for me to judge, fortunately,” Stablor said.
“Then why should I bother?” Frodo said, crossing his arms over his chest. “It will do me no good and you’ll just put me back in that rat hole of a cell.”
“Would you prefer the dungeon down below with the rogue soldiers and thieves?”
Frodo looked up, his heart feeling cold. “Is that where they will put me if they find me guilty?” At the very idea of having to spend any length of time with unmannered criminals who could easily overpower him, deep down underground where he might never feel the earth under his toes or feel sunlight on his face brought a new wave of chills over him. He could not keep from trembling and he clutched his arms tightly together, clutching at the fabric on his sleeves.
Stablor’s smirk faded from his face and he looked at Frodo with pity for a long moment before speaking. “I’m afraid it’s more serious than that.” He paused. “It’s likely you’ll be put to death.”
Frodo’s hands dropped to his sides as if they were stone weights. After a long silence, he burst, “Why did you not slay me outright at the gate then? Why draw it out?”
“We do not slay people or creatures who do not pose an immediate threat to our lives. There is always a fair trial.”
“A fair trial? I think not,” Frodo said. “I have no way to prove that the leather pouch is not mine. You don’t know me, nor does anyone else here. And Estel, the only person who could speak for my character, is gone. For all you know, I wish you harm. How can I prove otherwise?”
“Be truthful and tell me as much as you can.”
Frodo sighed. He found that he was shaking so hard from the cold and shock that he could not keep his teeth from chattering.
“Are you that cold?” Stablor asked in a softer voice.
“I’ve been frigid since I woke in that cell.”
Stablor unhooked his cloak and put it around Frodo’s shoulders. It smelled of soot and sweat, but with that was mixed a pleasant scent of pine. The material was soft and warm, and Frodo burrowed into the folds, seeking its warmth.
“Thank you,” he said.
Stablor crossed his arms and leaned against the stone wall again. “Now, speak!”
Frodo took a breath. “I left over a month ago. From Hobbiton.”
Stablor looked immediately suspicious. “I thought you came from the Shire.”
“Hobbiton is in the Shire,” Frodo said with as much scorn as he could muster.
“All right,” Stablor shrugged. “You left Hobbiton. Go on.”
“I took the main road to the Brandywine River. I did not see anyone because I traveled mostly after dark.”
Stablor broke in. “Why after dark? What had you to hide?”
Frodo sighed. “Captain Stablor, you really know nothing about the Shire or its inhabitants. I was avoiding my relatives and neighbors. Why, you might ask? Because might appear as a friendly meeting on the road with a second cousin twice removed will turn into a three-hour tea, after which my dealings would spread like wildfire around the Four Farthings. And there is enough talk about Strider…Estel. Believe what you will, Captain Stablor about how noble you think your people are, but Big People are not highly regarded in my country and their beliefs are that any hobbit who has dealings with them can expect to end up just in such an abominable situation as I’ve found myself in. Some of my relatives would say I’ve gotten my comeuppance.”
“Go on,” Stablor said.
“After I crossed the Brandywine River, I stopped to see my cousins in Buckland.”
“I thought you were trying to avoid all your relatives,” Stablor broke in.
“These cousins are my dearest friends.”
Stablor sat at the table with his quill and parchment. “Their names?”
“That is none of your business,” Frodo said. He shuddered at the very idea of Merry or Pippin being harassed by these harsh Rangers.
Quick as a snake, Stablor reached across the table and grabbed Frodo by the front of his collar with both hands. He leaned in until he was nose to nose with Frodo. His voice was low and deadly calm. “In this room, during this conversation, everything is my business. Do I make myself clear?”
Frodo’s heart had burst into frantic pattering when Stablor grabbed him but he managed a terrified nod.
“I can’t hear you,” Stablor said.
“Yes,” Frodo whispered.
Stablor released Frodo roughly and settled back onto his stool, quill in hand again. “The names of your cousins?”
“Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.” Frodo swallowed hard. He wished he was Strider right now, that he could jump up and take Stablor in a physical fight. He longed to knock him down, to watch him squirm with fear, to have him beg for his life. He was beginning to hate Men. Except for Strider. He was an exception. But he had been raised by Elves, so perhaps that explained his wise and gentle nature. Men were coarse and violent, unpredictable, suspicious.
“Might the leather pouch have belonged to your cousins?”
Frodo flushed with anger. “My cousins would never do anything to harm me or anyone else.”
“I never said they did,” Stablor said calmly. “I asked you if the leather pouch might have belonged to them, not the shimflower. Even I know enough that shimflower does not grow in the Shire.”
“The leather pouch was not theirs. I have never seen it before.”
Stablor slammed his fist into the table. Frodo flinched and shrank back. Stablor had not hit him again yet, but it was clear that it was coming. His frustration was growing.
“You are lying to me.” Stablor flung the leather pouch on the table in front of Frodo. “This pouch did not jump into your pack on its own, nor was it stuffed in carelessly or furtively. This pouch was packed and wrapped in a cloth and buried deep down in your pack. Either you did it or someone you spent time with did it. I want to know who it is and you will want to tell me because I am losing patience.”
At that moment, the door to the room opened, and in walked Faramir. He nodded his greeting to Stablor. “What is happening?” he asked.
“This creature is still acting dumb,” Stablor said. “Perhaps he needs to be lashed.” He fondled a curled whip in his belt.
Frodo gasped. Being whipped was far worse than Stablor slapping him as he had done gate. He could not imagine a worse humiliation than to be whipped in front of and by these men and for a crime he had not committed. He was a gentlehobbit, educated and respected in the Shire. To have fallen into this situation was the worst kind of nightmare.
“I’m certain that will not be necessary,” Faramir said. He turned to Frodo. “You are cold?” he asked.
Frodo nodded, so grateful for the kindness in Faramir’s voice that he nearly wept.
Faramir turned to Stablor. “Has he had anything to eat?”
Stablor shrugged as if the matter irritated him.
“I’m not hungry,” Frodo said. His last meal had seemed an age ago, but he could not imagine being able to swallow anything now, at least not anything these men would serve up. Perhaps a gentle mushroom broth and fresh bread. He thought longingly back to Bag End. He imagined sipping tea and maybe having a bite of pound cake in his kitchen far, far from this harsh, cold room and these large creatures who hulked over him and threatened him with a whip. A whip, as if he were a hardened criminal.
Faramir sat across from Frodo. He put his hand on Frodo’s shoulder in a friendly manner but withdrew it when Frodo flinched. “If you know anything at all, Frodo, you must speak. Do not protect the person who has put you here. He cares not for you or your fate.”
Frodo closed his eyes. “There was a man in Bree,” he said, trying to look only at Faramir, who was gentle and kind. “I stayed in Bree for a week, at the Prancing Pony.”
“Ah, Barliman Butterbur,” Stablor said, nodding appreciatively. “His ale is the best in Eriador.”
Faramir chuckled his agreement.
“The man’s name was Gaion,” Frodo said. “He was not from Bree. He said he came from a village to the South. We spent most of our time together because the local Bree folk were not as friendly to outsiders and we were lonely.”
“What do you mean by spending a lot of time together?” Stablor asked.
Frodo stared at him in disbelief. “Do you mean to ask whether he is my lover?”
“What was your relationship with him?”
“He was my friend. We did not share a bed. We drank ale together, shared meals, and took walks around Bree. But as he is the only person who could have done this, then he was not even a friend.” Frodo ached all over now and his face burned. He was coming down with a nasty illness, he was certain, of all the rotten luck. He just wanted to lie down, even if it was on the rickety cot in his cell. “Please,” he added. “I’m very weary. Can we continue this later?”
Faramir and Stablor exchanged a glance.
“That’s enough for now, I think,” Faramir said. “I’ll take him back to his cell.”
“We shall talk again very soon,” Stablor said with a tight smile.
Frodo got off the bench, wondering how he would find the strength to make it back to his cell. He shoved Stablor’s cloak toward him. Stablor took it with a nod.
TBC
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Date: 2010-06-10 05:25 pm (UTC)