okay wait, another one!

[claudia603]

Apparently I didn't have this gem anywhere on my LJ except starting at like chapter 16 or so! Hurray for Trapped in Bree, the story that made me famous back in 2002! :D


Title: Trapped in Bree
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Frodo arrives in Bree alone. Trouble escalates when a warrior
lures Frodo into an abusive relationship, preventing him from continuing
on his quest.
Story notes: Somewhat AU. Dark and violent—until Aragorn comes to
save the day :-) Many, many liberties will be taken. Movie verse versions
of Bree and Frodo.
WARNING: Rape and violence



Frodo entered the Prancing Pony, soaked to the bone and cold. More than
that, he was frightened to his core. He had barely made it. The
Ringwraiths had pursued him nearly to the gate of Bree. He was so
relieved his merry friends had not been with him. He had sneaked away
from them, leaving them behind in Crickhollow. They had been
determined to come with him, but he had refused to allow them to come
with him into danger. He imagined they had been furious when they woke
up and found him gone—especially Sam. He smiled briefly, thinking
about them safe in the Shire.

He straightened his shoulders. He was so glad he was about to see
Gandalf. He could lay down his burden at last. He smiled. Gandalf would
surely be impressed by the danger he had escaped to arrive here in Bree.

“Excuse me,” He tried to peek over the counter.

A large man with a round, cheerful face peeked over the side.

“Good evening, little master. What can I do for you?”

“I’m…I’m here to meet Gandalf the Gray.”

He peered into the common room and his heart sank. The room was filled
with rough, crude men, and no Gandalf in sight.

The man with the round face shook his head.

“Gandalf…I’ve not seen him in six months. Can I be of help to you? Do
you need a place to stay for the night?”

“Yes, please,” Frodo said in a small voice. He felt close to tears. He was
tired and cold, and he had expected to lay his burden on Gandalf. And he
was worried. He couldn’t imagine anything keeping Gandalf from meeting
him at the Prancing Pony. An unbidden tear ran down his cheek.
Barliman Butterbur looked at him in pity.

“There now, little one, if he said he’d meet you, I’m sure he’ll show! Let
me show you to your room. I’ll bring you something to eat and drink
there if you like. The common room may be a little overwhelming for you.
We don’t get too many hobbits out this way these days.”

Frodo looked up at him, his blue eyes wide with gratitude.

“Thank you.”

He noticed many of the men eyeing him. He had never been in contact
with men before, and his first experience was frightening. He wanted to
hide in his room, out of their view. What had Gandalf been thinking,
having him meet him here—in this hostile environment? Barliman gave
him the key to his room and directed him to go through the back doors and
down a corridor.

Frodo took the key and squared his shoulders, preparing to push through
the crowd in the common room to get to the corridor. A strong hand
gripped his shoulder, and he let out a gasp.

“Hey, little halfling. You from the Shire?”

Frodo looked up. The man staring down at him had a beard and cold, dark
eyes.

“Yes,” Frodo answered him.

“You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” Frodo tried to keep his voice steady. He
was growing more and more frightened. Barliman didn’t seem to be
paying attention.

The man laughed crudely. He pulled Frodo in front of a second man. This
man had shaggy blond hair and muscular arms.

“Look what I found,” the first man said. “A little halfling from the Shire.
Don’t see too many of them around here. Even the Bree hobbits don’t
come down here too often. Frightened them away, haven’t we, Vik? We
could have fun with this one, couldn’t we?”

“Please,” Frodo managed. He trembled wildly. “Just leave me be.”

“You’ve frightened him half to death, Jankit.”

“Aw…” The man gripping Frodo’s arm stroked his cheek with a callused
finger. “Are you frightened, halfling?”

Frodo looked up at him. Gandalf should have been here. At this moment,
he regretted having left his friends behind. He was utterly alone. The Ring
was his responsibility. He was defenseless against the crude ruffians of
this village. He willed himself not to weep, but he was so exhausted and
stressed. His eyes filled with tears.

“Please,” he managed again. He tried to wrench out of his grip, but Jankit
grabbed both of his arms. His fingers pushed down with so much force
that Frodo knew he’d have bruises later.

“You just settle down, little one. This is what we’re going to do. We’re
going to find your room and you’re not going to let out one peep.
Understand?”

“No,” Frodo said. “I won’t go with you.” He shook his head violently,
hoping desperately that the other patrons in the tavern would see that he
was being held against his will.

Without further warning, Jankit thrust Frodo in front of him and yanked
him into the corridor. He shoved him against the wall. Frodo let out an
involuntary squeak as Jankit held a dagger at his throat.

“You yell, and I’ll slit your throat—understand, you little rat?” Jankit
looked at his friend Vik. “Isn’t that right?”

“That’s right,” Vik agreed, picking his teeth with a second dagger.

Everything was lost. The quest. The Ring. They would find the Ring and
think it was just a trinket, but they would steal it from him all the same. It
would fall into the hands of the Enemy. New tears oozed out of Frodo’s
eyes. Jankit pushed Frodo forward again. The man with the shaggy blond
hair followed them. Frodo didn’t know the details of the horrible things
men did to each other, but he had heard unspeakable rumors about hobbits
of the Shire that had been assaulted while traveling Outside. At the
thought of being violated in such a manner, Frodo shuddered.

“Give me your keys, halfling.”

Frodo held the key in his trembling hand, but it fell to the ground with a
loud clunk. He started to reach down for it, but Jankit shoved him hard
against the wall again. He grabbed the key and unlocked the door. He
pushed Frodo in front of him into the room. The men pushed the door
shut.

“He is a sweet-looking little thing,” Vik said, nodding approvingly.

“How much you think we could get for him, Vik?”

“Quite a lot, if we leave him untouched.”

Frodo’s knees gave out and he sat very hard on a stool. He held his arms
together, unable to stop the shaking that rippled over his body. They were
talking about selling him. What could that possibly mean?

“I’m not sure I can leave him untouched,” Jankit said, stooping down to
brush his hand through Frodo’s soft dark curls.

“Then you’ll get less, though still a pretty bundle, I’d imagine for this one.
I’d say he’s the prettiest halfling I’ve ever encountered. Look at those big
blue eyes and pure skin.”

Jankit forced Frodo to stand.

“I say we take the risk and make his worth a little less. He’s making me
hard, just looking at him.”

Frodo looked up in terror. He had to get out. He could not let them violate
him. He struggled suddenly, throwing Jankit off balance. Jankit fell
backwards, cursing. Frodo almost made it to the door when Vik grabbed
him by the hair and yanked him back. He threw him violently to the
ground and kicked him viciously in the side. Blinding pain ripped through
his ribcage. He cried out, and Vik kicked him again.

“Bad, bad idea, halfling,” Jankit growled, crawling to him.

The door burst open at that moment, startling all three in the room.

“What the hell is going on here?” A voice yelled.

Frodo dared to peek up. A man with blond hair and gray eyes stood
holding a sword. Frodo whimpered in terror and crawled backwards into a
far corner. He clutched his knees, too terrified even to breathe. He felt for
the Ring. Perhaps if he put it on, he could disappear and sneak past the
man at the door. He did not dare try.

“None of your business,” Jankit said.

The warrior slammed the door shut and moved his sword to Jankit’s neck.

“I’m making it my business. I saw you nab this halfling and I don’t think
he wants to be here with you. Now you two miserable excuses for human
life will leave right now or I will cut both of your throats.”

“He’s not worth it,” Vik said. “Let’s move on.”

Jankit spit on the ground before shoving past the warrior. Frodo squeezed
his eyes shut. The pain in his side made it difficult to breathe. He looked
up in terror as the warrior inched closer to him.

“Hey, halfling,” he said in a soft voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. My
name’s Oron.”

Frodo looked up at him, his eyes wide and terrified.

“Thank…thank you,” he finally gasped.

“What’s your name?” Oron asked.

“Frodo Ba—Underhill.”

“Frodo. That’s a lovely name. I’ve known a few of your kind from the
Shire. What are you doing traveling alone?”

Frodo gasped for breath, cringing as he held his side.

“I’m sorry,” Oron said. “You’re hurt. I should have Butterbur send for a
healer.”

“You’re very kind,” Frodo said. He shivered. He didn’t know what would
have happened if Oron had not saved him.

“Why don’t we see if those slimy men stole anything from you.”

Frodo reached for his bag with trembling hands. He dropped it several
times, glancing up at the warrior as if he feared he would turn hostile. He
saw only softness in the gray eyes.

His money had been stolen. He had had very little to begin with, but now
he had none.

“They took everything,” he said. “I have nothing now. I can’t even pay
for this room.”

Oron put a strong hand on Frodo’s back and rubbed him soothingly.

“Then it is good you met me. Butterbur is a kindly soul, but he is a force
to be reckoned with if he thinks you tried to cheat him out of payment. I
wouldn’t want you to be thrown in prison after what you’ve been through
already. I will pay for your room for the night and then you could stay in
my cottage. I live only ten minutes from here. I could take you there now
and then send for a healer. It looks like those bastards may have broken
some of your ribs.”

Frodo looked at Oron in gratitude. He should use more caution, but he was
in a helpless position. He had no choice but to trust him.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “I will come with you.”



***


Oron smiled and patted Frodo's shoulder.

"All right then. Is this bag all you had with you?"

Frodo nodded. He wanted to believe that he could trust this man. He had
saved him from a terrible fate. The least he could do was to relax and let
the man care for him. But he would keep his eyes open. The first sign that
something was not right, he would flee.

"You can't walk," Oron said. "I'll carry you."

"Oh, no," Frodo said, flushing. "It's too much trouble."

"Trouble?" Oron laughed as he gently lifted Frodo from the ground. "You
don't weigh anything at all, halfling."

Frodo winced in pain. Oron pulled Frodo's cloak tightly around him, so
that it acted as a splint to his injured ribs. He slung Frodo's bag over his
shoulder.

"I'll take you out the back way so you don't need to be exposed to those
brutes again."

Frodo shuddered. It felt good to settle into the strong arms that held him.
Again, he tried to coax himself to relax. If Oron had wanted to harm or rob
him, he would have done so already. Oron walked confidently down the
dimly lit corridor and down a flight of wooden stairs until they were below
street level. Oron fumbled in the dark room until he found a badly warped
door leading to the outside. Once in the chilly autumn air, Oron strode up
a flight of stone steps until he was back on street level.

The houses passed in a blur. Frodo struggled to keep his eyes open. He
did not want to be disoriented. He wanted to know where he was in
relation to the inn. Oron held him tightly enough that his ribs did not pain
him too much, but once in awhile he gasped in pain when Oron took a
particularly hard step.

"I'm sorry, Frodo. We're almost there."

They entered a small cottage. It was not homey and warm as Frodo had
hoped. A cold draft blew in through a carelessly left open window. The
sheets on the large bed looked like they had not been washed in months.
There was a smell of rotting food from garbage that had not been taken out
in a long time.

Oron lay Frodo gently on the bed and propped his head up with a pillow.

"There now, Frodo," Oron said. "I'll make you some tea that will help you
sleep. May ease your breath as well."

Frodo nodded gratefully. He didn't think he would need help sleeping. He
had been pursued by Ringwraiths, nearly kidnapped in Bree, his ribs
throbbed, he was exhausted from days of traveling in the wild, and he was
cold and wet. He had no will to decide what to do next. He knew he
should ask the kind man to leave a message for Gandalf at the inn. Where
was Gandalf? Frodo's throat closed in panic. He could not reach Rivendell
alone. He pictured the Ringwraiths on their black steeds, screeching in
triumph. He was just one lone hobbit. How could he fight the minions of
the Dark Lord?

Oron returned with the tea.

"There now, let me take a look at what those brutes did to you. We should
get some of these clothes off of you anyway--you shouldn't sleep in damp,
wet clothes." Oron breathed hard as he unbuttoned Frodo's cloak. Frodo
couldn't figure out why he was out of breath. Oron peeled off Frodo's
worn brown jacket. Frodo cried out in pain. He bit his lip, ashamed by his
outburst.

"Hold on," Oron said. "Almost done."

Oron unbuttoned the vest and finally his white linen shirt. He gazed down
at Frodo's milky skin, marred by deep purple and black bruises on his right
side.

"They did a number on you, all right." He put his hand on Frodo's chest.
Frodo looked at him, puzzled. Oron's hand seemed to linger for longer
than needed. He let it slide to where the bruising was.

"Does this hurt?" Oron poked and prodded at Frodo. Frodo cried out a
few times in response.

"Yep, it looks like you have a few cracked ribs, but none of them appear to
be seriously broken. You should be able to move around in a couple days.
There's no need to send for a healer at this point. If you start coughing up
blood or something, be sure to tell me."

Frodo tried not to whimper, though all the poking and prodding had left
him feeling raw and sore. Oron knelt beside the bed. He gazed down at
Frodo with an intense expression Frodo couldn't interpret. Then he
climbed over Frodo so that he was lying in the bed beside him. He was
still fully clothed. He wrapped his arms around Frodo's slight form. He
kissed Frodo's head several times and let his rough hands slide down
Frodo's bare arms.

"Oh, you smell so sweet, little one. Very sweet."

Frodo tensed. The pain in his ribs felt far away. A buzzing filled his ears.
He didn't know what this man intended, but he suddenly regretted leaving
the inn with him. Nobody knew where he had gone. Oron had not gone to
talk to Butterbur as far as he knew--not yet anyway, and so in the morning,
Butterbur would think he had fled without paying for his room. He would
not suspect that he may be in trouble. Gandalf had not arrived and there
was nobody else that he could trust.



***


"What are you doing?" Frodo finally managed. His heart was beating so
fast that his voice came out in a squeak. Oron did not answer. His hands
crept around Frodo's bare waist, stroking his belly in small circles.

"Shh," Oron said, kissing his head again.

Frodo struggled to turn in the bed so that he was on his back. He looked at
Oron, his blue eyes wide with trepidation.

"Oron, I...I don't know if...I've never--"

"Frodo, I'm not going to hurt you," Oron said gruffly. "Think real hard
about where you could be right now if I hadn't come at the right moment.
You would be in a brothel being forced to submit to much scarier people
than me."

Frodo started to tremble all over. He had never even kissed anybody,
male or female. He had no experience in such matters, though he knew
enough that he was not attracted to this man about whom he was having an
increasingly bad feeling.

Oron kissed his forehead. "Don't you think I deserve some sort of reward
for helping you?"

Frodo bit his lip, trying to will the tears from coming out of his eyes. This
had turned into a big mess. He had to leave the cottage as soon as he was
able.

"Come now, Frodo." Oron kissed Frodo's lips softly. "Why are you
weeping?"

Frodo took a shuddering breath. "I..I don't want..I don't want to do this,
Oron. Please...I don't want to."

Oron pressed down on Frodo's lips with bruising cruelty, clutching Frodo's
cheeks in two strong hands. Frodo arched his back, trying to break away
and gasping for breath. Oron released him.

"There now," he said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Tears oozed freely out of Frodo's eyes now. His ribs ached fiercely and he
felt helpless. He was alone. Even if Gandalf showed up, he would not
know where to find him.

"Damnit, stop your weeping, you ungrateful little runt!" Oron's voice grew
harsh and nasty. He shook Frodo before backhanding him across the face.
The impact made a nasty cracking sound. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut,
waiting for the next blow.


***


Aragorn entered the Prancing Pony. His gray eyes took in the scene of
rough men drinking ale and he sighed in disappointment. He had hoped
that Gandalf or the hobbit that was supposed to be carrying the Ring was
there. Preferably both. He needed to warn them. The Nine were abroad
and were asking about a hobbit by the name of Baggins wherever they
went.

Butterbur greeted him with a suspicious nod.

"Butterbur, come, I need to talk to you."

Butterbur reluctantly joined him. "Yes?"

"Have you seen Gandalf the Gray? Has he been here?"

Butterbur gave him a quizzical look.

"No, he's not been here. But there was a hobbit a couple days ago asking
about him." He shook his head. "Like to get my hands on him. Little thief
bolted without paying."

Aragorn's breath caught. "A hobbit was asking about Gandalf? Did he
mention his name?"

"I don't remember. He was a sweet-looking thing--dark curly hair and blue
eyes, seemed very upset that Gandalf wasn't there. Came from the Shire, I
think. I felt bad for him at the time. I showed him to his room. Next
morning I came to check on him, to ask if he wanted any breakfast, and he
was gone. Didn't expect that out of him. I thought most of the Shire
hobbits were pretty honest. You let me know if you find him, though. I'd
like to be paid."

Aragorn was disturbed. He couldn't believe Frodo, Bilbo's favorite nephew
and Gandalf's dearest hobbit friend, would leave an inn without paying
unless he was in bad trouble.

"Listen, Butterbur. I need to find the hobbit. He may be in a lot of
trouble."

"Darn straight he's in a lot of trouble. He could go to jail for a year. They
may not have the same rules in the Shire, but here, we prosecute to the
fullest--"

"Butterbur, I mean that he may be in danger. I know of this hobbit and I
don't believe he'd rob anyone any more than you would. I think he's in
trouble. Now did you see him interact with anyone? Anyone at all?"

Butterbur paused.

"Now, Strider, you bring up a good point. We've not had much hobbit
business lately, which is why I was surprised to see your friend. There's
been a couple of no-gooders around and a couple weeks back, a few
hobbits were assaulted in the back area. One was so badly beaten and ...
and raped...that he is still lying unconscious. The other managed to get
away. They've been avoiding this part of town, which is right tragic."

Aragorn felt cold inside. He was now convinced that the little hobbit was
in some terrible trouble. Why had he brought nobody with him, no trusted
companions? Gandalf had begged Aragorn to look after him, stating that
Frodo was the best hobbit in the Shire, but that he had never been outside
the Shire and had no real concept of the world outside its borders. He may
have blindly trusted somebody and gotten into trouble.

"I feel bad now," Butterbur continued. "I should have pursued it. I hope no
harm's come to him. I'll ask around in my crowds."

"Thank you," Aragorn said. He sat back against the wall, closing his eyes.
He didn't have a clue as to where to look next. And what would he tell
Gandalf should he show up--that the hobbit who carried the fate of all of
Middle Earth had possibly been nabbed by ruffians?

***

Oron dropped his fist which had been poised to hit Frodo a second time.
He waited until Frodo dared to open his eyes again.

"Aw, I'm sorry," he said, stroking Frodo's face. "I didn't mean to hit you
that hard."

Frodo tried to control his trembling, but he was so frightened that he could
neither move nor speak. He had to get out of here, but he couldn't walk.
He thought about his companions in Crickhollow. He was so glad that
none of them were being subjected to this. He thought about Sam's
loyalty. He selfishly wished for Sam. But then he had no desire for any of
his dear friends to see him in this terrible, humiliating situation.

Oron kissed his cheek, which was already turning red and swelling from
the blow.

"There now, halfling, I'll not bother you tonight. You just sleep. I'm sorry.
You and I will have a great life together, you'll see."

Frodo swallowed and his stomach turned cold. This man did not intend to
willingly let him go.

"But I have to go," Frodo whispered. "I have business to take care of."

Oron's arms tightened around Frodo's waist, and his ribs flared in new
agony. He did not dare even cringe.

"Frodo, all my life I've waited for someone as perfect as you. I've never
been interested in marrying. I've always thought that a good regular
halfling lay does just as well, without the bother of getting children.
You're everything I've wanted in a permanant partner--you're sweet,
innocent. I've always wanted a halfling from the Shire. These Bree
hobbits are much too coarse."

Frodo sent out a silent plea to Gandalf.

"You..you hurt me," Frodo whimpered. His face throbbed and he
wondered if his nose was broken.

"I'm sorry, Frodo," Oron whispered back, kissing the soft skin at the back
of Frodo's neck. "I'm so sorry. I won't hurt you again."


***


Frodo woke to the sound of harsh whispers. The sheet he lay tangled in
smelled stale, like sweat. What had happened to him in the Prancing Pony
came back to him when he tried to move. His ribs flared in new agony.
His intuition told him to keep his eyes closed.

"So where did you find him?" The voice was unfamiliar, but Frodo felt
unfriendly eyes staring down at him.

Oron let out a low chuckle. "At Butterbur's inn. Jankit and Vik were
trying to strike again. Wanted to take this halfling and sell him to that
brothel across town. What a waste! I took one look at him and knew I had
to have him for myself."

"No kidding. He's really beautiful. Did you give him this bruise on his
face?"

Frodo tried not to flinch as a rough hand stroked his face. He feigned a
sleepy moan and turned over.

"Shhh. Let him sleep a bit. Yeah, I hit him good last night. The
ungrateful fool isn't quite ready for me. I wasn't going to force him this
early. Don't want what happened to the last one to happen to him. If I do
too much damage to his insides, he'll be useless later. And don't think I'm
completely heartless, Landor. I didn't enjoy watching that other little
fellow die. I can't help this miserable temper of mine. This little fellow's
from the Shire. How lucky could I get?"

"The Shire? Are you aware that Bill Ferny and some of that slime from
south of here are asking about a halfling from the Shire? They're willing
to pay a reward for this halfling. What is it about him?"

"I don't care if the shadow from the East comes and asks about him; he's
mine and I'm not going to give him up for anyone."

There was a short silence and the rough hand stroked Frodo's cheek again.

"Ah, such soft skin. I'd pay you to let me have a go at him some time."

Frodo tensed, his skin turning cold, as he listened to Oron's response.

"Well," Oron said slowly. "Tell you what. After I taste him myself a few
times, then maybe something could be arranged. Nothing like tight
halfling ass for pleasure, is there?"

Frodo waited a few moments and then opened his eyes. He coudln't bear
to hear more. Somehow he had to get out of there that day.

"Good morning," Oron said. "How do you feel?"

Frodo nodded. "Better, thanks." He saw his shirt, his vest and jacket
hanging against the post of the bed. He quickly got dressed under the
leering stares of Oron and his friend Landor. His ribs throbbed, but he at
least he could move. He could walk if need be, at least for a short distance.

"Oron," Frodo bravely said. He didn't think Oron would become violent
in front of his friend. "You know I am grateful that you saved me
yesterday, but I...I'm to meet a friend in the Prancing Pony. I really must
get back there."

Oron shook his head. "You can't go back there, Frodo. You see, word's
already out that you cheated Mr. Butterbur out of a room."

"But you said--you said you would pay." Frodo hated it how weak and
reedy his voice sounded.

"I decided not to." Oron seemed to be enjoying the dismay that had settled
over Frodo's face. "And they're already on the lookout for you. They'll
drag you to jail. They don't have separate jails for hobbits here in Bree.
You'll be locked in with lovely people like your friends who wanted to sell
you."

"Oron, come on," Landor said. "They don't--"

"Shut-up," Oron hissed to him.

Frodo shook his head numbly. "No. No, it doesn't matter. I have to get
back to the inn."

Jail would be better than enduring whatever Oron and his friends had
planned for him.

Landor placed his hands on Frodo's shoulders and looked down at him,
laughing cruelly. He massaged Frodo's shoulders and moaned in
exaggerated pleasure. Frodo looked up at him in disgust. The man's breath
smelled and half of his teeth were rotted.

"What's the matter?" Landor mocked. "Don't like living with Oron? He's a
good man, little one. He knows how to show a halfling a very good time.
So do I for that matter. You should give us both a chance."

Frodo took a big shuddering breath. "I'm here against my will. Please do
the right thing and let me go."

Oron's smile faded. A deadly gleam filled his eyes. Frodo imagined that
his enemies must have seen that look in his eyes before they were
skewered by Oron's sword. If Frodo didn't escape now, he never would.
He pushed past Oron and his friend. He had just made it out the door,
when he slammed into a third man on his way inside Oron's cottage. The
man grabbed his arm.

"What's this? Has Oron got a new little friend?"

"Let go of me," Frodo gasped. His ribs hurt him. Black dots danced in
front of his eyes. He would not faint. He could not afford to lose
consciousness. The man dragged him back in the cottage.

"Thank you, Mort," Oron said. "Throw him on the floor."

Mort shoved Frodo so that he fell on the floor. The three men surrounded
him. Mort shook his head. "You don't want to displease Oron here. His
last halfling friend didn't survive--did he?"

Oron shook his head in warning. "Don't go talking about that and scaring
him."

"Ha," Mort said. "Oron beat him when he tried to escape."

Frodo looked up through blurred tears. He had to wait until the men were
not so focused on him. Then he planned to put on the Ring and escape. He
would run right out of Bree. He'd make straight for Rivendell. Gandalf
would have to understand. He could not wait in this hostile village where
there was no help for him.

"Take off your clothes, Frodo." Oron stood above him, his face red with
fury.

Frodo looked up at him in dismay. "What--why--"

Oron kicked Frodo viciously in the stomach. Frodo's breath was socked
out of his lungs. He looked up again in agony.

"Don't look at me with those big eyes like you're too innocent to know
what we want."

"No," Frodo whispered. Oron had said he would not force him. Now it
looked like he was going against what he said.

Oron kicked Frodo again, causing him to yell in pain. "You obey me,
Frodo, or you're going to be bedridden a lot longer than a few days. I
won't be conscience-stricken if I have to beat you within an inch of your
life."

Tears spilling over onto his cheeks, Frodo unbuttoned his vest with
trembling fingers. He looked up at Oron beseechingly, but Oron's face
remained impassive. His friends stared down at him with grins on their
faces.

***


Aragorn wandered around the room. He had come up with a strategy for
asking about the halfling. It made him feel sick to do it, but it was the
only way to gain the trust of the scum that would have harmed Frodo.

"Excuse me," he said to a table full of raucous men. "Would any of you
gentlemen be able to direct me to a place where I could...uh...find a
halfling for the night, if you know what I mean."

The men looked at each other in amusement. "We don't have any halfling
harlots here in Bree. Perhaps closer to the Shire."

"I don't think that's really true," Aragorn said softly. "I heard of a brothel--
"


A man with a scar over his cheek nodded. "Mostly girls. They'll
occasionally use a good-looking, young male halfling. They're often
damaged goods in a short period of time, though. They don't tend to live
very long in that kind of captivity."

Another man at the table volunteered his services. "I'd prefer a good girl
myself, but I know some really prefer the tightness of a halfling. Good
luck. We sure don't see many in this area anymore."

"We saw one last night--remember? Good looking fellow."

Aragorn's heart thudded. That was no doubt Frodo. "Did you see where he
went?"

"Naw..Just noticed him when he came in. He didn't stay in the common
room. Probably too scared."

Aragorn felt sick to his stomach. The halfling had come in, asked for a
room, but when Butterbur had gone to check on him, he had been gone.
"Could you direct me to the brothel?"

"I'd talk to those fellows over there in the back corner. They're always
recruiting."

Aragorn forced himself to nod his thanks. He tried to control the rage that
was building in his chest. He had very probably been directed to the very
men that had taken Frodo, the gentle soul that was Gandalf's dearest
hobbit friend, Bilbo's favorite, who carried the fate of the world.

Aragorn approached the men in the corner. He had to stay calm and civil.
The men--one burly with a beard, the other blond and muscular--looked at
Aragorn in open scorn.

"Gentlemen," Aragorn said in a deadly whisper. "May I converse with you
outdoors. I have a matter that I wish to discuss in private."


***

Frodo had just finishing unbuttoning his shirt when Oron lost patience. He
dropped to his knees beside Frodo and ripped off his shirt, flinging it onto
the bed. Frodo's stomach was red from where Oron had kicked him. His
side was colored with black and blue bruises from the evening in the
Prancing Pony. Frodo's limbs felt numb. All fight had left him. He had
never felt so powerless in his life.

If they actually touched him, he didn't know what he'd do. He would fight
back then. But what if he resisted and Oron grew frustrated with him and
accidentally killed him? He couldn't die, much as he wished he could
right now. He was the Ringbearer and it was his responsibility to get the
Ring to Rivendell, with or without Gandalf's help. If only he knew for
certain whether the men would simply use his body and then let him go
when they lost interest. Then he could resign himself to it. Frodo
shuddered at the thought. That was ridiculous. There was no reason why
he should resign himself to it. He was not that weak. He would fight. That
was all he could do.

Oron ripped down Frodo's trousers, causing him to cry out in pain. Oron's
friends roared with laughter and knelt down to get a closer view. Oron
roughly flipped Frodo on his stomach and wrenched open his buttocks
with bruising force.

Frodo glanced behind him in time to see Oron taking out his hardened
member. Frodo gasped when he saw its size. He couldn't imagine it
possibly fitting in his small hole. The pain was going to break him apart.

"Please no," he said, trying not to whimper. "Please."

Oron chuckled and placed the tip of his member on Frodo's small hole but
did not thrust inside. Frodo felt Oron's hot, foul-smelling breath on his
neck.

"Shut up, halfling. I'm not really going to do anything yet. I'm just giving
you a preview of what you'll be enjoying later tonight. Do you think I'd
take you for the first time in front of all my friends? Naw. You're my prize
and I want you all to myself. This is just to remind you who's the boss
here. You don't fight me, you don't try to escape, you don't yell for help.
Do you understand that now?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes," he whispered. His throat filled in panic. How was
he going to escape? Even with the Ring on, he was going to have to find a
way to get outside of the cottage which had four or five latches on it, some
of which were too high for Frodo to reach.

"All right then." Oron climbed off him. "You may get dressed."

"Good job!" Landor clapped Oron on the back. "I oughta get me one of
these little fools."

"Aw," Mort said. "You'd spoil yours just be looking at him with your ugly
face."

"I don't see you getting any--man, woman, halfling--so you're hardly one
to talk."

Frodo pulled himself to his hands and knees. He felt nauseous. He tried to
stand on trembling legs. Oron's friends laughed as he wobbled and fell to
his knees again.

"He wants you now, Oron," Landor laughed. "You may just have to oblige
him."

Frodo looked up in muddy hatred. He never wanted to see another man
again. He wished to go back to the Shire--Gandalf should never allowed
him responsibility of the Ring. With shaking hands he buttoned his shirt
again. He found his vest on the floor and luckly when he patted the pocket,
he still felt the Ring inside. So far he still had it. He would use it, despite
the risk of bringing Sauron's forces to him.

***

"All right then." Aragorn had had the dagger in his hand and at Vik's neck
and had his free hand around Jankit's neck before the two men could blink
in surprise. "There was a halfling that came into the inn yesterday. Would
you gentlemen happen to know anything about him?"

Vik squeezed his eyes shut. "We didn't see no halfling."

Aragorn released Jankit only for a second to allow his fist to slam into
Vik's stomach. "Let me ask you again. Did you see a halfling yesterday in
the Prancing Pony--dark hair, blue eyes, good looking?"

"Damn, why'd you hit me?" Vik said, gasping for breath. "I said I don't
know nothing!"

"Oh, yes we did," Jankit said. "We saw the halfling all right. And you
wouldn't believe what he said to us." He winked at Vik. "Remember,
Vik? He said that if we followed him to his room that he would be willing
to pleasure both of us--if we paid for his room for the night."

Aragorn felt a dull rage cloud his vision. But he forced himself not to
squeeze Jankit's neck any harder. He could not kill these men, not until he
found out where Frodo was. Until then, he had to remain in control. "And
did you...do as he requested?"

Jankit and Vik, encouraged by what they perceived as belief of their story
on Aragorn's part, nodded vigorously.

"Oh, yes," Jankit said. "Have you ever had halfling ass? It's delicious.
And this fellow was better looking than most. He said he'd let us enter
him. Said he'd never had men before but that he was feeling saucy."

"Oh, yes," Vik agreed. "He'd have been nice and tight."

"What I need to know is where this halfling is now," Aragorn said. "You
lead me to him and I will allow you to live."

Vik and Jankit looked at each other. "We have no idea where he is," Jankit
said. "He left with this big muscular guy with a sword."

"I'm through playing games," Aragorn allowed his dagger to cut into Vik's
neck, just a little, and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. "I need to
know where the halfling is now. You have ten seconds."

"I swear!" Vik pleaded. "I swear we don't know where he went! This big
guy burst into the room. He forced us to leave and he took the halfling
with him. That's all we know."

Aragorn could sense that they were now telling the truth. It dismayed him.
He would have no idea where to look next.

"Do you have any idea who this big man might be?"

The men shook their heads. Aragorn felt like he should kill them despite
the fact that they were telling the truth. Reluctantly, he let them go. He had
bigger fish to fry. The men ran as fast as they could down the street, away
from the ranger.

Aragorn leaned against the wall, feeling defeated. He took out the small
intricately painted picture of Frodo that Gandalf had given him. He
looked so sweet and carefree. His smile was guileless, and his eyes--even
in the small picture--were the most beautiful shade of cornflower blue.
His dark hair fell around his face in soft curls and contrasted with smooth
fair skin. He could sense the hobbit's purity from the picture. Someone so
pure should never have been given a burden such as he had. He should
have been allowed to live his life in peace in the Shire.

He put the picture away with trembling hands.

"Please don't let anything have happened to him. Please let me find him,"
Aragorn said. He turned to go back to the inn to start asking about the
blond muscular man with the sword.

***



Oron's friends stayed for hours, drinking beer and getting more crude by
the hour. Frodo was forced to stand beside them. If Oron demanded he
serve them more beer, he had to obey instantaneously or endure a bruising
slap to his face. Sometimes one of men grabbed Frodo and forced a kiss
on his lips. Other times, one of them might stick his hand down Frodo's
trousers and squeeze until Frodo yelled. All the men found that activity
incredibly amusing. Frodo's stomach and back ached wretchedly from
where Oron had kicked him that morning. He longed to lie down, but he
feared it would invite the worst case scenario. Perhaps Oron would change
his mind and violate him in front of his friends and then allow his friends a
turn. Finally, just when Frodo didn't think he could handle more rough-
handling, Oron's friends left, heading for the Prancing Pony for more
drink. Oron chose not to go with them.

He winked at Frodo. "I have a delicious piece of ass here. Why would I
go out with you guys?"

Frodo shuddered, preparing for the worst.

***

Aragorn had asked around to every man who came in the Prancing Pony.
He was beginning to despair. He had very little information to go on.
There hundreds of large blond men with swords. Aragorn showed Frodo's
picture to everyone he asked, in hopes that someone may have seen him.

He approached two men in a back corner who were tipsy yet clearly
unwilling to stop drinking.

"Excuse me," Aragorn said in a voice low with lack of hope. "I was
hoping you might be able to help me. I'm looking for this halfling. Would
either of you have seen him?"

The men looked at each other and raised their eyebrows as if they had
discovered a hilarious secret. They guffawed.

"What about him?" one said.

"Have you or have you not seen this halfling?" Aragorn asked. His heart
rattled in new hope. This was perhaps the first genuine lead he had had.

"Hell, yeah. He's over at Oron's," the second man said.

"Shut up, Mort!" his friend said. "You waren't supposed to say nothing!
Oron's likely to cut you apart for that!"

"Oh, don't be a fool. You think if you stay quiet he'll give you a piece of
that halfling ass? I don't think so. He'll use that poor little fellow up until
he's dead--just like the last one. You won't even get the leftovers."

Aragorn grabbed Mort by the lapels and yanked him to his feet. He longed
to twist his neck. He would revel in the satisfying crack. "Where might I
find Oron?"

"What's your problem?" Mort gasped. "You a friend of that halfling?"

Aragorn shook him. "I'm asking you for the last time."

****

Oron turned to Frodo with a lavacious grin. Frodo tried to back away from
him, but the room was small and there was no place to hide. He was
foolish to try to run. He was locked into this small, putrid cottage with a
man bent on hurting him. His face was bruised and dry blood crusted
around his nose from a particularly hard blow earlier in the evening.

"Come here, you little fool!" Oron grabbed Frodo's arm. "The time is
come for you to put out. Now will you do it willingly? It's much less
painful for you that way. Though, frankly I'm too drunk to really care
whether I cause you pain or not."

Frodo struggled as Oron stumbled to his knees. He unbuttoned Frodo's
vest and untucked his linen shirt from his breeches. Instead of taking off
his shirt, he moved on to unbuttoning Frodo's breeches. He ripped them
down. He then wrapped strong arms around Frodo's waist. He kissed
Frodo's neck with bruising force, biting until he drew blood. When Frodo
yelped in pain and tried to push away, Oron hit him again. Oron's crusty
lips found Frodo's and kissed so hard that Frodo thought he might pass
out.

Oron pushed him down on the dirty floor in the kitchen. Frodo shuddered
at the filth that he now lay in. There was spilled beer, rank-smelling juice
from rotten meat that had leaked out of the garbage, mud that Oron's
friends had trampled in on their boots.

"I'm putting you in filth, Frodo, because that's all you are--a filthy, dirty
halfling who deserves pain and suffering." Oron slapped Frodo again.
Frodo watched through blurry eyes as Oron grew hard and his eyes
brightened with delight. "In fact..."

Oron stood up, keeping a heavy boot planted on Frodo's chest so that he
could not move. He opened one of the many garbage containers. From its
foul smell, it had rotting food. He clearly had not taken the garbage out of
his cottage in a long time. Still grinning, Oron dipped his hands in some
slimy, rotted substance that looked like chicken livers, and with a grin, he
knelt over Frodo again and smeared the filth over Frodo's white shirt and
flawless skin beneath. He rubbed it over Frodo's flacid member. Frodo
turned away, trying not to retch. The smell was horrendous. It filled his
nostrils and nauseated him. Frodo flailed his arms, but Oron grabbed his
wrists and slammed them down behind his head.

Oron eagerly ripped down his own breeches. He smeared the filthy slime
over his member. Frodo could not control his panic. He kicked wildly at
Oron's member. He made contact, and Oron fell backwards with a cry of
rage. Frodo knew he only had seconds to get away. He could expect no
mercy. He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the goo on the floor and
nearly falling again. If only his vest was with him. Oron was between him
and the Ring.

Oron got up too quickly. The look in his eyes was dull and murderous.
Frodo tried to bolt past him, but Oron slammed him down on the ground,
knocking the breath out of him. Frodo fought with everything he had, but
he simply was no match for a man. Oron flipped him over on his stomach
and wrenched open his buttocks.

Frodo felt a burning brand at the tip of his hole. He struggled wildly, but
Oron wrapped both his arms around Frodo's torso, pinning his arms to his
body and squeezing so tightly, Frodo could barely breathe. Hot agony
burst inside his backside, shattering him, making him cry out. He had
never felt such pain. He heard Oron grunting angrily. His voice was low
and gutteral.

"...and afterwards I'll kill you, you little runt. I've no use for a halfling who
gets violent. I'll slit your throat and throw you in the gutter and they'll just
assume you're another of those damn fool halfling harlots whose just
outlived his usefulness!"

He thrusted, each thrust angrier and more violent than the last. Frodo tried
to maintain consciousness, but the pain was too bad. He had never felt
such deep, horrible, shattering pain. This was the worst thing that could
possibly happen to him. He would die when it was over. He would find
Oron's knife and stab himself.

Through a fading consciousness, Frodo heard the door burst open. Frodo
bit his lip and prayed for death. Oron's friends had returned. Oron would
surely give them all a turn.

"Oron!" A voice yelled.

The stranger stepped into the kitchen and saw the scene before him. He
uttered a curse, and without another word, Frodo felt Oron's weight
suddenly get ripped off his body. He didn't have the strength to worry
about whether the stranger would take his turn with him. He slipped
gratefully into unconsciousness.


***

Aragorn swallowed to keep from retching, so foul was the stench in the
cottage. He could not block his nose, as he needed both hands to rip Oron
off the small figure sprawled on the ground. He could not look at Frodo
yet. His focus had to be on Oron. Oron was a warrior and Aragorn could
not depend on him being as slow-witted as his friends Mort and Landor.
Aragorn vowed not to take his eyes off him until he was dead.

Aragorn's sword was already drawn and he whipped it toward Oron's
neck. Oron, though caught by surprise, dodged with an agility he should
not have had with his pants down. He grabbed his sword in one swift
movement and faced Aragorn, his eyes blazing. Aragorn thrust his sword
at Oron's chest. He still had not looked at Frodo, but he knew by the
broken way the halfling was lying that it was bad. He hadn't stirred yet. It
was even possible that he was dead.

Aragorn clashed swords with Oron, but it was not as easy as it would have
been with the usual brand of ruffian in Bree. Oron had been well trained.
He shoved Aragorn, nearly knocking him off balance. Aragorn winced as
his elbow jarred against the table.

Oran laughed, lifting his member for Aragorn to see. "He was good, ya
know. Nice and tight. Squirmed under me, begging for more, he did!"

Aragorn refused to be baited. If he allowed the image of this man's
horribly filthy, bloated member slamming inside Frodo's small body, he
would throw up. He would lose his grip on the fight. If he lost, he would
doom Frodo to a very short life of filth and torture.

Aragorn remained silent as he faced Oron. His eyes flickered over Oron's
body, looking for the unexpected. He had to incapacitate him first--then
strike to kill.

"He was tasty," Oron sneered, thrusting his sword at Aragorn. "I banged
him good, but there may be something left over for you."

Aragorn's rage boiled over. He stabbed swiftly at Oron's member, that filth
that had been inside Frodo. Oron nearly managed to jump out of the way
but not quite. The point of Aragorn's sword jabbed into his testicles. Oron
screamed and dropped his sword. Aragorn wanted this man to suffer. If
Frodo's immediate health wasn't at stake, he would have drawn Oron's
pain out. He would have tied Oron up and watched the man bleed to death
while subjecting his filthy, evil member to every sort of indignity Aragorn
could concoct.

But Aragorn did not have that kind of time. He heard a weak moan from
where he knew Frodo was lying. The halfling was still alive. That was the
important part. He had to get him out of this horrible place as soon as
possible.

While Oron was clutching his bloody testicle, Aragorn swiftly thrust his
sword into Oron's chest. Oron's eyes bulged, and he looked nearly
surprised, as if he could not believe he had actually met his death. Aragorn
yanked his sword out of Oron, barely hearing the thud as Oron's body hit
the ground. Aragorn wiped his blood on Oron's cloak. He was not usually
so cold when he killed. He had rarely killed men, even in battle. And when
he did, he did not feel good. But at this moment, he felt more glee and
triumph than he did when he killed an orc. This waste of life would hurt
no more hobbits. Aragorn kicked Oron's body with his heavy boot.

He ran to the limp figure on the floor.

"Frodo," he whispered in pity. The hobbit's breeches were pulled down to
his knees. Blood clotted around his anal hole and ran down his thighs.
Aragorn groaned and rolled Frodo onto his back. What he saw made his
heart wrench. In contrast to the beautiful picture he had studied and
memorized, Frodo's face was a mess. His nose was disfigured--obviously
broken. He had a nasty black eye. Bruising, both old and new, covered his
face. Blood caked around his nose. His clothes were filthy. More than
filthy--they seemed more worthy of an orc than a hobbit from a good
family. Half of the buttons on his shirt were broken, and Aragorn could
see cruel bruising all over Frodo's abdomen and side.

Bilbo's favorite nephew, Gandalf's dear hobbit friend, the best hobbit in
the Shire, the Ringbearer--defiled, reduced to this broken mess on the
filthy floor of some warrior's cottage. Aragorn clutched his chest, his eyes
filling with tears.

He could not just stare. He had to get him out of here. He would take him
back to the inn and treat him there.

He pulled Frodo's breeches up so that they covered his backside and
buttoned them. Frodo was severely injured, but he would not do anything
about it in this filthy cottage.

Frodo groaned and his eyes fluttered open. He watched with growing
concern as Aragorn buttoned his breeches, eyes glazed in shock. Aragorn
met his blue eyes and smiled in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

"You're safe now," he said. "Oron is gone."

Aragorn was not sure what he expected Frodo's response to be, but he had
not expected the sweet face to twist into a snarl of fury. Frodo struggled
and backed away from Aragorn, kicking and flailing his arms with a
strength Aragorn didn't think he could possibly have considering the
extent of his injuries.

"Stay away!" he shouted in a hoarse voice. "Leave me!"

"I'm here to help you," Aragorn said, holding out his hands in a peaceful
manner. His heart pounded against his chest. Of course. Why had he
expected that Frodo would trust him immediately after what he had been
through? Frodo had backed into the wall, shaking like a cornered wild
animal. The inital fury had faded, and Frodo's eyes were glazed in panic.
Aragorn just had to catch hold of him. Frodo would surely see that he
meant him no harm. When Aragorn had almost reached him, the glaze of
shock melted into determination, and before Aragorn could react, Frodo's
foot slammed into his nose. Aragorn fell back, clutching his nose in
agony. Warm blood dripped into his hand. He was vaguely aware that the
halfling had jumped to his feet. He heard him whimpering in fear and
rage as he staggered out of the kitchen. He limped to where his vest lay
crumpled on the floor. He stumbled to his knees, gasping and holding his
stomach.

"Frodo!" Aragorn shouted, uncovering his bleeding nose and blocking the
hobbit's exit. "You're hurt. Please, you must trust me."

Frodo's face was filled with rage and pain.

"Get out of my way!" he yelled. He put his hand inside his vest pocket--
and suddenly he was no longer there. Aragorn gasped in astonishment. He
had never seen anything like it. Gandalf and Bilbo had both told him the
story of Bilbo's adventure with the Ring, how it had made him invisible.

Frodo had put on the One Ring. In putting on the Ring, he would lead the
Enemy to them. Aragorn rushed around the cottage making sure to block
all exits until he found Frodo. Hobbits were very quiet on their feet, but
this hobbit was injured. He was not going to get very far or move fast.

"Frodo, please," Aragorn spoke quickly. He crawled on his knees and
spread his hands outward, hoping to capture Frodo by feel. "I am here to
help you. I'm a friend of Gandalf's. He sent me in his place to find you.
I've come from Rivendell--"

He heard a scuffle against a nearby chair, and he exerted all his agile skill
to grab in that direction. He had guessed correctly. A squirming figure
struggled in his arms. Aragorn felt for the hobbit's fingers, trying to force
the Ring off. They could not afford to lead the Enemy straight to Bree.

"Take off the Ring, Frodo," Aragorn commanded. "You will draw them to
you. Take it off now!"

Frodo gave out a terrible cry, and suddenly he was visible. Aragorn did
not think that it had anything to do with his own command. Something
about the Ring had hurt or frightened him. Frodo was newly aware of
Aragorn then, and he fought with furious strength that Aragorn had not
deemed possible from one so small and hurt. Aragorn hated to squeeze
him with such force with all the bruising Frodo already had on his body,
but if he didn't, Frodo was going to make his injuries worse. Aragorn had
a sleeping herb in his pack; if he could subdue Frodo long enough to get to
it, he could tranquilize Frodo long enough to get him somewhere where he
could help him. But he needed both of his arms to hold Frodo.

Vicious teeth sank into his arm. Aragorn refused to react. He inwardly
writhed in pain. Very few injuries hurt worse than a human bite. He would
not overreact and hurt the irrationally panicked hobbit. Frodo's teeth
locked into his flesh, refusing to let go. Aragorn pinched Frodo's jaw, and
the hobbit released his teeth.

"Let me go! I won't--not again!"

"Frodo, you must trust me. I'm a friend of Gandalf's. I am here to help
you."

"No," Frodo shook his head. Sweat had broken out on his pale face. His
entire body trembled with the effort of his fight. Blood trickled down his
nose. He was in poor shape. "I don't want to have anything to do with any
of your race again! I want out of this horrible village!"

"Frodo," Aragorn said in a soothing voice. "Please. I know you've just
been through something unspeakable. I am not here to harm you. But I
will not let you go. If you keep struggling, you will injure yourself worse."

Frodo was shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. "No, no, no. That's what
he said when he saved me. Please." Frodo's rage deflated as he gasped in
pain. He had a vulnerable, pitiful expression in his blue eyes. "Please let
me go. All I want to do is find Gandalf and reach Rivendell."

"I am here to help you do that," Aragorn said. He felt the hobbit relax in
his arms. He couldn't tell whether it was the true beginning of trust or
whether Frodo had simply given up.

Tenderly, Aragorn leaned down to kiss Frodo's forehead in comfort. As he
did so, Frodo tensed. He became a fury again, fighting with all his
strength. Aragorn rolled on top of him to stop his struggle. Frodo could
not move under Aragorn's weight, but he yelled in agonized terror.
Aragorn pulled out a few lengths of rope from his pack. The sound of
Frodo's muffled cries tore at Aragorn's heart. He could not imagine what
Oron must have done in a mere matter of days to change this gentle soul
into a writhing, violent animal. Aragorn just needed to subdue him long
enough to get him to sleep. He met the hobbit's eyes and saw only terror
and pleading.

"You fool," Aragorn said to himself as he realized that he was on top of
Frodo just as Oron had been. How he was going to gain the trust of this
broken hobbit he did not know.

Aragorn shook his head in regret. He hated to do what he was about to do,
but he had to get him out of here. He wrapped the rope around Frodo's
flailing arms. Frodo managed a wicked blow to Aragorn's face. Aragorn
cursed and tried not to react. He tied Frodo's wrists together and then the
ankles. Aragorn felt terrible. Frodo had gone completely limp. His wet
eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Aragorn climbed off of him and now
searched through his pack for his herbs. He found the sleeping herb. He
was going to make Frodo swallow it dry, without the tea. He had no time
to brew it. He knew one leaf would put a man into a deep sleep. He ripped
the leaf in half, guessing that a hobbit would need half the dose as a man.

Frodo's eyes opened again, and Aragorn finally saw a desperate calm in
those blue depths. Frodo tried to speak several times, but his voice kept
catching in his throat. Aragorn watched him patiently, hating more than
anything that he was the cause of the hobbit's terror.

"Please," Frodo finally whimpered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm
hurting so bad back there. Please--if you have any mercy in you. Please go
slow. And please make it quick."


***

"Oh, Frodo, no," Aragorn whispered, his heart cracking at the resignation
in Frodo's voice. Oron had destroyed forever Frodo's view on men. From
the many years spent guarding the Shire, he had learned much about
hobbits. He knew that they were warned from a young age to stay away
from the Big People. That Big People were violent and unpredictable.
Before, Aragorn had often felt dismayed that hobbits had such ingrained
prejudices. It was such a waste. Such beautiful and unique friendships
could be forged if only they would get to know and understand each other.
Even the hobbits in Bree tended to stay out of the affairs of Big People.

But now--was such a prejudice not now forever justified for Frodo?
Aragorn looked down at Frodo's battered face in dismay. His blue eyes,
glazed with terror and exhausted fury, gazed up at him. His chest moved
rapidly up and down, as if he couldn't get in enough air.

However, Frodo did not fight him as he pinched the sides of Frodo's
mouth to force it open. Aragorn fully expected teeth to clamp down on his
finger as he put a torn piece of the herb in the back of Frodo's mouth.
Frodo did not try to bite him. He gagged, and new tears sprang to his
agonized eyes.

"This will help you sleep," Aragorn said softly, wiping the tears away with
a gentle caress. "Then I will untie you."

He knelt beside Frodo, stroking his trembling hands. Frodo kept his pained
eyes on Aragorn, his lips slightly parted in pain and terror. Aragorn
stopped stroking him, as it seemed to terrify him more. Frodo seemed to
have no voice left. Aragorn released his hands, which were so small and
white, no bigger than those of a nine-year-old child. That the warrior had
used so much force on him turned Aragorn's stomach. Again, he wished
he could have done more damage to the brute.

Finally, Frodo's eyes fluttered shut. Aragorn waited until Frodo's breathing
was even and deep before he scooped the hobbit in his arms. He pulled
Frodo's tattered cloak around him so that he would be warm in the chilly
breeze outside. He also wanted to spare Frodo the indignity of anyone in
Butterbur's Common Room seeing him in his state.

Frodo was completely limp as Aragorn carried him through the streets to
the inn. The few people he passed in the streets glanced in curiosity, but
nobody questioned him. Anger stirred inside his chest. Someone should.
At least one person should demand to know what a suspicious Big Person
was doing carrying a sleeping halfling through the streets. That was the
root of the problem. Frodo had been in danger, and nobody had stopped it
because nobody looked after anyone else.

He entered the inn. He held Frodo as close to him as possible, trying to
cover him with his cloak. He waved Butterbur over.

"What is your burden?" Butterbur asked, none too pleased to have to deal
with Strider again. Aragorn again felt a twinge of anger. Butterbur was so
busy being suspicious of him that he had failed to note the people in his
inn that were truly poisonous--like Oron and the men who had initially
dragged Frodo upstairs.

"Butterbur, I have found the halfling that I was seeking. He is severely
injured. I'd like to stay in one of your upstairs rooms."

"Injured?" Butterbur asked in concern. He tried to get a peek of Frodo.
His face contorted in disgust. "Something reeks terribly."

"Not here," Aragorn said. "I don't want anyone to see him. Lead me to one
of your rooms and you can hear more. I will need your help."

"Very well."

A few men looked curiously as Aragorn and Butterbur made their way
through the room to the corridor in the back.

"There's a room on the second floor available," Butterbur said. He looked
sick. "What a terrible, terrible shame. There was that little fellow from
Staddle who was assaulted outside here not too long ago. He's in the
healing house, still unconscious. Then there was the fellow who was beat
to death and left in the street to die not too long back. I had a few hobbit-
sized tables and chairs made a few years back, but lately they've been
completely empty. They brought such a sweet joy to the place."

"Butterbur," Aragorn said as if he had not been at all listening to the
innkeeper's rambling. "I need you to fill the bath with hot water."

Butterbur covered his nose. "Is it the hobbit who smells so rank?"

Aragorn placed Frodo on the bed and unbuttoned his cloak from his neck.
Aragorn's mouth twisted in disgust at the smell. "It is his clothing.
Luckily it appears that he has a change of clothing in his pack because I
don't think we can save these. You can take these out to the rubbish out
back."

"Why have you bound him?"

"He is very frightened," Aragorn said, untying the rope from Frodo's
wrists. "I had to drug him."

"He looks so fragile," Butterbur said, his voice soft in pity, as Aragorn
handed him the soiled shirt. "What a terrible shame."

"Not as fragile as he looks," Aragorn said with a wry smile. He thought
about the fury in Frodo's eyes as he had kicked Aragorn in the face. "Take
a look at what he did to my face."

"This little hobbit gave you those bruises?" Butterbur said in surprise. He
laughed a little. "Why, doesn't that just take it all! Ranger out of the wild
beaten by a hobbit."

"Like I said," Aragorn said, his smile fading. "He's been through
something terrible, and I expect he'll fight me again when he wakes. I need
you to help me restrain him if need be. He's injured badly, and thrashing
will make it worse, possibly activate internal bleeding. He's been kicked
rather viciously in the abdomen and back, not to mention..." His stomach
rolled in memory of what Oron had been doing to the hobbit when
Aragorn arrived.

Aragorn peeled off Frodo's breeches, taking a care not to aggravate the
hobbit's bruised and abraded backside.

"Oh, no," Butterbur said softly. "Not that." He closed his eyes in dismay.

Aragorn handed the soiled breeches to Butterbur. More bruising had
formed over Frodo's backside. He was still bleeding down there. "Go now.
Take these out back to the rubbish and return with the hot water. I want to
bathe him before he wakes."

Butterbur left, shaking his head. Aragorn sat beside Frodo's bed. He took
out the picture of Frodo that he had gazed at many times during his search
for him. His blue eyes had been so guileless, his cheeks rosy with joy. At
that time Frodo had never left the safety of the Shire. He had never faced
hardship. He had lived with Bilbo in Bag End, studying elvish and
learning about the wide world. He had greeted Gandalf with such joy
whenever he had visited the Shire. Gandalf had claimed him the best
hobbit in the Shire. He was so dear. A lump filled Aragorn's throat.

In sleep the hobbit almost looked at peace. His long lashes glistened with
tears. Aragorn traced his finger over a glaring yellow-blue bruise on his
cheek. Blood caked just under his nose. Anybody who wanted to hurt this
special creature should have suffered much more than Oron had at the end.

Butterbur returned with two servants. The servants stared at the battered,
naked hobbit, but turned away quickly when Aragorn glared at them.
Steaming water was dumped into the bath. The servants left without a
word.

Aragorn lifted Frodo. He was so light, especially without his clothes on.

"All right, I'm going to put him in. Hand me the soap, please. His hair is
soiled, too. I'm going to ask you to hold him up so that his head does not
sink underwater. Hold him by the shoulders in case he should wake."

Butterbur nodded nervously. After handing Aragorn the soap, he clasped
his two meaty hands over Frodo's white shoulders. Frodo's head lolled
backward, leaning on the edge of the basin. Still, he did not wake. Aragorn
soaked a cloth in the water and rubbed the rough soap until suds squeezed
from it. He wiped Frodo's face. Frodo groaned. The two men tensed, but
his eyes did not open. Aragorn rubbed the cloth over Frodo's shoulders
and down to his bruised stomach. He would wait until the end to clean off
the hobbit's filthy, damaged backside.

Next he soaked Frodo's soiled curls with soap and water. His hair was so
soft. Aragorn felt a shudder through his fingers as they slipped through
Frodo's wet, silky hair. Frodo groaned again. The hobbit was waking. It
would be best if they cleaned his backside quickly before he was fully
awake. He couldn't bear to have Frodo in pain.

"Prepare a towel, Butterbur," Aragorn said. "I will take over."

Aragorn flipped Frodo over, grasping him around his chest. He lifted him
enough so that his backside was in view. He dabbed the cloth gently over
the hobbit's tender backside. Blood seeped into the wet cloth.

Frodo's eyes flew open and he cried out in pain. Before Aragorn could get
a better grip on him, Frodo yanked back, slipping out of Aragorn's grip.
Unaware of where he was, he slipped backward in a daze, cracking the
back of his head against the side of the basin.

"Frodo!" Aragorn cried out, grabbing the hobbit before he could slip
underwater. Frodo's eyes had rolled back inside his head. Aragorn felt the
back of his head in dismay. He had moved so fast. He had slipped right
out of his hands.

"Is he hurt?" Butterbur called out, waddling over to the basin with the
towel.

Aragorn pulled his hand from the back of Frodo's head. Fresh blood had
smeared over his fingers.

***


Frodo was first aware of the throbbing pain that radiated down his limbs
and took over every inch of his body. The horrid smell was gone--he was
no longer in Oron's cottage, but he knew he must be somewhere just as
bad. He could not bear to open his eyes. While they were shut he could
believe himself magically transported back to the Shire, back to Bag End.
He would hear Sam whistling in the kitchen, fixing bacon and eggs. The
fragrance of lilacs would waft through the hole.

The scorching shame! Frodo could never go back to the Shire after what
had happened to him. He could not bear to have his friends look upon him
now. They would turn from him in disgust. They would blame him. He
had left them behind in a deceptive manner. He deserved to have this
happen to him.

The back of his head throbbed, his bruised stomach ached, his arms ached,
his face was in agony, as if hammers were whacking into it. The worst was
his backside, which felt as though a fiery log had been stuffed up his small
hole. He would never be able to rid himself of the sensation of Oron's
arms squeezing his torso, the hot and horrible brand which had slammed
deeper and deeper into his body, even when he had been certain there was
nowhere left for it to go.

Men. Frodo's mouth twisted in involuntary revulsion. They were worse
than Bilbo's most frightening tales. They were worse than Sam's most
terrifying imaginings. No hobbit should ever leave the Shire. Tears sprang
to his eyes.

"He's waking," he heard the distant voice. No, he did not want to wake. He
could not bear more. Like Oron, this stranger was deceptively gentle--it
was the way of men to use kindness to lure hobbits into their sick fits of
lust. Frodo tightened his lips. He would never make the same mistake
again. He would fight against this man with everything he had.

"Frodo?" A gentle hand rubbed his cheek. Gentle perhaps, but the bruising
on his cheeks flared under his touch, so much so that he cried out. His
eyes flew open. The man had speared Oron and had taken him for
himself. Wasn't that the pattern? Oron had done the same thing. He had
not killed the two men who had initially grabbed Frodo in the inn, but he
had sent them on their way. Oron had been so sweet and gentle, so
concerned for Frodo's wounds. Frodo's throat filled with rage. He was no
longer a naive halfling who would fall for the same trick twice. Somehow
he had to gain control of the situation.

"Listen to me," the man said. "My name is Strider." He raised his hands in
mock fear, his low attempt at humor. "Now, please don't hit me again. My
bruised face can't take any more. I'm trying to help you."

Frodo's eyes focused on the second man in the room. It was Butterbur
from the inn! So perhaps he had assessed the siutation wrong. They had
come to arrest him for fleeing the room without paying. He nearly felt
relief. After all, if this frightening man who had worsted Oron was the
law, then surely he did not intend to do to him what Oron had. Far better
to sit in a cold jail cell than to endure more of what Oron had dealt out.

But he could not forget the Ring--and his obligation to Gandalf. Gandalf
was not here. The entire reason that all of this had happened to him was
that Gandalf was not here. Frodo's face twisted in new anger. The anger
was easier to bear than the undercurrent of worry for his wizard friend.
Gandalf must have known how unsafe Bree was for hobbits. He never
would have had Frodo meet him there if he had even suspected that he
would be delayed.

"I'm sorry," Frodo whispered to Butterbur. "I will find a way to pay you.
My friends can bring it to you. Gandalf will pay you, too, when he
comes."

Butterbur looked at Strider in puzzlement. Strider put his hands on Frodo's
shoulders.

"Listen, I want to--"

"What do you want?" Frodo's voice was shrill as he stared up into Strider's
face. Just looking at the hard gleam in his eyes was enough to start him
trembling again. He was too fatigued to fight. Perhaps if he kept Strider
talking, he wouldn't hurt him. Strider turned briefly to Butterbur.

"Butterbur, please get me more boiled water. And if you wouldn't mind,
could you wrestle up some food and drink for us?"

"Yes, sir," he said, and he was gone, leaving Frodo alone with Strider.

Strider leaned close to Frodo. Frodo shrank away, but Strider caught his
shoulder.

"Frodo, your nose is broken. I would like to push it into place, but it's
going to hurt."

"Am I going to jail?" Frodo asked in a small voice.

"What?" Strider looked puzzled.

"Jail. Is that why you've brought me here?"

Strider sighed. "No. I'm not here to take you to jail. I brought you here
because you are hurt after what that brute did to you and I wish to help
you. I've been looking for you. I only wish you would trust me."

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. Something wasn't right. His vision was
blurring.

"I...I can't see. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"You've had a nasty knock on your head, which I will look at in just a
moment. Now, Frodo, I'm bringing my hands to your nose. Hold tight.
This is going to hurt."

Aragorn put his hands on either side of Frodo's nose. Frodo's chest
hitched, and he bit his lip, desperately trying not to cry out. With a single
movement, Strider wrenched his nose into place. He bandaged it, securing
it with tape on either side. Frodo looked up at him, his eyes filling with
weak tears.

"There, it's over." Strider smiled. Frodo shuddered and looked away. His
smile looked predatory, like Oron's.

"No, no," Frodo said, turning his face into the pillow.

"Frodo, I'm going to give you a cold compress for your face. It will make
the swelling go down. Then I will have to take a look at...your backside. I
fear there was great damage done."

Strider's eyes seemed to glint. On anyone else Frodo might guess that he
was trying to hold back tears of his own, but Frodo had figured out what
was really happening now. Everything came to him in a sickening rush.
This man--who played at concern and kindness--wanted to make Frodo
better for a reason. He wanted to heal him so that he could use him as
Oron had.

Frodo could not bear it. He would kill himself before allowing that. Far
better that he just got the pain over with before he was healed. If he had
cooperated with Oron, perhaps things would not have escalated. Perhaps
he would not have been hurt so badly.

Nobody would ever take him by force again.

He took Strider's hand in his. He managed a sweet smile, though his lips
trembled. "Come," he whispered. "I must tell you something."

Strider's face filled with hope. Frodo felt triumph. He had read the
situation correctly. He would cooperate and then Strider wouldn't hurt
him. In fact, he may be kind enough to spare him the use of his backside,
at least for awhile. Yes, he would cooperate and when he recovered, he
would make his escape.

When Strider bent down to his level, Frodo wrapped his arms around the
back of his neck and pulled him down. He kissed him with vicious glee,
biting his lips, shoving his tongue into Strider's shocked mouth. His nose
throbbed with new pain as it bumped against Strider's, but it did not
matter. To be in control made all the difference. Aragorn returned the kiss
for a second before he pulled violently away.

"Frodo!" he shouted. "What...what was that? What are you doing?"

"Come, Strider," Frodo said, breathing quickly. "Please. Let's get this
done with. I'm yours."

He pushed away the sheets. While unconscious, someone had dressed him
again--in clean clothes. He wore only his breeches and a linen shirt
buttoned up. He worked on unbuttoning his shirt. Strider stared at him. He
was a good actor to pretend that he hadn't already had this planned.

"Frodo."

Frodo had completely unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled down his breeches,
writhing in pain as they went over his sore backside.

"I'm very sore," he said. "But I'd rather be done with it now, while I'm still
in pain. Come, Strider, don't be coy."

The words clotted in his throat. No, he decided. After this, he might as
well be dead. He might as well never return to the Shire. He could never
look his friends in the eye. Oron had been right. He was filthy. Something
he had done had encouraged Oron's attack on him, and now look at him!--
He was begging this new man for a turn.

His steady gaze upon Strider turned to puzzlement as he saw a single tear
trickle from the corner of the hardened man's eye. Had he misjudged his
intentions?

He had no time to wonder. Butterbur burst in the door. He gazed at
Frodo's naked form in puzzlement for a moment. His message was too
urgent to ponder it for too long.

"Strider!" He breathed heavily. "I came all the way up two steps at a time-
-More hobbits have arrived!" He leaned agaainst the door, wiping his red
face with his apron. "Asking about a hobbit by the name of Frodo! I came
up here straight away--"

"Merry and Pippin--and Sam!" Frodo cried out, throwing his cover over
his naked body. "Oh, no! Butterbur, please send them away! They cannot-
-" He glanced at Strider. "I don't want thhem in danger."

"Frodo," Strider said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You need your
friends. You need them now more than ever. They are not in danger. You
will not trust me, but I know you trust them. You must trust somebody
now, Frodo."

Frodo shook wildly, clutching his hands together. "They cannot see me
like this. Please, Butterbur. Please. Do not let them in."

"Would it not ease your pain to see your friends?" Strider asked.

"No," Frodo said, his eyes wet with pleading. "I don't want them anywhere
near me."

Strider walked across the room and spoke quietly to Butterbur. Frodo
could not hear all what they said, but despite himself, he found Strider's
low voice soothing. He caught words from the conversation and figured
out that Strider wanted Butterbur to put them in a different room in the inn
until Frodo was ready to see them. A new hope filled him, lightening the
lead weight in his chest. His friends had come for him. They had followed
him doggedly from Crickhollow. They could not see him now, but
somehow it comforted him to know that they were near.

***


Butterbur hovered in the doorway, wiping his sweaty brow again. "I'll be
back in a jiffy then with your boiling water and some bread and meats,"
Butterbur said. He cast a sympathetic glance toward Frodo.

"And I'll also need some cold water," Aragorn said.

"Aye," Butterbur said, and he left, letting the door slam behind him.

Aragorn turned back to Frodo. The hobbit shrank back in his bed, pulling
the sheet up to his face. Aragorn was overwhelmed by fatigue. He could
think of nothing more he could do to gain Frodo's trust. Frodo had gone
through something unimaginable. Aragorn knew that the victims of such
abuse often found it impossible to trust again. It might be years before
Frodo would willingly go near a Man again--and maybe he never would.
And especially for Frodo, who had lived such a sheltered life in the Shire,
to have gone through something so heinous on his first trip outside the
borders of his country! But if Aragorn couldn't gain his trust, then he
could do nothing to heal him.

"You didn't want me?" Frodo finally asked in a soft voice. His teary eyes
glittered--such beautiful orbs of blue--filled with keen intelligence under
the surface of the terror. Aragorn wished that he could have met him under
different circumstances. He had often joked with Bilbo that he would
come with him to visit Frodo in the Shire. He should have truly done so.
His heart sank at the prospect of Frodo's ancient uncle learning about what
had happened.

Aragorn had to take drastic measures. The hobbit needed care or he would
die of infection, despite having been saved from Oron.

"Frodo." Aragorn sat on the edge of Frodo's bed. His voice was harsh, and
a hard gleam crept into his gray eyes. "I am not a monster who would use
a battered, frightened hobbit for pleasure."

"I don't believe you," Frodo said in a dull, weak voice.

Aragorn clenched his hands on his sword hilt in frustration. "I don't know
what more I can do to gain your trust, Frodo. I can tell you that I am a
friend of Gandalf's and a friend of your dear uncle Bilbo's until I am blue
in the face. But if you will not believe me, it does not matter."

"You are disgusted by me?" Frodo asked, barely audible. "For what I
did?"

"Why should I be disgusted by you?" Aragorn asked. He longed to trace
his finger over Frodo's parted lips. He wanted to comfort him, but he knew
that was out of the question.

"Oron...he...I'm filthy. I should have fought him harder. Maybe something
more I could have done."

"No," Aragorn said. His skin felt chilled at the resigned tone in Frodo's
voice, but he felt some hope. The hobbit was not fighting him, nor was he
trembling in panic in his presence. "There was no way you could have
fought him. He was many times stronger than you and he was determined
to do evil. It looks to me like you fought very hard and bravely."

"And then..." Frodo's wet eyes focused on his. "I...I willingly offered...said
you could...could."

"Let us not speak of it," Aragorn said, the cold lump in his stomach
growing heavier.

"You would not have me."

Aragorn impulsively took one of Frodo's cold hands in his. If he flinched
or pulled away, this moment of tentative trust would be shattered. "Frodo,
you are a beautiful and desirable hobbit. I will not deny that. But the only
way I would take you is if you were willing both in body and spirit--and
you were in far different circumstances. Right now all I want to do is to
make you better again."

Aragorn swallowed the last sentence, which was an overt lie. His desire
for the hobbit tingled under the surface of his skin. Of course, what was
true is that he would never, never act on it. He would probably never get
the chance. Even if Frodo grew to trust him, he would probably never
want to have a man's hands on him again. Aragorn could no longer deny
that his heartbreak over Frodo's condition was in part because he had
fallen for the hobbit in the picture, combined with what he knew about
Frodo from Gandalf and Bilbo. And though Frodo in person was broken
and terrified, Aragorn greatly admired the fight he had put up. No warrior
could have bragged of more bravery. Aragorn ruefully felt his nose, which
still throbbed from Frodo's kick.

Frodo stared at him, speechless. Then he turned his face away, his chin
trembling.

"How will I face my friends? I ran away from them. I did not want to
bring them into danger with me. And then I got myself in this kind of
trouble. If I had not trusted Oron--" Frodo looked at Aragorn, his lips
slightly parted, and Aragorn's heart lurched as he watched the quick
transformation over Frodo's face. Frodo's eyes hardened and his face
twisted into panicked rage. "Get back! Get away! I won't go anywhere
with you! You don't know Gandalf and you don't know Bilbo! You're just
very good. Very experienced at luring hobbits--"

Butterbur came back then. He carried a pitcher of cold water, a tray filled
with cold meats and bread, and a pot of boiling water. He stared at Frodo,
his fat face lined with pity.

"Enough, Frodo!" Aragorn shouted. He had been a fool to think the
hobbit would trust him so easily. "You can distrust me all you wish--but if
I don't treat your wounds, you will die. Is that what you want?"

He crushed some athelas leaves and let them fall into the boiling water. He
then folded a cloth. He dipped it in the cold pitcher of water, saturating it.
He placed the cold, wet cloth on Frodo's bruised face, holding his chin
firmly so that he did not turn away. "Hold that here! No, stop turning away
from me and hold still!"

He disliked having to be so harsh with Frodo, but soothing and gentle
wasn't working. Being stern was the key. When he was kind, Frodo
associated it with when Oron first found him. Frodo now stared at him
with wounded eyes, but he did not fight.

Frodo's hand slowly came up. His small hand covered the cloth. He let
out a shuddering sigh, as if recognizing that the cold cloth felt wonderful
over the ache on his nose and bruised face.

"All right," Aragorn said, keeping his voice brusque. "Now I'm going to
turn you over and look at the damage done to your backside. It's going to
hurt, but you will not struggle against me--understand?"

Frodo did not answer--but he did not protest. Aragorn lifted Frodo's
shoulders. The hobbit trembled, but did not fight him. Aragorn turned him
gently on his stomach. He pulled down Frodo's breeches as slowly as he
could. He remembered the pain that had spread over Frodo's face when he
had pulled them down earlier. Frodo clutched the sheets with his hand not
holding the cold compress. He buried his face in his pillow, and Aragorn
heard muffled whimpering.

Aragorn longed to apologize for hurting him; he wanted to reassure him
that he was not doing to him what Oron had done, but he knew that would
not soothe Frodo at all--it would only make him more agitated.

"I'm going to examine your wound, Frodo. I won't lie. It's going to hurt.
Just sit tight!"

Frodo did not answer. He seemed to have become resigned to his fate.
Aragorn pried open the hobbit's buttocks. Frodo moaned in deep pain.
Aragorn frowned. The skin felt very hot. He reached forward and put his
large hand over Frodo's forehead. The skin burned under his hand. Frodo
had a fever, which meant that something was infected. Bruising had
spread over his entire backside. Around his hole, a red, swollen mass had
spread in a thick ring. Pus and blood seeped on his finger when he
touched it.

Frodo bucked and yelled. Aragorn kneeled over the back of Frodo's legs to
keep his bottom from moving.

"Butterbur, help me here! I need you to hold him down at the front!"

Butterbur waddled over and gripped Frodo's wrists. He swallowed and
tried his best to comfort Frodo. "Come, little hobbit. Strider here's gonna
help you feel better. I know it hurts. Strider, his skin is very hot."

"He has an infection. That sorry excuse for a man put rotten meat inside
him."

Aragorn dipped the cloth into the boiling athelas water. He put the pan
closer to Frodo's face so that the hobbit could breathe in the soothing
herbs. Aragorn wiped the cloth over Frodo's swollen hole. He cleaned
away the dried blood and pus. Frodo writhed in Butterbur's grip and then
went limp. Aragorn taped a clean bandage soaked with athelas over the
hole. He pulled Frodo's breeches up and turned him back over onto his
back. Frodo had lost consciousness. Aragorn felt his forehead again. His
fever was dangerously high.

Butterbur looked down on Frodo, his fat face drawn as if he were the one
in terrible pain. "The other hobbits were pestering me, Strider. They are
threatening to break into every room until they find him."

Aragorn sighed. He dreaded this part more than anything. "I will talk to
them. They should know what happened before they see him. Frodo
shouldn't have to tell them. Where are they, Butterbur?"

"Five doors down. I'll wait here with Frodo."

"I will be brief. I cannot leave Frodo for long. While I'm gone, please
wipe his face down with cool water. That will help bring the fever down."

***

The three hobbits recoiled when Aragorn knocked and then pushed open
their door.

"Who are you?" a portly hobbit with golden hair asked.

"Sam," A smaller hobbit with brown curly hair said. "I don't think you
should--"

"I'm sorry to frighten you, gentlemen, but I need to talk to you about
Frodo."

"Where is he?" Sam yelled, jumping forward. "What have you done to
him?"

Aragorn felt some disquiet at the sight of the three fierce hobbits. If one
injured hobbit could do as much damage to him as Frodo had, imagine
what three of his very worried companions could do. "I'm a friend of
Gandalf's, and--"

"Where is Gandalf?" the small one with the brown curly hair piped up. His
eyes were curious, no longer frightened. Aragorn inwardly groaned. The
hobbit had trusted far too quickly.

"Shhh, Pip," Sam said. He turned a furious glare on Aragorn. "You take
me to Mr. Frodo right now or there's going to be trouble, see!"

"Gandalf has been delayed," Aragorn said. "I must return to Frodo as he is
very ill, but--"

"Ill?" all three hobbits cried out.

"Where is he?" Sam demanded. "I won't listen to another word until you
take me to him!"

Aragorn was weary; he had had little sleep since he realized Frodo had
been taken by Oron. On one hand, he was glad that Sam did not so easily
trust, but Aragorn had no time to deal with a new round of suspicious
hobbits.

He yanked his sword from his sheath and faced the hobbits. His gray eyes
gleamed with menace. "Sit down and stay quiet!"

Sam stared at him, his mouth hanging open. The other two hobbits sat
quickly on the edge of one of the beds, clutching each other. They pulled
Sam down beside them. Six huge eyes stared up at him in frightened
silence.

"Merry--" the small one that Sam had called Pippin said.

"There," Aragorn said, sitting across from them on a stool. "That's better.
Haste is needed. Frodo is very ill, and I must get back to him. He is not
ready to see you yet. Something really terrible has happened to him. I
want to tell you about it, but it's going to be very difficult to hear."

"Terrible?" Merry asked in a small voice. Fear was written all over his
face. "What?"

Sam looked at him appealingly. "What happened?"

"Frodo was abducted by a very bad man." Aragorn knew he was speaking
to these adult hobbits as if they were children, but the Shire folk were very
sheltered. They may not even know what rape is. He did not know how he
was going to tell them.

"Did the man hurt him?" Merry asked, again in a small voice. The fear in
his voice made it clear to Aragorn that perhaps these Shire folk were not
so naive.

"Yes," Aragorn said. His throat caught. He so hated to be the one to bear
this news to Frodo's dearest friends. It was best that he be blunt and let the
hobbits ask questions if they needed to. "He's been raped quite brutally."

The hobbits paled. Sam gave a cry and covered his eyes. "Mr. Frodo, Mr.
Frodo! Oh, dear, Mr. Frodo!"

Pippin looked confused. "Rape--but how?"

"He's also been beaten quite badly," Aragorn continued.

"What a horrible, brutal man!" Pippin said.

"Oh, dear," Merry said, his throat catching. "Please can we see him? He
needs his friends! He's all alone here in this horrible village--"

Aragorn shook his head and sighed. "He's badly traumatized. Right now,
he is deeply ashamed to be seen by his friends. He does not want to see
you."

"Not want to...?" Sam said in a hoarse voice. Tears ran down his face. "Of
course he wants to see us! He can't be alone without his Sam! You must
let us see him."

Aragorn shook his head firmly. "I am sorry, but I must respect his wishes.
He barely trusts me as it is. I think the best thing for Frodo right now is to
have some time to get used to the fact that his dear friends are near.
Believe me, he is comforted that you are near. You must be patient."

The hobbits clutched each other and wept.

"He will live?" Merry finally managed. He looked at Aragorn with such
openness that it nearly broke him inside. These hobbits, despite what
Aragorn had just told them about what had happened to Frodo, were
already ready to trust him.

Aragorn looked at the ceiling, debating how much to tell the hobbits of
Frodo's dire condition. He decided to be as positive as he could. "With
proper care, he will fully recover."

***



Frodo lay perfectly still. If he kept his eyes squeezed shut, perhaps the
men would believe him to be asleep. He didn't hear voices, though he
could hear a man's heavy breathing. It could not be Strider. Strider moved
with stealthy grace.

Frodo's eyes burned. His skin burned. Though he did not move, dizziness
washed over him. He clutched the sides of the bed, certain he would fall
off into a tilting abyss. He was so sick. It would be better if he died. He
was alone. Utterly alone. He should never have believed Strider and
Butterbur when they had claimed that his friends had arrived. It was just
one more ploy to throw him off guard. Frodo choked back tears. He did
not know why Strider's cruelty hurt him so. He desperately longed to trust
him. He wanted to lie limp in those strong arms and allow Strider to
comfort him.

But something about his help was wrong. Why, for example, was
Butterbur feigning kindness? Frodo had taken a room and then he had not
paid for it. Oron had said that Butterbur was a stickler. He didn't let
anyone get away with not paying. There had to be an underhanded reason
for his present kindness.

The answer crashed over him like a bucket of cold water, and he could not
help but let out a whimper. He opened his eyes. Strider was gone, but
Butterbur was sitting beside his bed, a concerned look on his flushed face.
Frodo shrank from him.

"It's all right," Butterbur said. "I've wiped you off with cool water. You
got a nasty fever."

Frodo stared at Butterbur, his burning eyes wide with terror. He was no
mere innkeeper. His inn acted as a brothel, and Butterbur and Strider had
successfully trapped him here. Of course it made sense that they would
want him to heal as soon as possible so that he could be of service.

He had to escape, especially while Strider was gone.

"Please, Butterbur," he said in as sweet a voice as possible. "Could I have
some tea please?"

Butterbur jumped up. "Oh, certainly, little master. I'll be right back. Then
I'll sponge you down again--see?"

As soon as he was out the door, Frodo rolled over until he fell out of the
bed. Pulling himself to his feet was going to hurt. He hoped his aching
muscles would cooperate. He struggled to his feet, but his leg muscles
were weak and trembling. He was mostly already dressed. He found his
vest with the Ring still inside the pocket, but he had no idea where his
cloak or jacket were. He would have to go without. He would leave the
inn, find where the hobbits lived, and find a nice hobbit hole. There he
would beg for help and rest for a few days. He would have them contact
the law to check out the inn, just in the rare case that Strider had not been
lying about his friends being there. If his friends actually were in the inn,
then they would be in danger.

Once again, he wished more than anything that he could trust Strider.
There was something almost familiar--something that reminded him of
Bilbo or Gandalf--beneath the rough ranger's exterior. There was
something tender in his callused hands. Frodo could not deny that the
ranger had wept real tears after Frodo's disgusting offer. But was that not
how men lured hobbits? They knew that hobbits were much more openly
emotional. Strider may have realized that the way to gain Frodo's trust was
to cry in front of him.

He shivered violently. A buzzing filled his ears. He swayed on his feet.
Despite the soothing herbs Strider had used on his bottom, walking
aggravated the pain. He bit the insides of his cheeks. He had to endure the
pain until he got to a safe place. He knew he was very feverish. He had
heard Strider say something about an infection. He had no time to
contemplate.

He grabbed his bag and staggered to the door. The pain ripped over his
backside and abdomen. Sweat broke out on his face, and he collapsed to
his knees. He would never make it. He had to. This was his chance. His
muscles ached from the fever that burned his skin and made his vision
waver.

He grabbed the side of the door and pulled himself to his feet. He lurched
out the door and down the empty hallway, praying not to run into anyone.
He heard nothing. He padded as quietly as he could on his hobbit feet. He
reached a wood staircase.

A new pain seized his abdomen, nearly causing him to pitch down the
stairs head first. His knees collapsed, and he grabbed the railing. He did
not have enough strength in his arms to hold his weight. He slid the
remainder of the way down the stairs on his knees. Each bump jarred his
injuries. Tears sprang to his eyes. He stifled a pain-filled sob. At the
bottom of the stairs, he covered his face with his hands and writhed. He
bit his arm to keep from sobbing aloud. He had never been in so much
pain in his life. His arms trembled and sweat broke over his face. He could
not be caught here. He had to make it out the door. He forced himself to
his feet again.

He made it down the stairs. He had reached the door. He pushed on it, a
new sob of gratefulness filling him. The door stuck. He pushed again.
Nothing. He was locked in. Fury overtook him. He flung his battered
body against the door, ignoring the shooting pains in his ribs. How could
he have not guessed that they would lock him in? All this effort and pain
for nothing. He fell to his knees again. Strider and Butterbur would find
him sobbing in pain and desperation. This time they wouldn't care about
healing him. They would beat him, and then they would each take a turn
with him.

He gave the door one more mighty push--and it opened! He nearly fell out
the door. He had made it. He looked at the star-filled sky, gasping in
relief. He was free. He only wished he had his cloak. His aching muscles
trembled in the new chill. He forced his legs to move. He had to find the
hobbits.

He shuddered. Any of Oron's friends could be around, the same men who
had wanted a turn with Oron's halfling treasure. Frodo swallowed the
lump in his throat. If that happened, he would die. His heart would simply
stop and they would be violating a broken corpse.

He had only walked a few feet, when his leg muscles simply gave out.
Blackness seeped in front of his eyes. A grinding nausea erupted from his
abdomen.

"No, no," Frodo groaned, weakly beating the ground. "Not here. Not
here." He was doomed to die among strange men who wanted to harm
him. He could not move any more. His muscles were heavy and would
not obey his commands to move. He looked up. A group of gritty men
walked in his direction, though they had not noticed him yet.

Everything tilted, and the men, the inn, and the whole village faded.

***

Aragorn left the three hobbits with firm instructions not to leave their
room. "Bree's not been safe for hobbits for some time now. Frodo doesn't
need any of you getting into trouble. Just stay put and I'll hopefully be
back to get you soon."

He walked down the corridor in the direction of Frodo's room, and on the
way, he met Butterbur carrying a steaming pot of tea.

"You left him alone?" Aragorn demanded. His heart battered. Frodo
should not be left alone for a minute, not in his state.

"He asked for tea, Strider. I didn't know how long you'd be."

Aragorn pushed past him and into the room. His skin felt cold. Frodo was
gone. His bag was gone. Aragorn's throat dried, and his limbs trembled.
Where had the hobbit gone? He could not have gone far--not with the
extent of his injuries.

"Oh, no," Aragorn said. "I'm going to search the streets right now. He
can't get far."

His heart sank until it became a heavy weight in his stomach. Frodo
wouldn't make it far. If he collapsed far from help, he would die.
Aragorn's rage at Oron bubbled over. The man had taken this innocent
hobbit and brutalized him. Frodo would never be the same again. His
physical injuries would heal, but the innocence had been ripped from him.
He would be fearful and angry toward men the rest of his life. Again and
again, he thought about stabbing Oron in the gut. He tried to gain
satisfaction from the pain and shock that had gone over the warrior's face
before he had died. But he got no satisfaction. Oron should have suffered
more. He should have had to beg for a mercy that never came, just as he
had made Frodo do.

Aragorn clenched his fists. He would not tell the other hobbits that Frodo
was gone. Not until he had made a thorough search of the area. And if any
other man dared lay a hand on Frodo, Aragorn would not be as nice as he
had been to Oron. Oh no. He would pay with more than his life. He would
pay with all he had to give.

***


Aragorn's heart beat in a raw panic. He had not seen Frodo in any of the
dark corridors of the inn. He checked briefly in the Common Room, but
he had little hope. Sure enough--Frodo was not there. He rushed out the
front door, looking back and forth over the dark street. He saw nothing.

Frodo wouldn't have walked out the front door. Aragorn was almost
certain he would not have gone anywhere near the Common Room, which
was full of so many strange men. Frodo in his injured, frightened state
would have slipped out a back entrance. Aragorn's heart sank. Frodo
might have begged for help from the first passerby he saw. Even if the
man had no intention of doing Frodo harm, he would want to take him
somewhere to treat his injuries, and then it would be difficult if not
impossible for Aragorn to find him.

Aragorn shook his head. Frodo would not voluntarily put himself into the
hands of any man. He would try to make his way to other hobbits. He did
not trust men. But would he have any idea where to go to find hobbits?
Aragorn turned the corner into the alley behind the inn. A group of men
were bent over something. Aragorn's heart sped, rattling in his ears. He
ran toward them, brandishing his sword. As he neared, he could hear one
of the men say, "Little fool should've stayed out of this neighborhood."

"Move away!" Aragorn shouted. The men started in surprise. One of
them carried a limp Frodo in his arms. Aragorn

"Give me the halfling," Aragorn said. The men not holding Frodo
recoiled.

"He is badly hurt," the man holding Frodo said. "Who are you?"

"I am his friend and he has wandered from his sickbed in delirium."
Aragorn took Frodo away from the man with one arm while still holding
his sword in the other.

"Looks like he's been beaten," the man said, looking at Aragorn in open
suspicion. "Maybe you had something to do with it."

Aragorn did not answer. He peered at Frodo's pale face, listening for
breath. It was there, though faint. There was a clammy sheen of sweat over
his face. Aragorn did not now think that these men, gritty as they
appeared, had intended to harm Frodo. Still, Aragorn wished to get Frodo
away from them before he regained consciousness. Frodo would be
terrified to be surrounded by four men in the alley behind the inn.

"Can we be of help?" one of the men asked in a soft voice.

"No," Aragorn said brusquely. "It is best I get him back to the room
immediately. He is frightened of men."

"With good reason it seems. I would bet my ale it wasn't a hobbit that did
that to his face."

"Indeed it was not," Aragorn said. He looked at the man, his expression
softening at the concern he saw in the stranger's eyes. "If you want to be of
help, keep your eyes open and try to stop the next attack on a hobbit in this
area."

Aragorn carried Frodo back into the inn, up the same flight of stairs that
Frodo had fallen down, and to the room. Butterbur was not there. Feeling
responsible, he had probably gone on his own search of the building.

Aragorn placed Frodo back on the bed. Immediately he unbuttoned the
hobbit's shirt. His soft skin was still hot, but there was a pale clammy
quality to his face that was disturbing. His heart rate was rapid and weak.
Aragorn propped Frodo's feet under a pillow to raise them above heart
level.

Frodo's eyes moved under his lids, and he let out a weak groan. Aragorn
glanced down at his stomach with dismay. The bruising was extensive,
where Oron had kicked him so many times. But now he saw that it was
pink and distended over his abdomen. Aragorn had seen injuries like that
in battle, and it almost always indicated dangerous internal bleeding.

"Oh, Frodo," he whispered to himself in dismay. There was very little that
he could do in this inn. In Rivendell, he would be able to easily heal him
of these injuries. Here he could not rely on Elven skills and magic.

Frodo probably would not survive. Hot tears filled Aragorn's eyes. His
chest filled with grief that he had met Frodo under these horrific
circumstances. Bilbo had told him so many stories about Frodo--how
Frodo would climb up trees to escape Hobbiton social obligations, reading
unnoticed for hours on end, how Frodo had sat beside Bilbo's bed for days
once while he was ill with pneumonia reading to him in butchered
Quenya, how Frodo always begged to know everything about the outside
world, how Frodo made the best pound cakes in the Shire. But most of all,
Aragorn thought about the picture where Frodo's smile had been so
carefree and trusting, and that image was like a dart in his heart.

Aragorn realized he had been staring at Frodo for some time, wasting
precious healing time.

He was going to have to cut into him, risky even under the most ideal of
circumstances and very dangerous in the circumstances under which he
would need to work. He would need help.

He decided to fetch Frodo's friends. Frodo was most likely not going to
make it, and at least they should be reunited for a short time. Frodo was so
weakened that he would not protest their presence. Aragorn suspected that
Frodo had fled the inn, truly believing that Butterbur and Aragorn had
been lying about his friends having arrived.

***

Frodo wandered through a maze of dark, narrow streets. He was lost. He
did not recognize anything. He turned, fully intending to go back to the
inn in defeat. But now he could not even find the inn. A chilling mist
floated in the streets.

"Frodo." A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned around with a
gasp. Oron stood above him, grinning maniacally. His tunic was stained
with blood.

"You're dead! You were supposed to be dead!" Frodo yelled, backing up
in terror. Nobody had heard him. The streets were empty.

"My sweet, I could not bear to be away from you. I want you again. I want
to taste your flesh. There's nothing like a tight halfling for pleasure, is
there? I want us to live together forever."

Only then did Frodo notice that Oron was wearing the Ring on his index
finger. It emitted a glow that bathed his cold hand in golden warmth.

"No, no," Frodo tried to back away, but Oron grabbed him.

"You cannot escape, halfling! I have the Ring and now I command the sun
and the moon." He ripped Frodo's shirt off. "I will have you."

"Help me!" Frodo screamed, but Oron knocked him down with a violent
blow across the face. The Ring cut into his nose.

Oron flipped him onto his stomach. Frodo cringed, waiting for the
inevitable, letting out short, painful gasps. He felt his breeches ripped
down. The throbbing pain in his backside could surely not absorb more
abuse.

Pippin and Merry wept in the background. The dark street faded. He felt
cool sheets on his burning skin.

"No, Oron, no!" Frodo cried.

"He's going to die?" he heard Pippin's voice.

Strider's voice was low in response. "He is dreaming. Now please hand
me the scissors. They should be sterile now. Careful not to touch the
edges."

Frodo was vaguely aware of lying in a bed. He felt debilitating relief at
the sound of Strider's voice. With Strider around, Oron could not harm
him. Oron was gone. He had been speared by Strider. Frodo caught a brief
glimpse of Sam's face above him. Could it be true? He could no longer
trust his senses.

"Sam," he tried to say, but another name erupted from his throat.

"I am here," Strider said with a gentle caress on his cheek. Frodo heard
him say in a nearly inaudible voice, "It doesn't look good, but I will do
everything in my power to heal him. He's put up a very brave fight."

"Thank goodness you got to him!" Merry said, his voice tight with agony.
Small hands grasped Frodo's cold hand. It was real. A dream would not
have such vivid sensory details. His friends had found him. He was not on
a dark street being raped by Oron again. The Ring!

"...still have it?" Frodo managed to whisper. He still could not see
anything. He couldn't keep his eyes open long enough. The bed tilted
again, trying to knock him into the darkness.

"It?" Merry asked in puzzlement.

"You know what he means," Sam said. There was silence as the hobbits
searched through Frodo's clothing. Frodo did not know whether Strider
was still there. The man did not seem so threatening while his hobbit
friends were with him. Strider was curt and frightening, but everything he
had done to Frodo so far had made him feel better. Sam was suspicious of
everyone, but he seemed to obey everything Strider told him to do. Sam
would not comply with anyone that he thought was out to harm Frodo.

"Yes, you silly goose," Merry said. "You still have it. And you have us.
You'll not get rid of us so easily again."

Frodo sighed in relief. He felt a gentle kiss on his forehead before he
slipped into more darkness.

***


Aragorn turned to the frightened hobbits.

“Now I’m only going to say this once. I need clear heads and quick hands.
Frodo’s life is in serious danger. I don’t want to lose him any more than
you do. That is why I am going to give you commands and you will need
to obey quickly and without question. Is this clear?”

Three heads nodded. A tear trickled from Sam’s eye. “What can we do to
help?”

Aragorn’s face softened. He took out his leather medical kit from his
pack. The kit had served him well in many battles.

“Merry and Pippin, help Butterbur fetch us some more boiling water and
some clean towels. Sam, I will need you to sit beside Frodo and monitor
his pulse. Do you know how to do that?”

Sam shook his head, trying to remain cool but shaken by Frodo’s deathly
cold skin.

Aragorn placed Sam’s finger on Frodo’s wrist. “Do you feel a beat?”

Sam shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back tears.
“No, no. Is he dead, Strider? Is he dead?”

“Sam.” Aragorn put his hand under Sam’s chin. “I need you to stay calm.”
He wrapped his fingers around Sam’s wrist. He moved Sam’s finger to
various points on Frodo’s wrist. “His pulse is faint because he’s in shock,
but you should still be able to feel it.”

Sam nodded with some relief. “I feel something.”

“Your job is to inform me if it suddenly increases or decreases
dramatically.”

Sam nodded. Merry and Pippin returned with Butterbur. They set the
boiling water on the nightstand beside Frodo. The towels Aragorn put at
the side of Frodo’s head. Aragorn took his knife, the special silver knife
Elrond had given him as a gift many years ago, and held it in the fire to
kill any germs that may have gotten on it. He also stuck his long needle
into the fire. He slipped a long strand of horsehair through its eye. He last
disinfected a pair of scissors.

Aragorn shook his head. “I can’t imagine his pain and terror if he wakes
while I am cutting. We need to be prepared for it. I’ll need Merry and
Pippin to secure his legs. Butterbur, if you would hold his shoulders down,
that would make me feel better about this. I can’t have him struggling
while I have the knife on him.”

Aragorn undressed Frodo from the waist up. He wiped his abdomen with
athelas and boiling water. He put towels on either side of his abdomen.
He prayed Frodo would not wake. He still had some of the sleeping herb
with him, but he did not want to give him anything that might affect his
already weak heart rate.

“How’s his pulse, Samwise?”

Sam nodded. “It’s still here.”

Aragorn smiled at him. The hobbits were trying so hard to be brave. Such
amazing creatures they were! His heart twisted when he looked down on
Frodo’s battered pale face. Frodo had called to him before he had lost
consciousness. On some level, Frodo no longer hated him. Aragorn was
determined not to lose him. He placed the towels on either side of his bare
abdomen.

Aragorn held the knife firmly. He was skilled. He had performed this
surgery a number of times. Still, about half of his patients had died of
shock, another quarter had died because the injuries were too severe to
save with surgery. Which meant only a quarter had survived. But a quarter
remained alive that would not have survived had the surgery not been
done. He had to accept that Frodo was too weak to withstand this surgery.
He had to accept that he had a three-quarters chance of dying. The idea
wrenched his heart. He could not allow it to happen. Somehow Frodo had
to live.

Aragorn sliced into Frodo’s abdomen. The towels caught the daunting
trickle of blood.

“He’s bleeding so much,” Pippin said, panicked. “You’re hurting him!”

“Not another word,” Aragorn said in a brusque voice. “Or you will have to
leave the room.”

Pippin bowed his head in frightened shame, trying to hide his tears. Merry
reached his hand to his shoulder. “Shh, Pippin. He’s doing his best to help
Frodo.”

“I’m sorry,” Pippin said. Aragorn ignored him. Later there would be time
to comfort Frodo’s friends. Aragorn parted the skin. Inside the mass of
blood, he could see the source of the problem. The organ shaped like a
thick bent raindrop was ripped toward the front. Aragorn stuck his needle
in it and began to suture.

Frodo’s eyes fluttered under his lids. He let out a groan. Aragorn’s heart
lurched. Frodo was waking, and Aragorn feared the pain might kill him.

“Mr. Strider, his heart rate’s going awfully fast.”

Frodo’s eyes flew open. He gasped as if he were choking. He glimpsed
the blood-soaked towels and arched his back in panic.

“Aggg,” he gasped, staring at Aragorn with eyes filled with pain. His chin
shook. His mouth opened as the pain fully overtook him. Aragorn lifted
his free hand and struck Frodo hard across the face. Frodo’s eyes rolled
up into his sockets and he went limp again. Aragorn released his breath.
He hoped he had not hit him too hard. He was familiar with how hard he
had to hit to knock a man out, but with hobbits he had to be careful about
using too much force.

“Why’d you do that?” Sam cried out, still holding his finger on Frodo’s
pulse.

“I can’t give him anything to knock him out. You don’t want him in pain,
do you?”

“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. New tears oozed from his eyes. “Oh,
Mr. Frodo, I can’t bear to see you like this!”

Aragorn returned to the task at hand. The wound to be sutured was
actually quite small, though it had been leaking blood at an alarming rate
since Oron had kicked him so hard. Frodo’s struggles against Aragorn
and his attempt to escape had only aggravated the bleeding until he had
nearly bled out.

“He’s losing so much blood,” Merry said quietly. Aragorn looked down.
The towels were both soaked. He could do nothing about that now.
Aragorn drew another piece of horsehair through his needle. Now he
would suture the outside wound. So far so good. Frodo had not died from
the shock or loss of blood yet.

Suturing the outside wound took much longer. They would have to be so
careful of infection. As neat as Butterbur tried to keep his inn, this was not
a pristine healing house. Sam’s hand trembled over Frodo’s wrist.
Aragorn glanced at him. His wet eyes were full of hope. Frodo was
nearly stitched up and he hadn’t died yet. Merry and Pippin had been
silent.

“He’s still alive,” Sam said.

“Yes,” Aragorn said. “That is a good sign. But he’s not out of the woods
yet.”

Frodo’s nose was leaking blood from Aragorn’s blow. Aragorn finished
the last of his suturing. He wiped Frodo’s abdomen clean of blood. He
threw the bloody towels to the floor.

“You can release him now,” he said to the others in the room.

“You did it,” Sam gasped, his eyes shining with gratitude. “You really did
it. I could never repay you enough, Mr. Strider.”

Aragorn sank into the chair beside the bed. Now that he was finished, his
limbs trembled with fatigue. He had to sleep. He hadn’t slept in months, it
seemed. Frodo’s friends were here. He didn’t need to be in a state of
constant vigilance.

“I will take just a small rest,” Aragorn said to the hobbits. “Wake me
immediately if something goes wrong.”

Butterbur stepped from the bed, trembling. He turned to the hobbits.
“Would you want something fresh to eat?”

“Yes please,” Pippin said. He glanced at Frodo’s slowly rising and falling
chest with relief. “I am hungry all the sudden.”

“Poor Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, stroking Frodo’s hand. “He’s been through
so much.”

“Let him sleep,” Merry said. “I imagine he’ll be in quite some pain when
he awakens.”

“Right you are,” Sam said, pulling away from him. “And I’m embarrassed
to say it with Mr. Frodo’s suffering so much, but I could use something to
eat.”

Aragorn smiled to himself. He hoped that he would soon see Frodo with
cheeks flushed with enjoyment, eating food as voraciously as hobbits
should. It was the last thought he had before he slipped into a heavy sleep.

***

Frodo could not recall a time when he had faced such relentless pain.
Thousands of hot pokers jabbed his abdomen from both inside and out.
His backside throbbed with new vengeance. His jaw smarted as if Oron
had delivered him a few good slaps while he had been sleeping.

And he had never felt such weakness. He could not move his limbs. Yet
now he could not sleep. He did not want to. His dreams had been restless
and unpleasant. He had been in a variety of places—once in Bag End,
another time in Buckland, another time in the streets of Bree. Always
Oron had appeared, his tunic caked with dry blood, his eyes gleaming with
wicked glee. Frodo always ran, but the large warrior always caught him
around the torso and forced him down on a filthy floor or ground.
Sometimes Frodo mercifully woke before the enormous burning brand
was jammed into his backside. Other times he suffered through it again
and again.

He opened his eyes with a groan. He was in a simple room, vaguely
familiar. The sun peeked in through the drawn drapes and a splash of
sunlight marred the dark wooden floor. A weak fire burned in the
fireplace. It seemed a homey, friendly place.

His heart lurched. Strider sat in a chair beside the bed. His eyes were
closed, but they opened when Frodo stirred.

Strider was still here.

The last Frodo remembered, he had been in the dark street, desperate to
escape Strider—who had deceived him with his kindness and efficient
care--and to find out where the hobbits of Bree lived. He had thought at
one point in his dark dreams that he had heard the voices of his friends
intermingled with Strider’s stern voice, but surely he had dreamed it all.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out of his throat.

He shifted position, but a flare of agony hit his stomach. He cautiously
reached under the coverlet.

“Do not touch it, Frodo,” Strider said quietly. “The wound is freshly
sutured.”

Frodo remembered another dream in which Strider had hit him in anger.
He touched his face, where a fresh bruise had developed. Perhaps it hadn’t
been a dream. He couldn’t remember what he had done to deserve such a
hard slap, but men grew violent over the oddest things, as he had learned
from Oron. It was best not to question them.

“I am very sorry I had to hurt you,” Strider said. “I couldn’t have you
awake during the procedure.”

“Procedure?”

“Do you remember anything?”

“I dreamed my friends were here.” Frodo felt his chin tremble. “I wish so
much I could see them.”

When first Butterbur had announced the arrival of the other hobbits, Frodo
had not wanted them to see him in his state. Now he wished more than
ever that he could see their sweet, jolly faces. They could penetrate the
darkness in his heart. They could make him laugh. No. He would never
laugh again. He shuddered, feeling Oron’s arms around him again.

“Your friends are here,” Strider said. “I sent them downstairs to eat.
They’ll be back—“

At that moment, the door burst open. Frodo gasped in joy as Merry, Pippin
and Sam rushed to him. He smiled for the first time since he had left his
friends.

“I knew he would wake while we were down there eating!” Sam cried.
“And if Mr. Pippin hadn’t insisted on a third helping of supper…”

“Who ordered a third ale?” Pippin said, slapping Sam’s arm in accusation.

“Easy,” Strider said. “Don’t jostle the bed.”

Sam grabbed Frodo’s hand and kissed it. “How do you feel, Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo turned to Strider with tears of gratitude in his eyes and then back to
Sam. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re really here. I thought…I
thought he was lying to me. I—“

“Mr. Strider did a fine job,” Sam said. “You would have been lost without
him. He cut you open and sewed you up like you were a pillow losing its
stuffing, if you get my meaning. And such tenderness I’ve never seen.
He’s a miracle, Mr. Frodo. A real miracle.”

Pippin puffed up with self-importance. “And I am to give you this,
Cousin. Butterbur found a letter addressed to you from Gandalf that he has
neglected to give you. Poor Mr. Butterbur is in quite a state, thinking all
your troubles might have been prevented if he had given it to you
immediately.”

“Let me have it!” Frodo said. “From Gandalf? Where was he? Why didn’t
he meet me?”

Pippin handed him the letter, and Frodo tore it open with weak, trembling
hands. He read in Gandalf’s sprawling writing about him possibly being
delayed, about how Frodo should have left the Shire months ago. And
then—Frodo’s heart sped--how he could trust a man called Strider. Frodo
read the poem at the bottom of the letter.

“All that is gold does not glitter,” Frodo murmured. He looked at Strider.
“You are a friend!” Strider chuckled modestly. There was no gleam of
deceit in his eyes. But now the thought did not comfort Frodo. He took in
cold, rapid breaths as he realized how viciously he had fought against
Strider. Frodo saw the kindness in his gaze, and his heart sank with shame
until it formed a painful ache in his chest.

“Are you in pain?” Strider asked, tensing. ”We shouldn’t have allowed
you this excitement so soon—“

“No, no,” Frodo said, his throat filling with an urge to weep. “But—I’ve
treated you abominably!”

“You have a good punch, Frodo,” Pippin said, looking at the bruise on
Strider’s face in admiration. “I never would have guessed from a frail
hobbit like yourself—“

“Don’t joke about it!” Frodo said fiercely. Pippin shrank back, clearly
ashamed, which made Frodo feel worse. He was alienating the very
friends he had longed for.

“I’m sorry, Pippin,” Frodo whispered.

Strider put his strong hand on Frodo’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I
would have been worried if you had passively accepted my help after what
you went through. I do not blame you for fighting me.”

“No, no,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I…you’re a good man. A good
man to tolerate me after--How could I have fought you so bitterly but not
fought Oron enough?”

His friends grew quiet. They had not expected Frodo to be so open about
his attack. Frodo turned to them with tears in his eyes. “I know Strider
told you what happened to me. I’m too weak to keep it inside right now.
If after what I say, I understand if you don’t want to go with me anymore,
if you want to go home. I would not hold it against you.”

“We know,” Merry said quietly, squeezing Frodo’s hand. His chin
trembled. Pippin looked miserably down at his hands. Sam’s teary eyes
hardened with rage. “We would never leave you. And we won’t let you
leave us again.”

Frodo’s voice cracked with fury and pain. “I didn’t fight him hard
enough. I should have kicked him and bit him, like I did to you, Strider—
you, who least deserved it! But he easily overcame me and I didn’t do
enough. I know I couldn’t have won against him, but at least I could have
made it harder for him!”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said in a strangled voice.

“Let’s take this back to reality, Frodo,” Strider said dryly. “You fought
me off with good skill. I still have the bruises to prove it. But I didn’t
want to hurt you. If you had fought Oron with as much vehemence, he
may have killed you—or at least hurt you a lot worse than he did.”

“He couldn’t do worse,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “He couldn’t hurt
me worse. I wish…I wish he had killed me.” He had gotten a good kick
into Oron, and afterward, when Oron had grabbed him for the last time,
Oron had vowed to slit his throat. If Strider hadn’t come at that time, he
would be dead. Death would have been far preferable to this pulsating
pain in his heart and body.

“No!” Pippin cried out. Sam shook his head, his lips pursed in fury that
anyone had hurt his Mr. Frodo this badly. He could not seem to speak.

“Never say that,” Merry said, rubbing Frodo’s hand between his two
hands. “We need you too much.”

“I feel so dirty,” Frodo said. Speaking aloud of his agony had somewhat
eased the pit in his chest. “I can still smell the filth he spread on me, and I
feel like it still belongs on me. I can never go back to the Shire because it
is pure and peaceful. My very presence will defile it.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. He gently pushed Merry out of the way and took
Frodo’s hand in a firm grip. “You must stop saying such terrible things!
You could never defile your Shire. I don’t care what that brute’s done to
you, you’re the purest--” He stopped, obviously embarrassed by what he
was about to say. “No, you’ll never be dirty to me, Mr. Frodo,” he quickly
finished.

Strider got up from his chair and put a kettle on the fire. “I’m going to
make you some tea that will help relax you.”

“I don’t need to relax,” Frodo said. His abdomen throbbed furiously from
his labored breathing. A few tears ran out of his eyes and down his
cheeks. “Don’t any of you understand? I can never go back to the Shire.
I’m used and filthy. No lass will marry me. Even if…even if I wished to
partake in such…such…what Oron…”

“Frodo,” Strider said quietly, gently catching his soft cheeks in his big
hands. “You will cause your wounds to reopen. Please--”

Frodo continued as if Strider hadn’t spoken. “…with a lad instead of a
lass, I’m surely damaged beyond repair.”

Strider flushed and looked away. Frodo felt immediately ashamed. He
had said too much. Strider no doubt had been reminded of the shameless
way Frodo had offered himself to him. At the thought, Frodo began to
weep. He covered his face and turned his head away from his friends.

“Sam,” Strider said quietly. “Please prepare the tea. I have the herbs on the
small table by the fireplace.” He turned back to Frodo. “Frodo, I know
you’re hurting. I want to make it clear that nobody here thinks you are
dirty or that you didn’t fight hard enough. You will need to accept that
Oron was the filthy one. You did everything you could.”

“I went willingly to his cottage,” Frodo protested in a hoarse voice. “He
did not force me. I willingly lay in his bed. His bed, which stank of sweat
and…and I can’t bear the thought of it! Of course he must have thought it
was okay—I put myself in that position--“

“Frodo,” Merry added quietly. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what
happened from beginning to end. Why don’t you let us be the judge of
whether you fought hard enough?”

Frodo looked at his friends through blurry eyes. None of them had turned
away. None of them had left the room in disgust. Even Strider watched
him with such compassion.

“Here, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, lifting a steaming mug of tea to Frodo’s lips.
“I’ll help you drink this.”

Frodo sighed. He took several sips of the tea. He didn’t deserve such
compassion from his friends. He was a filthy halfling who had gone
willingly with the large warrior—

He had to stop such thinking! Perhaps his friends were right. Had he really
had a choice in the matter? He had been so small and Oron so strong and
commanding. He felt a surge of self-loathing at being a hobbit and feeling
so defenseless in a world of men.

“Yes,” he said quietly. His eyelids felt heavy. “I will tell you. But not
now. I am very tired.”

“Yes, Frodo must rest,” Strider said. “When he next wakes, I will change
the dressing on his wound. You other hobbits may stay, but you must be
quiet. I want him to sleep undisturbed.”

Frodo thought that he might actually sleep well. He felt safe for the first
time since arriving in Bree. He had opened his heart, told his deepest
shame to his friends—and they had stayed. He would tell them everything
when he woke. Then they could make a final judgment of him. His friends
could decide whether he was worth all the trouble they had gone to in
following him to Bree. And Strider could decide whether he was worth
saving. As Frodo slipped into sleep, he found himself hoping that Strider
still found him worthy. Frodo smiled, remembering the pleasing sensation
of Strider’s hands on his face.


***


The other hobbits had retired to their room to sleep. Sam had gone
reluctantly, and only with the promise from Aragorn that if he got sleepy
that he would get Sam to watch over Frodo. Aragorn was far from sleep.
There was an ominous pit in his stomach and an extra chill to the air.
Years of being a ranger in the wild had taught him to trust his intuition.
He kept a sharp eye out the window for shadows.

His eyes returned to the small figure under the blanket. Frodo’s wan face
looked peaceful for the first time since Aragorn had rescued him from
Oron’s cottage. He hoped that Frodo’s confession and the subsequent
support of his friends had allowed him some peace. That Frodo would
entertain the thought that he could somehow defile the Shire was
heartbreaking. Aragorn strove to remember as much about hobbit culture
as he could. They were a modest people; they generally did not discuss
what went on in the bedroom. To be a victim of such a heinous crime
might put him apart from the community. Yet--

Frodo had casually mentioned possible relations with a lad, and his friends
had barely reacted. Looking at Frodo’s face, sweet in the peacefulness of
sleep, his heart sped a little.

Aragorn had to free his mind from such thoughts.

Frodo might have begun to trust him, but he was a long way from the
possibility of engaging in a relationship with a human. And even in the
best case scenario, if Frodo gave him his heart, Aragorn could never
expect to have the kind of physical intimacy with him that he might have
if Oron hadn’t assaulted him. At the least, it would be a long recovery—
both physically and emotionally. In a man and hobbit coupling, and
Aragorn had never known any in his lifetime, the size difference was so
great that the man would have to move with tender care and utmost
gentleness to avoid harming his smaller partner. But Oron had acted out
of power and rage. Aragorn’s stomach clenched as he remembered seeing
the warrior atop Frodo’s crumpled form, thrusting with all his strength,
even after the pain had rendered Frodo unconscious.

Frodo stirred in his sleep with a light groan. Aragorn tensed. He wanted
Frodo to rest as long as possible. Aragorn touched his forehead. The
hobbit’s skin still felt warm. Now that he had recovered from his near fatal
shock, his temperature had risen again. The infection on his backside
needed to be inspected again.

Frodo’s eyes opened. For a moment, they widened with fear, and
Aragorn’s heart sank. Then Frodo smiled. A rare serenity came over his
face.

“How do you feel?” Aragorn asked in a soft voice.

“Better,” Frodo said, yawning. He shifted, and winced. “Where are my
friends?”

“They’re down the hallway, resting.”

“What time is it?”

“It is nearly midnight. I trust you slept better this time?”

Frodo smiled sadly. “Yes.” He looked at Aragorn, his blue eyes wide and
grave. “I’m very sorry, Strider, if I’ve been a terrible bother to you.”

Aragorn placed his hand on Frodo’s cheek. He yearned to rub his rough
hand over the soft skin. “I would do anything to make certain you are
safe.”

Frodo closed his eyes and leaned into Aragorn’s hand. An expression of
contentment crossed over his features. Aragorn’s heart swelled that Frodo
might return his feelings. “Aragorn?” Frodo finally asked, opening his
eyes. “That’s your real name. May I call you that?”

“Yes, of course.”

Aragorn bent over him and kissed his forehead. After he finished, he
could not seem to pull back. He kissed Frodo’s forehead again. His heart
thudded painfully. Frodo had not pushed him away or gasped in fear.
Aragorn’s lips moved down and captured Frodo’s nose. This time he heard
a slight gasp. He forced himself to pull back, feeling a deep shame. He
was afraid to look at Frodo, to see the fear and distrust that must be there.
How could he betray such delicate trust right after it was given to him?

“I am sorry,” Aragorn said. He forced himself to look at Frodo.

Frodo’s smile was shy, but he did not look frightened or disgusted. “It’s
all right. You wish to kiss me. But please--not now. I…I’m not ready.”

Aragorn’s heart sped again, so fast now that he could barely breathe. “Oh,
no,” he whispered. “I would not. It is not the right time.”

Frodo squeezed his hand. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me.”

“Would you wish me to kiss you at a later time—or not at all?” Aragorn
asked, barely speaking above a whisper. He could barely breathe. He had
to accept that Frodo might close off any further possibility of a
relationship. And it would be understandable, given all he had endured.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” Aragorn asked. He wanted to make certain that he
understood what Frodo wanted. He reminded himself that earlier Frodo
had offered himself to him out of a desire to save himself from what he
perceived would be another rape.

“Your voice is kind,” Frodo said, blushing. “Yes, even when I was
frightened of you, there was something in your voice that made me pause.
And you didn’t blame me for…” His voice broke a little. “You didn’t turn
from me in disgust for any of it, even when I asked…when I offered
to…But right now I can’t…” His jaw trembled.

“That is enough for now,” Aragorn said. “I do not wish to cause you
further pain. Come, I will need to change the dressing on your wound.”

Frodo managed another smile. “Thank you,” he said.

A knock on the door made Aragorn jump to his feet. He had
compromised Frodo’s safety by indulging in a lust that would likely never
be brought to fruition. Drawing his sword, Aragorn threw open the door.
When he saw Butterbur on the other side, he sheathed his sword with a
large sigh of relief. He had let his guard down, but this time he had been
lucky.

Aragorn let Butterbur in the room. The fat man had tears in his eyes.
“How is Frodo?”

“I’m better, thank you,” Frodo said.

“Oh, you’re awake now, little one. Frodo, I am very sorry. I feel
dreadful,” Butterbur said. “I had that letter all along. If you’d read it right
away...”

“I’m not certain he would have avoided trouble,” Aragorn said quietly to
the innkeeper. “Those predators saw him the second he walked in your
door.”

“Strider, I came with disturbing news but I thought I’d better tell you right
away,” Butterbur said. He looked pale and shaken. “It seems that filth
Ferny and some of his friends were asking all around about Frodo.
Word’s out that Oron’s dead. Some of Oron’s friends’ve banded with
Ferny’s crowd. They’ve been talking to those fellows in black--”

Aragorn’s face was pale and grim.

“And,” Butterbur continued. “I heard them talking. Strider, they know
Frodo’s up here hurt and that he has something those fellows in black
want. They know he’s only got you and a few Shire hobbits with him.
They know you killed Oron. They’re planning an attack in the wee
hours—“

“Frodo,” Aragorn said, turning his grim expression to the hobbit. “We’re
going to have to leave the inn right away. We can’t stay here.”

Frodo’s face looked weary, his lips pale. Aragorn’s heart burned at the
idea of having to move him in his present health. Though he had been
worried about the Ringwraiths attacking Bree, he had hoped at least for a
few more days to allow Frodo to recover in a real bed.

Aragorn shook his head in despair. “I am a skilled fighter, but I cannot
take on ten or more determined ruffians and warriors who are being paid
in gold coins by the Enemy. We must leave at once.”

Frodo let out a strange gasp. “The Black Riders! I had nearly forgotten.”
He shook his head, tears starting at the corners. “Yes, I was so foolish in
Oron’s cottage. I drew them to me. Where are we going?”

Aragorn was pleased to see that though Frodo was frightened, his eyes
were serene with trust. Too much trust. Aragorn sighed. He couldn’t let
him down. He hoped to someday reward Butterbur. If Ferny’s band had
successfully attacked them, the result would have been disastrous.
Besides the Enemy gaining the Ring, what those warriors and ruffians
might do to Frodo in his already damaged state was unthinkable. Fleeing
was the only option. There was nothing that one ranger, three healthy but
untrained and unarmed hobbits, and one very ill hobbit could do against a
band of fighters.

“Into the wild,” Aragorn said, his eyes grim with planning. “Where
nobody is a match for me. I will gather your friends.”


***


In an hour, the five of them were ready to flee. Aragorn’s pack was filled,
Frodo was dressed and tightly bundled in his cloak and an extra cloak
belonging to Aragorn, the other hobbits stood fully dressed and packed,
shaking from fear and the night chill. Frodo was pale and silent, his worry
shown only by a slight pucker in his forehead.

“Is it a good idea to take Mr. Frodo into the wild in his state?” Sam asked
desperately.

“We have no choice,” Aragorn said curtly. He had not had time to change
the dressing on Frodo’s suture wound or clean his backside. He lifted
Frodo gently and cradled him against his chest.

“Frodo, hold onto the back of my neck. I may need both my hands.”

Frodo obeyed without complaint, though it obviously pained him to lift his
arms.

With one arm Aragorn secured Frodo to him; with the other he held a
sharp hunting knife. Any jostling would cause Frodo terrible pain and
could possibly reactivate bleeding. “Now follow close. Not a sound.”

Aragorn led the hobbits down the corridor. He marveled at how quietly
the hobbits were able to walk. Frodo barely let out a breath. He pressed his
head against Aragorn’s chest, trying to muffle his gasps of pain. Aragorn
longed to whisper encouragement, but he did not dare.

Frodo clung to Aragorn’s neck, pressing his cheek against the man’s solid chest. He wrapped his legs around Aragorn’s waist so that the man could let go of him if necessary. He marveled that Aragorn could move with such effortless stealth, burdened as he was by heavy pack, knife poised to strike, and hobbit.

Frodo’s abdomen pulsated with twisting pain; his brow broke out into new sweat. The fresh incision stung, and he could feel the slow leaking of his blood. Every step Aragorn took jolted his infected backside. It not feel any less sore than it had right after Oron had brutalized him. He muffled his involuntary gasps, gritting his teeth against giving in to the pain. There would be no relief any time soon.

Aragorn reached the warped wooden side door that led out to the dark street. He stopped, listening. Aragorn’s heart pounded in Frodo’s ear. The ranger turned to the hobbits following him. “Wait inside,” he said in a barely audible whisper. He carried Frodo outside, looking around with sharp eyes.

Frodo held his breath. A chilly breeze brushed against his clammy brow. His heart thudded painfully in his chest and he willed it to slow. Aragorn had just closed the door behind him when a rough voice cried, “There they are!”

Aragorn whirled to face his attacker. Frodo’s eyes flew open. He recognized two of Oron’s friends and a third man he had not seen before. Frodo clutched his hands together behind Aragorn’s neck until his fingers numbed. He prayed his friends would obey Aragorn and stay inside the inn. He cursed his helplessness, which made him only a burden.

“I don’t care how good he is with a sword,” one voice said. “There’s only one of ‘im and three of us!--and I don’t think that halfling he’s carrying’ll put up much of a fight.”

“Aye! Oron did quite a number on the little fellow, didn’t he? Saw ‘im the other night. Pretty little thing when Oron wasn’t beating ‘im practically senseless. Killed another halfling, Oron did, before he got hold of this one.”

“And after we take care of Longshanks here, we can all have a turn with him, if ya know what I mean. Right, Bill?”

“I don’t think so,” the one called Bill said. “There are more important folk who want the halfling. He’s already more than half dead--he don’t need your meaty cock breaking him apart.”

Frodo bit the insides of his cheeks. He tasted blood, but his teeth continued to clamp down on his tender flesh. Bill’s words pounded into him, making his stomach shake. He had an irrational urge to struggle out of Aragorn’s arms and run as fast as his legs would take him down the street. But he knew he’d not get far. He could barely hold his head up on his own. His backside throbbed in anticipation of one of Oron’s friends having his turn with him. He was certain he would not survive another round of what Oron had done to him.

So fast it seemed a blur, Aragorn had his knife at Bill’s throat. Bill’s friends looked at each other, backing up a few steps, not so sure of themselves now. The shaking tension inside Frodo now heated his chest with rage. These men thrived on bullying people who could not defend themselves. Because of them, the hobbits of Bree could no longer venture into certain areas of the village. He didn’t think they had often encountered someone who would dare to fight back. He expected that they would flee as soon as they saw Aragorn’s fighting skill.

Frodo gasped as he caught a flash of silver shooting toward his side; Aragorn thrust his arm in the path of the knife. He hissed and shuddered with pain as he stabbed at Bill. His movement jolted Frodo’s entire body, causing him to cry out in pain.

Bill clutched his stomach and grunted. He keeled over, falling to the ground with an unceremonious thump.

The other men did not wait for Aragorn to turn in their direction. As Frodo had predicted, they rushed into the shadows like rats.

Aragorn put his hand on Frodo’s cheek and tilted his face up to look at him. “I’m sorry, Frodo. I caused you more pain.”

“No, it’s all right; they’re gone.” Frodo gasped. He struggled to keep conscious. Aragorn pulled him close and patted the back of his head. “Rest now, if you can.”

Aragorn opened the door. The hobbits were huddled on the stairs--Merry and Pippin holding back a determined Sam. Pippin’s hand was over his mouth, and Merry held him in a crushing embrace.

“He wanted to rush them,” Merry said. “The fool tried to get out his cooking knife, but it was stuck at the bottom, too noisy coming out!”

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo whispered. He was so grateful that Merry and Pippin had restrained Sam. Sam would have attacked the men with all he had, but the men Aragorn had frightened away would not have hesitated to kill Sam.

“Is Mr. Frodo all right?” Sam asked in a shaky voice.

“Yes,” Aragorn said. “But we must hurry. Those were not the last of the attackers I would guess.”

The younger hobbits stared at Bill’s bloody form in horrified fascination as they stepped back out into the street. Frodo kept his eyes squeezed shut. He had seen Oron’s body. That had been enough. With his eyes closed, his ears were more sharply attuned to Aragorn’s gasps of pained breath. The knife had plunged into him deeply.

“You’re hurt,” Frodo said, opening his eyes. He stroked Aragorn’s face.

“I will live,” Aragorn said grimly. “Now we must get out of town. Neither Bill nor Oron were well-loved, but neither am I. Some folk may try to prevent me from leaving.”

“Pardon me, sir,” Sam said, looking back again at Bill’s body. “But I think they’d have a fight on their hands.”

Aragorn chuckled grimly. “I suppose they would. How are you feeling, Frodo?”

Every step Aragorn took was agony for Frodo, but there was no choice but to bear it. They could not stop until they were out of the village, and even past the village, there was only wilderness until Rivendell. “I am all right.”

“We’ll stop soon, I promise,” Aragorn whispered. He kissed the top of Frodo’s head. “You were very brave.”

Frodo’s throat filled. Though he did not think he had been brave at all—he had done nothing to help,--he was among friends. During the time with Oron, he had despaired of ever seeing his friends or his home again. He had been surrounded by such cruel hostility that he had resigned himself to die at Oron’s hands. The idea of dragging his friends with him into danger twisted his heart, but he could not help feeling lighter inside now that they were with him.

Frodo had fully surrendered to Aragorn’s protective arms around him. That this fierce ranger who had killed for him on more than one occasion could be so tender made Frodo all the more determined to make up for his initial violent mistrust of the man. Aragorn had tried to kiss him. The memory sent an odd shiver through him. A minor thrill, but that was all. Frodo was sure it would be an interminably long time before anyone kissed him and he did not feel the ghost of Oron’s crushing lips. His backside gave a mean throb at the thought.

Frodo tried to lift his mind from the pain by imagining a future life with Aragorn. After the Ring had safely made it to Rivendell, and they were free to do as they pleased, what would happen? He wondered if Aragorn would try to prevent him from going home. He doubted it. Aragorn was fully aware of what Frodo had endured at Oron’s hands. He would wait for Frodo to approach him. He would be endlessly patient while Frodo decided what to do. There would be time in Rivendell. Frodo had intended to visit awhile anyway. He had so missed Bilbo. He did not think he could bear to tell his dear uncle what had happened to him in Bree. It would break him apart. He just wanted to sit with Bilbo in a cozy room—a hobbit-sized room with homey round windows--and talk. If ever such a place existed in Rivendell, Bilbo would have found it. Frodo pictured the crackling fireplace, the hot mugs of tea, Bilbo’s dear rambling voice. With this comforting image in his mind, Frodo slipped into a warm doze.

They stopped when the sky had begun to turn gray with the new day. Aragorn laid Frodo on a soft patch of grass. A creek only a few feet away gurgled soothingly. Frodo’s eyes snapped open. He gasped when he saw the blood caked on Aragorn’s sleeve. Aragorn had blocked the knife thrust meant for Frodo, a wound that would have killed Frodo in his weakened state.

Using the water from the creek, Aragorn cleaned and bandaged his own arm. Frodo watched in fascination as the Ranger barely flinched. Merry and Pippin organized the bedrolls while Sam prepared an early morning meal as best he could with no fire. They could not build a fire so close to Bree where ruffians or Ringwraiths could be near.

Aragorn caught Frodo’s stare and offered him an encouraging smile. “Frodo, it’s your turn. I’m going to undress your upper body so that I can redress your wound. After that, I want to look at your backside. I fear you’re still infected. Your skin feels too warm.”

Frodo was so toasty warm with the two cloaks wrapped firmly around him. Now that they were no longer moving, the pain in his abdomen had faded significantly. His muscles ached a little, but he imagined it was from the ongoing fever.

“Must you?” Frodo asked.

Aragorn smiled. “You know I must. I’ll be gentle.”

He unwrapped the layers of cloaks from Frodo. He then peeled off Frodo’s jacket and unbuttoned his vest and shirt. The bandage was dirty and sweaty. Dried blood had sealed it to Frodo’s skin. Aragorn took in a sharp breath. “I really should have made time to do this before we left.”

“There was no time,” Frodo said. “Imagine what…” He gasped as Aragorn tugged at the bandage. “Imagine what they would have…ah! That hurts.”

“I am sorry. Master Samwise, hold Frodo’s shoulders.”

Sam gladly complied, eager to be of help. His sturdy hands pressed down on Frodo’s bare shoulders while Aragorn worked at releasing the bandage from Frodo’s abdomen. Involuntary tears sprang to his eyes as he tried to muffle his cries of pain.

Aragorn stroked his cheek. “I’ve almost freed it. It will soon be over.”

He finally loosened the rest of the bandage. He dipped a clean cloth in the creek. Frodo smelled the same healing herb that Aragorn had used in boiling water back at the inn. Aragorn wiped the wound. Frodo writhed in Sam’s arms at the first contact. The icy water caused his tender wound to flare with new agony. Aragorn cleaned the wound and wrapped fresh bandaging around it. “Hopefully it will soon be done leaking. We will have to move on soon, unfortunately. We cannot linger here. Now, I need to check your back side. Sam, I need your help again.” Aragorn’s voice was light, but his eyes were sober. “I’m going to put Frodo over your lap and pull down his breeches, like he’s a young lad about to get a spanking.”

Frodo laughed a little at the image, but he shrank at the idea of Sam seeing his injured bottom. Sam had not seen the full extent of what Oron had done to him.

Sam squeezed his shoulder as if he read his mind. “Don’t worry about me, sir. I know you. You’re worrying about me when you shouldn’t be.”

“At least keep Merry and Pippin away. Please.”

“All right.” Aragorn’s voice was soft as he placed Frodo so that he lay over Sam’s lap. His abdomen protested, but he bit his lip. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could lie down swaddled in cloaks again. Aragorn gently loosened Frodo’s breeches and pulled them over his hips. Frodo tensed. He could feel Oron’s rough hands as he ripped his buttocks open. Tears sprang to his eyes.

…and afterwards I'll kill you, you little runt. I've no use for a halfling who gets violent. I'll slit your throat and throw you in the gutter and they'll just assume you're another of those damn fool halfling harlots who’s just outlived his usefulness…

“No, no,” Frodo whimpered. “Please no!”

“It’s all right, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. Frodo heard his voice catch as he viewed the bruising and swollen redness around his bottom.

Frodo cried out as Aragorn prodded his wounds with a fresh wet cloth. “Please stop! Aragorn, please don’t.”

“I’m almost finished, Frodo. Please hold on. You’re infected. You will die if I don’t treat you.”

“I’d rather…Aragorn, stop!” Frodo yelled. His heart fluttered wildly. He smelled rotting meat. He was a filthy halfling who deserved the attack on him. He had not fought hard enough. He clutched tufts of grass. His face was wet with tears. He cried out again.

Aragorn withdrew the cloth. “I’m sorry, Frodo. I know you’re in pain but you must lower your voice! Remember where we are. I am finished.”

He pulled Frodo’s breeches up. Frodo clutched Sam, closing his eyes, more silent tears running out of his eyes. He couldn’t seem to move--couldn’t bear to look at Aragorn. Sam put his arms around him.

“What happened?” Merry and Pippin ran to them.

“Go!” Sam hissed.

Frodo finally dared a glance at Aragorn. Aragorn’s face was impassive as he wrapped the cloak around Frodo’s shivering form. Frodo closed his eyes again, sighing in despair. Who had he been fooling? He would never feel comfortable with a man again. Every man, no matter how good, would always feel like Oron. Aragorn, as good a man as could exist, had no doubt been disgusted by his cowardly behavior. Any interest Aragorn might have had in him was gone now. He would no longer think he was brave. He had seen how filthy Frodo really was.

“Frodo,” Aragorn said quietly, rubbing his back with a strong hand. Frodo could not bring himself to look at him.

“Keep him close to you tonight, Sam,” Aragorn said. “He’ll need…he’ll need someone close by.”

“I will, sir,” Sam said.

Frodo never released Sam before he slept. He had been vaguely aware of being set on his back, though Sam did not break Frodo’s desperate embrace, even to get them settled on the ground.

Oron had found them. Frodo watched in paralyzed terror as the warrior stabbed Aragorn. Frodo tried to feign sleep, but the warrior kicked him until he opened his eyes.

“Wake up, halfling, or I’ll do to your friends what I’ve done to you!”

“No!” Frodo whimpered. “Please no!”

“On your stomach! You’re mine now!” The warrior kicked him until he was on his stomach. The pain clamped into him like angry teeth. He did not dare cry out. He could not believe Aragorn was dead; he could not believe the man who had fought so hard to save him could have been bested in his sleep. Frodo’s throat filled. He had never told the man he loved him. He should have allowed him that kiss in Bree.

Frodo snapped awake. The day was gray and drizzly, and he had no sense of how long he had been asleep. Sam was still holding him, but he was awake, tears in his eyes.

“Have you been awake all along?” Frodo asked him.

Sam nodded. “I couldn’t sleep, sir.”

“I am sorry.” Frodo could not stop shaking. He was not sure if it was from fever or terror.

“Mr. Frodo, every time I think of what that brute did to you…” Sam’s voice choked. “I want to pound myself senseless that I didn’t get to you in time.”

“Sam, you mustn’t ever blame yourself. Ever. It was my choice to leave you behind. How could I willingly pull my dearest friends with me into such grave danger?”

“But Mr. Frodo, perhaps there wouldn’t’ve been such danger if all of us’d stuck together.”

“I don’t know,” Frodo said quietly. “Maybe it would have been worse. Oron had friends.” Frodo shuddered. Sam took his hands and rubbed them. “He had friends, and all of them seemed to be of the opinion that hobbits were only useful for one thing.”

Sam wiped tears from his eyes. “I guess what my ma said was right, that a hobbit has no business leaving the Shire. Mr. Strider, here, he’s different. He’s the only Big person I’ve that didn’t look more than half troll. Well, except for old Butterbur, that is.”

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo managed a laugh. “But they are the only Big Folk you’ve met! The others were just ruffians. You can’t judge all men by the actions of a few! What if a man came to the Shire and met Lotho and Lobelia?”

Sam shook his head and they grinned at each other.

“Point taken, sir. I expect he’d run back to that Steward Mr. Bilbo used to teach us about—remember our lessons?—and then they’d call for an invasion of the Shire.”

Frodo clutched Sam’s hand and laughed, though he tried to hold it in because it hurt his stomach so badly. Aragorn, who sat on a log just within earshot, turned and smiled at him. Frodo’s heart lifted slightly. Aragorn could not be too disgusted with him to give him such a tender smile.
“We must move on,” Aragorn said, though he made no effort to move from his position against an oak tree, his head thrust back against the gnarled bark, his eyes closed, his arms propped on his knees. Frodo’s heart sank to hear the weariness in the ranger’s voice and see the blood that had seeped through the bandage on Aragorn’s wounded arm. Aragorn opened his eyes and smiled at the hobbit’s concerned gaze. “It doesn’t hurt much.” He moved away from the tree and knelt beside Frodo, putting his hand on the hobbit’s brow. “How do you feel?”

Frodo managed a weak smile. He was desperately ashamed of his earlier panic when Aragorn had tried to treat his backside. How could he ever have compared Aragorn to Oron? That was almost like…well, he had given Sam a humorous analogy between Oron and Lotho Sackville-Baggins, but a more accurate comparison would be if Aragorn had met Gollum…and then judged hobbits based on that meeting. Frodo shuddered, bringing himself out of his woolgathering. He was weak and exhausted, still warm with fever, but the pain – particularly in his backside – was significantly reduced.

“Better,” he said. He cast a worried glance at his friends. “Must we travel all day?”

“Yes.” Aragorn nodded curtly. “As it is, I hardly know how we’ll make what little food we have last until Rivendell.”

“And we don’t have any of Merry’s ponies,” Frodo said with a sigh. “My young friends are not accustomed to such long marches.”

“I know,” Aragorn said.

“Ferny’s got a pony,” Sam said in a soft voice, and Frodo jumped, startled.

Aragorn turned sharply to him. “What?”

“When we were downstairs at the inn,” Sam said, clasping his hands behind his back as if he were reciting a poem. “Me and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry, eating dinner, before Mr. Frodo woke…I overheard a man say something about Ferny’s pony. Isn’t he the one you killed?”

“Which means,” Sam finished proudly. “There’s a pony waiting to be rescued.”

Frodo couldn’t help but laugh at the hopeful, nearly boyish grin on Aragorn’s face. Aragorn patted Frodo’s cheek affectionately, pleased to see the injured hobbit laughing.

“Why didn’t you say something before?” Pippin demanded of Sam.

Sam turned to face Pippin, a flush darkening his cheeks. “Beggin’ your pardon, but there was more serious matters!”

Pippin shook his head, undaunted. “But we could have had a pony for Frodo.”

Frodo broke in, alarmed by Sam’s reddening face, “I’m all right, Pippin! Sam’s right. We had more important matters to think of.”

Aragorn’s smile faded, and his gaze became distant. “I want to go back for the pony. Peregrine and Sam, you two shall come with me. Merry, you will stay here with Frodo.”

“Where are you going?” Frodo asked sharply, clutching Aragorn’s arm. The idea of the ranger, not to mention two of his dearest friends, leaving him, going back into danger, turned him cold inside. “You’ll leave me?”

Aragorn winced slightly at Frodo’s distress, but his gray eyes quickly became controlled…distant. “I don’t wish to leave you…don’t wish us to be separated…but you know you cannot make this journey. We need the pony and more food.”

“But will you…” Frodo whispered, his anxiety heightening at the idea of both Aragorn and Sam going. “How long will you be gone?”

“I won’t leave Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, looking as miserable as Frodo felt. “No, I won’t. Not with those Black Riders out there and all...”

“He will be well hidden here,” Aragorn said, though Frodo could see the worry in his eyes. “I need you, Sam. I need a sturdy hobbit…and I wager a gardener’s hands are the sturdiest around.”

“I will take care of Frodo,” Merry broke in.

Frodo’s throat filled with misery. He couldn’t bear that his friends were going back into danger when if it hadn’t been for Frodo and his cursed Ring, they never would have left the Shire. He had abandoned them in Crickhollow with good reason. If anything should happen to them…

While Frodo’s hobbit friends sorted through their packs so that they took only a bare minimum with them on their short trip, Aragorn gently propped Frodo’s head with a heavy bedroll and knelt beside him.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

Frodo nodded, but his jaw was stiff.

“Frodo.” Aragorn placed his callused hand under Frodo’s chin, tilting the hobbit’s chin up to face him. “I promise we will return. Bill Ferny is dead, as is Oron. Nobody will hurt us, and nobody will hurt you. I will not allow it. Now, I want you and Merry to stay here. Don’t go anywhere. You’re far from the main road, which is where the Black Riders and any of Oron’s ruffians will be looking. Understand?”

Frodo nodded, taking in a deep breath to try to calm himself.

Aragorn leaned down to kiss Frodo’s brow. Frodo’s throat caught, remembering his nightmare where Oron had killed Aragorn…his aching remorse that he had not allowed Aragorn to kiss him. He would not let Aragorn go into danger without showing him that someday he would be willing…

Before Aragorn’s lips reached Frodo’s brow, the hobbit leaned his head back, allowing Aragorn to catch his lips. Aragorn paused, hovering just over Frodo’s lips, and gazed uncertainly into Frodo’s eyes. Frodo nodded, and Aragorn lost no time in devouring his lips, taking the hobbit’s breath away. Frodo slipped his hands behind Aragorn’s neck, wriggling with pleasure under the man’s gentle ardor. Aragorn finally pulled back, breathless.

“Frodo…”

“Please be safe,” Frodo said. He still felt the phantom of Aragorn’s lips on his…and for the first time, Oron was far from his mind. Aragorn squeezed his shoulder. “Please…can’t bear it if something…” Frodo nodded in the direction of the other hobbits. “Look after them.”

Aragorn nodded before turning to his pack where fumbled in his pack until he pulled out several long knives, each long enough to qualify as a sword for a hobbit. He beckoned Frodo’s friends to him and when the three hobbits had gathered around him, he handed each of them a sword. He put Frodo’s beside him. “I meant to give these to you earlier, but our haste in leaving Bree prevented it.”

Pippin studied his sword with youthful glee, sheathing and unsheathing it, touching the blade in awe. Frodo glanced at his as if the thought of having to use it pained him. Sam held his as if it was a dangerous snake for only a moment before firmly grasping the hilt, his eyes hardening with determination.

Merry unsheathed his and ran his fingers along it. “Where did you get these?” he asked.

Aragorn smiled at him. “Later, I promise you I’ll tell you the history of these knives and their previous wielders. Now there is no time, but be content, Meriadoc, that they have a rich history. Do not hesitate to use yours if need be.”

Aragorn climbed to his feet and signaled to Sam and Pippin that it was time to go.

Frodo had dozed on and off during their trek from Bree so he had no sense of when to expect them back. His throat filled with dread, he watched his friends disappear into the woods…saw both Aragorn and Sam at different times look over their shoulders.

“He’ll get them there safe,” Merry said, patting Frodo’s shoulder. “Strider…he’s remarkable. He won’t let anything to happen to them.”

“I know,” Frodo said.

“What an odd mess we’ve gotten ourselves into,” Merry said, propping himself against the same oak tree that Aragorn had leaned against less than an hour earlier. “Too bad you couldn’t have truly settled in Crickhollow. What a pity you had to leave the Shire.”

Frodo tensed, unwilling to discuss all that had happened to him so soon after leaving the Shire. “Yes,” he whispered, though if he had never left the Shire, he would never have met Aragorn.

He found it nearly impossible to believe how furiously he had fought the man only days ago…Yet now…

The kiss had warmed him…sent shuddering heat through his body…pushed Oron’s ghost to the background. He didn’t know if he would ever be able to manage Aragorn’s hands on his bare skin, but he would gladly take another kiss.

“Frodo, how do you feel?” Merry asked. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No thank you, I am not hungry.”

Merry hugged Frodo. “You don’t have to talk to me. I just want…” He kissed Frodo on the brow. “…only if you want. I’m here.”

Frodo was silent for a long time, gazing into the chilly morning fog that swirled around the trees. He longed to be in Bag End, tucked under soft blankets, listening to the crackle from the tiny fireplace. With a smile, he wondered if Aragorn would come with him back to the Shire. Probably not. If ever he would have a life with the ranger, it would not be in the Shire.

“Thank you,” he finally said. He was already growing sleepy again. It would be better if he slept. Maybe when he woke, Aragorn, Sam, and Pippin would be back, safe, with the pony.

Frodo closed his eyes. The last thing he heard before he slept was Merry’s voice. “Let me know if you need anything.”


Frodo had returned to Bag End. He was so exhausted, wanted to rest for at least a hundred years. He kept trying to open the bright green door, but it was locked. That was odd. Neither he nor Bilbo had ever regularly locked the door.

Bilbo’s face popped out of a round window. “What do you want?” His expression looked harsh and cold, as if he did not recognize Frodo.

“It’s me! Uncle Bilbo, I’m home!”

“Frodo?” Bilbo said, his eyes dark with cold anger. “What are you doing back, lad? I thought you were gone for good.”

“No, I’m back!” Frodo cried in joy, puzzled as to why Bilbo looked so angry. “Why is the door locked?”

“Go away!” Bilbo said, shaking his head. “You disgust me.”

Frodo stood in crushed silence, digesting the harsh words coming from the one he loved the most.

“Don’t act so innocent, lad. You went off to Bree…with my Ring, mind you…and let that filthy man have you. You’re a disgrace to all hobbits. Why don’t you just go back to Bree and become a hobbit whore? There are plenty more men like Oron who would have you.”

Frodo collapsed to his knees, weeping. “Bilbo, Bilbo, please don’t say that! I love you! Please let me in!”

Frodo snapped awake, tears rolling down his cheeks. Merry said nothing…just rubbed his back. Frodo released a shuddering sigh. The dream made no sense. After all, Bilbo didn’t even live in Bag End, hadn’t for years. Frodo hurriedly wiped the tears from his eyes and shifted to face Merry so he could tell his cousin about his dream, but immediately after he moved, loud footsteps through the brush made Merry gasp and hold Frodo tightly to him.

“What is it?” Frodo whispered, his lips turning numb with terror. He heard heavy footsteps and angry, harsh voices. “Men. Only Big People move like that.”

Merry’s eyes were wide and his lips moved in silent pleading. They were about to be discovered, perhaps by ruffians, friends of Oron, friends of Bill Ferny, who had tracked them. They were defenseless. They had the knives Aragorn had given them, but neither of them was skilled in battle, and Frodo was too sick to stand.

There was no time to hide, so the hobbits clung to each other, breaths withheld. The brush crackled alarmingly, and two men wielding swords burst into the clearing.

Frodo trembled as if suffering from extreme cold or fever. Oron’s friends had found him. He did not recognize these men, but they were dressed as warriors. If they touched him…if they came near, Frodo was not certain he could bear it. A loud buzzing filled his ears as he weakly grasped the handle of his small sword. He would stab himself before he let these men handle him.

“They’re just hobbits,” one of the warriors said in disgust, sheathing his sword.

“Is everything all right?” his friend asked. In seconds he had crossed the clearing and was kneeling beside the hobbits, peering closely at Frodo’s battered face. Frodo kept his eyes closed, breath still withheld. His heart beat against his chest so hard it echoed through his ears. If the man touched him, what would he do? He couldn’t bear the thought.

“Please leave us,” Merry said in a shaky voice. “My friend is sick and frightened.”

“Could we take you to our village, to the healer?” The man said gently. “Bree is not far.” He looked at Merry with concern. “He looks badly hurt.” He touched Frodo’s forehead. “What happened to—“

The moment the man touched Frodo’s forehead, Frodo felt the strangling hold on his throat burst, sending surges of hot panic through his body that dulled his pain and filled his limbs with new strength. His eyes flew open and his face twisted into a rage as he flung his small fists at the man’s chest and face. “No! No! Don’t touch me! Leave us!

“Frodo, Frodo!” Merry cried, struggling to hold his cousin’s arms down. “Please don’t! You’ll make it worse!” He turned to the men, his eyes wide with pleading. “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt him, he’s been through something awful.”

“Don’t touch me!” Frodo heard his own voice, raw and guttural, as if from a great distance. He felt nothing but panic, as if there were wild birds trapped inside his body, fluttering their wings and diving into walls, mirrors, windows. “I’ll kill you! I won’t go through it again!”

He managed to wrench one of his arms from Merry’s grip, and struck the man’s nose. The warrior fell back, his face filled with bewildered pain.

“What ails you?” he shouted, holding his bleeding nose as his friend helped him to his feet. “Consider yourself lucky that it is not my manner to hurt those weaker than myself, though you’ve pushed your luck with that last blow, halfling!”

“Please, please just leave us!” Merry cried frantically, grabbing Frodo in a fierce embrace, shielding him with his own body in case the warrior decided to retaliate. “He’s been hurt and he’s scared of Men. If you are good Men, leave us now!”

The two warriors looked at each other in confusion, having obviously never encountered violent hobbits in their experience. “Your loss,” the one with the bloody nose said in disgust. “We’re finished trying to help.”

They strode out of the clearing, muttering to each other, breaking through the brush, making enough noise for an army.

Frodo’s muscles grew limp, and he collapsed inside Merry’s embrace. “They’ll not hurt us, Merry,” he finally said in a dull voice. “No man will ever harm us. I won’t allow it.”

“There now, they’re gone,” Merry said, smoothing Frodo’s curls. Frodo did not speak. “It’s all right. I think they just really wanted to help. They didn’t mean to frighten you. Why don’t you try to go back to sleep? It won’t be long before Strider and the others come back.”

“I shouldn’t have acted in such a manner,” Frodo said, his hands shaking so badly that he had difficulty clasping them together. “You’re right. They were only trying to help. It is only that…when I felt his hand on me…”

“Shhh,” Merry said. “You don’t have to say. I understand. Now go to sleep.”


***

“Frodo.”

Frodo cracked open his eyes. He jolted fully awake when he saw Aragorn crouched above him. Frodo blinked his eyes, marveling that he had actually slept through his pain with no bad dreams. He cried out in joy and flung his arms around Aragorn, squeezing and kissing the man’s rough face several times. He felt safe with him, the only man who had earned his trust.

Sam was tending to a scrawny pony. “Look, Mr. Frodo,” he said, voice shaking with joy. “He’s very friendly, eats right out of my hand. I’ve named him Bill.”

Merry tugged at Aragorn’s arm until he had his attention and then filled him in on their encounter with the warriors. “Do you think we should stay here?” he finished quietly.

“We must leave immediately,” Aragorn said, his voice filling with tension. “Even if they are good men, they may gossip at the Pony. And you certainly gave them a good tale to tell, Frodo.” He rubbed his nose with a wry smile. “I know from experience.”

“But you…and especially Pippin and Sam must be so tired,” Frodo said softly, not wanting to be reminded of his earlier violence toward Aragorn.

Aragorn nodded in weary agreement. “I had hoped to be able to rest for a time here, but it is not safe. The Nazgul…the Black Riders…We heard their cries not far from here. We must move on.”

Frodo’s heart sank as he saw his young friends nearly bent double with fatigue. Aragorn was right – they were being hunted, and under such circumstances, escape was far more important than rest.
The hobbits huddled close to the modest fire while Aragorn cut into the freshly killed rabbit. Frodo’s abdomen wound throbbed in sympathy as the ranger’s knife sliced into the rabbit’s tender flesh and dark blood ran over Aragorn’s fingers. Frodo’s stomach growled against his will, as it would be the first fresh meat he had eaten since Crickhollow. Sam had even dug up some mushrooms (though not nearly enough for four hobbits) to accompany the meal.

Pippin nudged Merry and winked. “What if she has a family of baby rabbits waiting for her? Did you think of that, Strider?”

“Would you prefer a scant diet of berries?” Aragorn asked, pausing the knife and raising his eyebrows at Pippin. “That can be arranged.”

“That would be nothing more than he deserves,” Frodo said. Aragorn glanced at him, and they smiled together, as if they were in on a delicious joke. “Skipping a meal or two would do Master Took some good.”

“You are unnecessarily cruel, cousin Frodo!” Pippin said. “Think about it a moment! Rabbits are our distant cousins-- “

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said indignantly. “The Gamgees may not be book learned and all, but we sure didn’t come out of no dirty rabbit hole!”

“Rabbits live in holes in the ground,” Pippin said thoughtfully, as if he had not heard Sam. “*We* live in holes in the ground. Rabbits steal carrots from farmers. *Frodo* steals mushrooms from farmers -- ”

“Peregrine Took!” Frodo said, laughing. “Do not tell Strider my shameful childhood tales!”

“You do not know the half of it, Strider,” Merry said, putting his arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “Frodo is not quite as sweet as he appears. At one time, he was the most notorious thief in Buckland! Old Farmer Maggot had his hands full.”

Aragorn’s heart lifted to see Frodo sitting on a small log, propped between Sam and Merry, his blue eyes bright with amusement. In just a few days, the legendary resilience of hobbits had proven correct. Just that morning, Aragorn had examined and cleaned Frodo’s bottom, and, though Frodo had tensed, there had been no outward panic. The bruising had faded to yellow and light brown, and the sores had crusted and were receding. Best of all, the incision on Frodo’s abdomen from Aragorn’s hasty surgery had finally closed. Frodo was still weak, barely able to walk more than a few steps on his own, but he was out of danger of infection. Best of all, the tortured terror in his eyes had finally been replaced by trust and -- Aragorn thought with a mixture of delight and dread -- something else.

Aragorn could no longer deceive himself about the longing in Frodo’s gaze, as it was familiar to him. He had once rescued a young maiden who had been attacked by a nasty group of warriors while on a walk in the woods. Aragorn had rescued her before she had met Frodo’s fate and he had made sure she returned home safely. After a time, he had seen that same look of vulnerable, loving trust in her eyes. If Aragorn had asked her to marry him, he was confident that she would have accepted without question.

Of course, the difference between the maiden and Frodo was that Aragorn returned Frodo’s feelings…had been enamored of him from the moment he had gazed upon his picture.

His stomach turned. This could not continue as it was. He must speak frankly with Frodo.

While he had hunted for Frodo in Bree, desperate to find the hobbit unharmed, the vision of Arwen Undomiel had rarely intruded. She had seemed far removed from Aragorn’s simple infatuation for a male hobbit who would likely never return his feelings. Then, after finding Frodo so severely battered, his thoughts had only been on helping him…saving his life…gaining his trust.

But the situation had changed. The kiss had changed him, shaken him, and the memory of Frodo’s soft, parting lips still warmed and thickened his groin. Since then, while Frodo had sat on Bill, biting his lip to keep from crying out from the pain the pony’s jostling caused him, Aragorn had often caught Frodo gazing at him in open adoration when he thought the ranger was not looking. His eyes clearly expressed that he did indeed return Aragorn’s feelings.

Aragorn longed for another kiss, unhurried, possibly leading to more…but he owed Frodo his honesty. Would the battered Ringbearer be willing to give his heart…and body to a Man with whom he had no future? Would it not be irresponsible of Aragorn to encourage such a situation? He had an overwhelming duty – to get Frodo and the Ring safely to Rivendell…and to hold Frodo’s wounded heart with utmost care.

***

Aragorn sat on the log, puffing on his pipe, his eyes strained, and his shoulders tense. The fire had died down, and the hobbits had fallen asleep in a jumbled pile of furry feet that brought a slight smile to Aragorn’s face. Tomorrow their journey would grow more dangerous, as they were about to enter the Midgewater Marshes. His smile faded. He nearly wished they had already entered the marshes, as here on the steady ground in the wilderness outside the Chetwood he felt a cold and menacing presence that closed in on his heart. Aragorn tensed, having not quite considered how he would handle a direct attack by the Enemy in the wild.

One of the hobbits crawled out of his bedroll and padded toward him, and Aragorn knew without turning that it was Frodo.

“You should be sleeping,” Aragorn said. “Tomorrow is a long day.”

“I know.” Frodo swallowed and sat beside Aragorn on the log. He looked pale and shaken, as if he were trying to get the courage to say something. “I could not sleep.”

Aragorn gazed ahead, propping his smoking pipe on his knee.

“Aragorn—“ Frodo began in a hoarse voice.

“Yes?”

“Something draws near. I feel it.”

He huddled against Aragorn, who put his arm around the trembling hobbit.

“You’re cold,” Aragorn said. “You should really try to sleep.”

Frodo’s face was pale and rigid and he stared ahead, as if he saw something horrifying that Aragorn could not.

A shriek, unworldly and full of chill menace, shattered the still night.

Aragorn dragged Frodo to the ground, wrapping his arms tightly around the quaking body so that the hobbit’s back was pressed against his chest. He prayed none of the other hobbits would wake and draw attention to their camp. The Enemy was near, still out of sight, but sniffing for them, drawn by the Ring. Frodo let out a muffled whimper.

“Shh…shh,” Aragorn whispered, kissing the dark curls. Frodo clutched his hands, biting his pale lip to keep from whimpering. “Shhh…” Aragorn said again, rubbing the hobbit’s chilled arms. “I’ll not let them near you.”

A second shriek, much closer, caused Frodo to go completely limp. Aragorn peered down in concern, hoping the hobbit had fainted and could be spared the terror. But Frodo had not fainted -- his eyes were open and glassy and his hand crept toward his vest pocket. Aragorn grabbed the slender wrist, clasping it tightly. “No,” he whispered. “You must not.”

“They’re too strong,” Frodo gasped, his eyes still glassy. “I can’t…they’ll break my mind…Let go, Aragorn.”

Aragorn kissed Frodo’s head, still holding his wrist. “I will not allow it.”

He let his free hand slip under Frodo’s clothing, rubbing warm circles on Frodo’s bare skin. Frodo let out a barely audible hiss and leaned into him. His hand relaxed in Aragorn’s grip, and he squirmed until he faced Aragorn, looking up with wide, frightened eyes.

“They’re leaving…” Frodo said, breathing rapidly. “I feel it.” His eyes softened. Reluctantly, Aragorn pulled his hand from under Frodo’s clothing. Frodo tilted his head, moving toward Aragorn’s face, lips parting, but Aragorn pretended not to notice as he drew away and helped Frodo back to a sitting position on the log.

“That was close,” Aragorn said, smoothing Frodo’s cloak over his wrinkled clothing.

“Yes.” Frodo swallowed hard, a puzzled and hurt look in his eyes, and with a sinking heart, Aragorn knew that even the terror of the Ringwraiths had not addled Frodo’s senses – that Aragorn had pulled away from his kiss had not been lost on the hobbit.

“Are you all right?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes.” Frodo clenched his hands so tightly around his knees that his were knuckles white. He looked up at Aragorn, his eyes the only color in the heavy wilderness dark. “I…” He swallowed again. “Do you remember when you went to find Bill and before you left, we…”

“We kissed,” Aragorn said, feeling unhinged and dizzy. He took one of Frodo’s chilled hands in his and rubbed briskly, trying to bring some warmth back into it.

Frodo flushed. “I should tell you that it might be a long time before I want more…though your hand…just now when we were lying down…it felt good.” He smiled and his eyes were wide and trusting. “I would be willing to give up my life in the Shire to stay with you…though I know you would often be gone.”

Aragorn felt all the air seep from him, and his cheeks felt numb.

“Stay with me?” he repeated faintly. “This is sudden, would you not say?”

Frodo nodded. Though two red splotches covered his cheeks, he looked relieved at having spoken his heart, and Aragorn’s stomach turned. “Yes, I understand that you do not often stay in one place, that a ranger’s life involves much wandering. That is not a concern, other than…you must come home safely…to me.” Frodo clutched Aragorn’s hand, and the small hand that had trembled so wildly while the Ringwraiths were near was now steady.

“Frodo…”

Before Aragorn could react, Frodo had pulled his head down and was kissing him with violent fervor, his small tongue darting inside the ranger’s mouth. Aragorn forced himself to pull back and hold Frodo’s shoulders firmly. Frodo’s eyes darkened with wounded puzzlement.

“Wait,” Aragorn said hoarsely.

Frodo sighed and looked away, hurt understanding dawning in his eyes. “I see. You do not want damaged goods. I know…I once offered myself to you in Bree…right after…”

“No…no…never,” Aragorn said, turning cold inside. He would never fully understand how much damage Oron had caused. Everything that happened to the hobbit from now on would be judged by that one horrific event. “But I do think that you may have become attached to me because I saved you from a horrible situation.”

Frodo pulled his hand from Aragorn’s gentle grip. “That is very cold, Aragorn.”

“I do not want to hurt you.”

“You would never hurt me,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “But I understand that you may not…you would not want to pledge yourself to me because…I understand…I could not give myself fully to you…at least not now.”

Aragorn’s hands trembled. “I care for you very much, but --”

“Can we not pledge ourselves to each other? Do Men not do such things?”

“They do. But something as serious as pledging often occurs after a long courtship. We have not even had a short courtship.”

“You do not wish it with me,” Frodo said, his voice shaking. “You say you do not wish to hurt me, but you are hurting me now…with your evasion and your noble words. I can see that I have embarrassed myself, that you do not want me…”

“I cannot pledge myself to you because I am already betrothed,” Aragorn said.

Frodo flinched as if Aragorn had slapped him. He breathed quickly, clutching his hands together until his fingernails dug into his palms, not able to look at Aragorn.

Aragorn strove for some way to ease the blow, loath to hurt Frodo while he was in such a weakened state. He waited for Frodo to weep, and when he did not, he reached for Frodo’s shoulder.

Frodo jerked away from his touch, his blue eyes filled with the same wild rage Aragorn had seen when he had found the hobbit in Oron’s cottage. “I do not understand you,” he finally managed. “Why did you kiss me? Why did you say what you did in Bree…give me the idea that there could be something? Did you tell me lies because you feared I would die? Did you feel pity for me?”

Aragorn put his hands to his heart. “Frodo…what I feel for you…is real.”

“Do not tell me lies,” Frodo said, turning away in disgust. “What of the woman – I will assume it is a woman – who has your heart? What would she have thought about your words to me in Bree…about your kiss?”

“Arwen and I…” Aragorn’s voice was hoarse. “We have an understanding –- “

“No,” Frodo said, his voice tight with wounded rage. “*You* understand. You saved my life, and for that I will always be grateful. If you had not come when you did, I have no doubt that Oron would have killed me. But beyond that, you are wrong. I am not a silly child who senselessly falls in love with his rescuer.” His eyes filled with tears. “Who are you to tell me how I feel, Aragorn?” Frodo lifted his chin and stood. “I may not look it to you, but I have lived over fifty years. I am no love-struck youth.”

Frodo pulled his cloak tightly around him, and marched back to his bedroll.

“Mr. Frodo, you must stop being so stubborn. You’re apt to collapse and then what?”

“Let me be, Sam.” Frodo broke some twigs and threw them on the fire. Though dusk had not yet fallen, Strider had allowed them to build a fire, his thought being that it would likely keep the Enemy away. Or draw them to it like a moth, Frodo thought with a shudder. He stared into the distance. He did not like this place so high up that he could see for miles. He fancied if he strained his eyes hard enough he might be able to see curls of smoke from Bree. He felt exposed. Even the name -– Weathertop -– had an ominous resonance to it.

“You walked most of the day and now when Mr. Strider finds us a nice place to rest…Come, Mr. Frodo, let Pippin finish the fire.” When Frodo continued to break twigs, Sam put his hands on his hips, an irritated frown clouding his face.

Frodo was unable to resist a faint smile, but his voice was stern. “Sam, I’m tired of being fussed over. Let me be of some use.”

“You should know better, Sam,” Pippin said, rifling through his back for an apple. “Once Cousin Frodo gets something in his head, he makes the Sacksville-Bagginses look accommodating.”

Frodo frowned at him but said nothing. His nimble fingers continued to break apart twigs.

“Sam’s right,” Aragorn broke in. “One of the chief reasons we are camping before sundown is that we all need some rest, especially you, Frodo. You are not fully recovered, and being in the wilderness has not helped.” Aragorn gazed into the distance. “It makes me uneasy. I have seen no sign of the Enemy.” Aragorn shook his head and turned back to Frodo. “I insist that you rest now. We still have a fortnight of travel before us.”

Sam led Frodo by the arm to a nearby stone and helped him sit. He watched Aragorn walk away and the ache in his chest, which had never completely gone away since Aragorn had told him he was betrothed, expanded until he could barely breathe.

There was no hope left for him, even after he rid himself of the cursed Ring.

He pictured Bilbo sitting quietly reading, sipping tea. Frodo could not bear the prospect of watching his dear uncle’s face shatter when he found out what had happened to Frodo in Bree. He could not bear to tell Bilbo about how easily he had been tricked, how Oron had defiled him. He was too soiled for Bilbo, and he was certainly too soiled to return to the Shire. It hardly mattered that his friends had fiercely denied it. He knew it was true.

Through Aragorn, he had thought he had found solace, the hope that he could have a contented life outside the Shire with one who understood what had happened to him and would treat him with tender love. When he saw how much Aragorn cared for him, his heart had swelled with joy and possessiveness.

But Aragorn had crushed that hope with three words, and all had fallen into darkness.

*I am betrothed.*

Frodo released a harsh sigh, trying to hold back the tears. Bilbo had once told him that it was never wise to have too many expectations.

“All of life’s disappointments come because something expected did not come to be, lad. Always remember that. Expect nothing and you’ll live a happier life than most.”

At that long ago time, Frodo’s heart had been light, he had cupped his chin in his hands, and he had smelled bacon and eggs on the stove. “But isn’t that a rather grim way to live, Uncle?”

“Not always.” Bilbo had squeezed Frodo’s shoulder. “I never expected you…And yet here you are.”

Frodo’s throat closed. He had been so certain that Aragorn had wanted him. He clearly remembered Aragorn saying that the only way he would take Frodo is if he were willing in spirit and body…and under different circumstances. Now, like a cold splash of water over his chest, Frodo understood what he had meant by different circumstances. Frodo had been right to think that Aragorn had wanted him –- Aragorn’s comment and the long kiss they had enjoyed weeks ago proved that -- but nothing could ever come of it.

“Frodo.” Aragorn placed his hand on Frodo’s brow and sat beside him. His hand was warm and strong, and Frodo leaned into it. “How do you feel?”

Frodo forced himself to pull away from Aragorn’s touch, unable to meet the ranger’s gaze. “All right.”

“Your recovery has far exceeded my expectations, but I am concerned about what is happening here.” Aragorn placed a gentle hand on Frodo’s chest, causing the hobbit to shudder. How he longed for that hand to slip under his shirt again! “What happened to you in Bree will haunt you always--“

“Leave me in peace.” Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. He would not allow Aragorn to crush him again. Aragorn’s eyes were kind, but they were not filled with love.

“I wish to help,” Aragorn said.

Frodo turned to him fiercely. “You have done enough,” he hissed. “You should have let me die in Bree, for there my heart will be trapped.”

Aragorn took Frodo’s tense hand and squeezed it. “Why do you speak with such despair? It breaks my heart to hear it.”

Frodo laughed bitterly. “You need not make a pretense of caring. You were sent to protect the Ringbearer and you’ve done your job. I am well enough to carry the Ring to Rivendell. You need not worry about anything else.”

Aragorn’s jaw tightened, and Frodo was satisfied to see a flash of genuine hurt in his eyes. “I make no pretense. You are far more than the Ringbearer to me. You are Frodo Baggins…strong, brave, enduring…beautiful--”

Frodo let out a cynical laugh.

“There was more I wished to say that night,” Aragorn said in a hoarse voice, putting a gentle finger under Frodo’s chin, tilting the hobbit’s face toward his. “But you would not allow me to continue.”

“Why do you make it worse?” Frodo asked. “I am hurting enough. Will you not leave me in peace?”

Aragorn stared at him in troubled silence for several moments before nodding slightly and climbing to his feet. Frodo nearly called to him to come back, but his throat was too full.


***


The screech of the last Ringwraith resonated in Aragorn’s ears as he flung down his last torch and stamped the fire out. He tore across the dell to Frodo, cold fear weakening his muscles. He fell to his knees, and he could immediately see that the wound was bad. Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and let loose a chilling cry. Blood had spread over his shirt and vest, and his breath came out fast and shallow. Tears slipped down Sam’s cheeks as he clutched Frodo’s limp hand, and Frodo shuddered with a yelp that faded into a low moan. Sweat had drenched his brow, and his eyes looked glazed and unfocused.

“Oh, no,” Aragorn whispered, his throat closing.

“Strider…help him, please.” Sam gazed at him in naked terror. The hobbits looked more frightened than they had when Frodo had been near to death in Bree. Aragorn picked up the offending blade, and it disintegrated into black dust, burning his hand. He dropped it like a hot brand and turned back to Frodo. Frodo could not possibly endure this, not after all he had already gone through. No mortal could.

“He tried to fight them, Strider,” Merry said, his eyes wide and fearful.

“I should have saved him,” Pippin said, squeezing his eyes shut, still trembling. “I…I felt a cold breath over me and I felt I couldn’t move, not for anything.”

“Can’t you do something?” Sam pleaded.

“I can do very little here in the wilderness, Sam,” Aragorn said, trying to keep his voice steady. “He needs Elvish medicine as can only be given to him in Rivendell.”

“He’s going to die?” Pippin asked, tears filling his eyes.

“How can he make it?” Sam cried out. “You said Rivendell was a fortnight away. He’ll never make it!”

“No,” Merry said, shaking his head firmly. “He won’t die. He survived what happened to him in Bree and he’ll pull through this as well.” He squeezed Frodo’s cold hand. “He must.”

“Gandalf told me he was made of stern stuff,” Aragorn said. “He has so far more than proven that. He will fight this.”

But Aragorn was no longer certain that was true. He had heard the weak despair in Frodo’s voice earlier. Aragorn longed to go back in time, just a few hours, so that he could have insisted on telling Frodo about his last conversation with Arwen.

“Sam, boil some water. I must search for an herb to ease his pain. After that, we must move. The Enemy will be back. Keep guard over Frodo and do not move him.”

Aragorn drew his cloak close to his body and strode out of the dell without a backward glance. He could not afford to be rendered weak by the sight of Frodo shuddering in pain.
Ornate statues… gauze curtains… a warm breeze that carried the scent of lilacs. Frodo breathed it in, relieved that he had finally died and reached a land of peace where the chattering of birds had replaced the dark chanting of Mordor. He now lay in the center of a huge but soft bed, feeling relaxed and warm for the first time since leaving his home. He shifted, but that was a mistake. Agony ripped through his shoulder, and he curled into a tight ball, writhing, clutching the soft coverlet in misery. The pain affirmed for him that he was not dead, but that by some miracle he had reached Rivendell.

“Do not move.”

Frodo startled as Aragorn moved toward him. He hadn’t seen the ranger sitting in the dark corner. A joyful smile twitched at his lips. He had despaired of seeing Aragorn again once they reached Rivendell.

“What happened? It all seems so dim.”

A faint memory tugged at him, of clinging to the mane of a swift horse while a beautiful but sad lady sang in Elvish. The melody had strained to veil the merciless call of the Enemy. Frodo remembered cracking his eyes—red and pained—open long enough to see black figures, more in focus than the sun or the gurgling river, approaching him, hissing at him, reaching for his heart.

“You nearly faded,” Aragorn said, settling on the edge of the bed, setting his hand on Frodo’s brow. “But you showed amazing resilience. Bilbo is the one…” Aragorn’s voice cracked slightly, and he swallowed. “One by one, we lost hope. Even Elrond, great Elvish healer that he is, could do nothing more. But Bilbo…he kept saying, He’s a Baggins, of course he’ll pull through--”

“Bilbo!” Frodo’s eyes widened with joy. “Where is he?”

Aragorn let his fingers run through Frodo’s curls, and Frodo shivered at his touch. “I sent him away to rest. He and Sam. Both have been by your side day and night since you were brought here.”

“Day and—“ Frodo’s heart thudded in distress. How odd it was to have lost track of time like that. It had been so long since he had felt lucid. “How long? How long since they brought me?”

“Three days. At last, Elrond found a sliver from the knife that was still inside you, worming its way to your heart.”

Frodo looked at Aragorn, trying to hide his horror. “What day is it then…and are the others safe?”

Aragorn nodded with a strained smile. “All is well that ends well, at least for now. You will mend…and that is more than any of us had hoped for, even Gandalf. Oh,” And now Aragorn smiled genuinely. “It is the 24th of October.”

“Safe,” Frodo whispered. His heart had risen at the mention of his beloved wizard friend. “But Gandalf— Where was he? Why did he not meet us in Bree?“

“You must not talk anymore. You still have much resting to do. Gandalf only allowed me to take you under my watch under the condition that you not talk or worry. You would not wish me to face his wrath, would you?”

Frodo shook his head, a smile on his lips, but his throat ached with melancholy. Aragorn was kind to take over watch of him, but kindness was all it was. Frodo could long for more all he wanted, but he could not change that Aragorn’s heart would always belong first to another.

“I will need to look you over before I leave you to sleep again.”

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked suspiciously. He was too warm and cozy to want to be moved around or prodded. He was already feeling sleepy again, and he yawned.

Aragorn gently lifted the coverlet off of Frodo, and as he unbuttoned the hobbit’s Elvish nightshirt, Frodo turned his face away, hoping Aragorn could not feel how quickly his heart pounded. Yet something melancholy in the ranger’s gray eyes triggered a distant memory, a shimmer of hope. Perhaps it came from a dream or conversation Frodo had overheard during his dark, wounded haze.

A thick bandage was still wrapped around his shoulder, but Aragorn did not touch it.

If he was moved by the sight of Frodo’s bare chest, he did not show it. “In the wild,” he said. “Pursued by enemies, it was near impossible to give you the care you’ve needed since Bree…and I know that some weeks have passed, enough for most of the damage to heal, but will you allow me to check the wounds around your backside?”

Frodo’s lip trembled with the utter humiliation of it. The wound in his shoulder had kept him unaware and delirious, under the care of many in Rivendell. But by now perhaps everyone knew what had happened to him in Bree. The idea of Bilbo finding out that he had been taken by force by a ruffian, a filthy warrior in Bree, was too horrible to articulate. But Bilbo must know by now. No wonder Bilbo was not sitting here with him. He couldn’t bear to face Frodo when he woke, to see the filth that had once been his dearest heir and cousin.

“Did you tell…?” Frodo whispered, his throat gripped in so much pain that he could barely breathe.

“No, no,” Aragorn said in a hoarse voice, and he paused, looking at Frodo with deep compassion and understanding. “It is your place to tell whom you will.”

Frodo released a sigh of relief, though he hoped his young friends had been able to restrain their tongues as well. “All right.” He felt limp with relief. “Do as you must.”

Aragorn gently turned Frodo over so that he lay on his belly. “I am not putting too much pressure on your shoulder?”

“No.” Frodo heard Aragorn wring out a cloth that carried the scent of fragrant water. He had not noticed a basin, but he supposed in this room of healing there would be many readily available. He wished he could remember being brought here, but his last memory was foggy and cold. He remembered facing the Ringwraiths, who called to him, promising to end the pain if he would but submit. He had nearly caved.

The scent of athelas filled the room, and the cold memory started to ebb. Aragorn lifted the back of Frodo’s Elvish night shirt. Frodo was wearing no undergarments, and he shivered as a breeze brushed over the delicate skin of his bottom.

“I am sorry, Frodo,” Aragorn said. Frodo was not sure, but he thought he might have detected a slight hitch in Aragorn’s voice. “Just a few moments and I’ll have you bundled and warm again.”

The athelas scent drifted into his nostrils, calming him, rendering him too weak to respond. Nothing evil could endure that scent. Even it did not seem to matter at the moment that Aragorn could not love him.

Hands pried gently at his bottom. Aragorn’s hands. A sweet warmth rippled through Frodo’s body at the thought, and his groin tightened. He bit his lip. It would never do for him to harden now. Cool athelas water dripped between his cheeks. He tensed at the first contact from the water, though he was not in pain. Most of the hurts had healed. There was but faint bruising where all the damage had been before. The cloth moved over his cheeks with utmost gentleness, and soon Frodo’s eyes fluttered closed.

He lay in a fog, just outside Weathertop, hearing his own voice yelp in response to the chilling call of the Enemy, yet unable to stop himself. The icy pain had radiated from his shoulder and seeped everywhere, but through it he heard familiar voices, and they kept him from slipping into the shadows.

“Oh, Sam,” Aragorn’s voice had sounded cracked, exhausted. “I’ve done all I can do, but we are still too far from aid. He is fading.”

“Mr. Strider…” Sam said, his voice choked. “You can’t give up. Please don’t give up. I can’t lose him.”

“I should never have left him, not for a minute.”

“You done your best. We’d a never made it this far without you.”

“Thank you, Sam. It lifts my heart to hear you say it. Frodo…he’s so…”

“I know you care for him,” Sam said. “I seen it back in Bree. You can’t help it. None of us can. He’s like that, you know.” Sam choked back a sob. “Everyone who knows him can’t help but love him.”

“I’ve never met anyone like him,” Aragorn said. “Not quite Hobbit all the way, is he? More Elvish, yet not quite that either. If only I had found him under different circumstances. I hurt him—I told him…”

“He loves you,” Sam said dully. “I know -- I’ve always been able to read him like a book.”

“You think so?” Aragorn said thoughtfully. “But I’ve destroyed all hope of it…I spoke to him about Arwen…and there was no reason for it. Told him I was betrothed.”

Sam did not answer, and Aragorn continued. “We *were* betrothed. But she is fading, Sam, as all her people are. She cannot stay in Middle earth.”

“Fading?” Sam asked. “What do you mean?”

“The elves are leaving Middle earth forever--”

“Going to the Gray Havens,” Sam said softly. “I know. Sailing, sailing away from us. Is this where your lady is going?”

“The last time I saw her, she was not herself, Sam. Her eyes were dull, like gems covered in film, as if she were only half with me. She looked so torn, one ear always straining to hear the singing of her people. I cannot keep her here with good conscience, Sam. She will wilt like a summer flower in frost, and I will not have it. I wanted to tell Frodo all this, but he would not let me.”

Frodo’s eyes opened, and he was aware once more of the gentle brushing of wet cloth over bottom. Any hurt that had ever existed there now faded under these tender ministrations.

“Was it true or was it a dream?” Frodo asked, trying to turn his head toward Aragorn. “Is your lady leaving Middle earth?”

The cloth paused, Aragorn’s thumb resting gently over the cleft in Frodo’s bottom. “You heard that?” Aragorn whispered hoarsely. He pulled the cloth away, leaving Frodo’s wet bottom chilled in the breeze.

“Did I hear wrong?” Frodo asked. There was a long silence, in which Frodo’s heart battered his chest, and he rose painfully on his right elbow to crane his head around. “Aragorn?”

Aragorn sat on his knees, the cloth clenched in his hand, looking down at his hands.

“No,” he finally managed. “You didn’t hear wrong.” He pulled Frodo’s nightshirt over his bottom and gently turned him back over so that he was propped on the pillow. His eyes shimmered, and Frodo realized that tears had filled his eyes. “But would you…would you have me, Frodo, after the pain I’ve had you endure?”

“You’re asking me,” Frodo said, unable to believe that he was hearing what he had despaired of. “What are you asking me?”

Aragorn took both of Frodo’s hands in his own. “What I told you was truth. I was betrothed to a lady I loved very much. But what is destined for us is different than I once dreamed, though I do not begrudge her choice to be with her people. But you are real and of this world.”

“Oh,” Frodo whispered, afraid to breathe. “But Aragorn…I’m but a…Why would you want a wounded Hobbit?”

“I care not for your wounds, other than I wish them to be gone and will do everything in my power to make that so. Now will you have me? I know it will be a long time before you will fully take comfort in me, and I am willing to wait.”

“You need to ask?” Frodo whispered.

“I cannot promise the road will be smooth,” Aragorn said. “There is much that destiny calls for me to do as the darkness in the East gathers.”

Frodo nodded, and his heart swelled with happiness. “And I do not know what path is destined for me. Will you not kiss me, Aragorn?”

Aragorn released a breath of relief, bent down, and placing his hands on either side of Frodo’s pillow so that no pressure fell on Frodo’s shoulder wound, he planted a long, probing kiss on the hobbit’s lips. Frodo drank in his scent, clinging to his lips with his own, and in that moment, he knew he would be willing to do anything, follow any path, endure any evil, as long as he had this.

Aragorn pulled back when a knock sounded at the door.

“May I come in?”

Frodo’s heart sped in joy. “Bilbo!”

“Is he awake?” Bilbo asked, pushing open the door and trotting to Frodo’s bedside. Frodo stared at him, shocked by how much Bilbo had aged since he had left the Shire. Frodo’s throat filled with joy, and tears sprang to his eyes. How many times had he been close to death, sure he would never see Bilbo again? How many times had he dreamed about Bilbo treating him coldly, shutting him out, because of what had happened to him in Bree? Now he saw the love that shined in Bilbo’s eyes and knew that it was impossible.

Bilbo cupped Frodo’s cheeks in his gnarled hands and kissed his brow several times. “I want to hug you, lad, but I don’t want to hurt your poor, dear shoulder.”

“Oh, Bilbo, I’m so glad you’re here!”

“My dear lad,” Bilbo said, kissing him again, wiping tears from his own eyes. “You’ve been through it, and it’s my fault.”

“No, no,” Frodo said. He looked up to meet Aragorn’s eyes, but the ranger had slipped out of the room, leaving them privacy.

Bilbo pulled his chair up to the side of the bed. “Let us speak of pleasant things; I do not like to see tears in your eyes.” He shook his head. “…Never could bear that. Tell me everything about the Shire since you’ve left, lad. Leave out nothing!”

The sun seemed to go behind a rain cloud, and Frodo frowned, biting his lower lip. The Shire was innocent and untouched, and he could not continue unless Bilbo knew that he was not worthy of speaking of it.

“Bilbo, something happened to me--”

“I know, lad. We nearly lost you, but Gandalf says you are on the mend.”

“I do not mean the stab wound. In Bree-”

“Frodo, lad,” Bilbo squeezed Frodo’s hand. “You do not have to tell me anything. I see in your eyes that innocence has been lost and it grieves me. I also see that you are not ready to tell me, not really. Let us not speak of it now. Just know that my love does not hinge on external factors. Nothing can change what Gandalf and I, and now Aragorn, it seems, know—that you’re the best Hobbit in the Shire. Nothing on the Outside can change that. Nothing.” Bilbo squeezed Frodo’s hand again. “Do you understand?”

Frodo nodded, and the terrible weight which had imprisoned his chest began to dissipate under the genuineness of Bilbo’s words. Never had Oron or Bree seemed so far away.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam called from the doorway, pushing open the door, followed by Merry and Pippin. “Oh, Mr. Frodo, you’re awake!”

“Careful now, careful!” Bilbo called as the three younger hobbits leaped on the bed, surrounding Frodo, kissing his hand and brow and cheek. Frodo looked at them in dazed happiness, too tired to respond.

Gandalf’s voice boomed over the tenor hobbit voices. “It is time to allow Frodo some rest. Elrond has commanded he have no visitors yet, and I’ve allowed five so far. He will mend but he is far from recovered. Out of here, all of you! There is a feast newly laid out in Hall.”

The hobbits scrambled off the bed and out the door, and Frodo was barely aware of Gandalf, still chuckling from the hobbits’ quick exit, adjusting his covers. Frodo sighed happily and opened his eyes one last time, hoping to gather the strength to ask Gandalf what had happened to him, why he had not met them in Bree. Instead of Gandalf, he saw that it was Aragorn smoothing his covers. The weight of the bed shifted, and much to Frodo’s delight, a pair of strong arms slid around his waist, cradling him to a solid chest. Aragorn was careful not to bump Frodo’s shoulder wound, but even if he did, Frodo knew he would not feel the icy pain. If it were possible to float out of the bed and into the sky from bliss, he knew he would. As it was, he merely drifted to sleep.

He would dream much during his long sleep of recovery, but he dreamed neither of Oron nor of Bree.
Aragorn’s urgent voice was low, nearly dangerous. “Come, Frodo! Faster or I’m going to drip all over your hand.”

“One moment! It tastes so sweet!”

Aragorn laughed softly. “Your tongue needs to move faster—I will not be able to hold it like this all day.”

“Aragorn, please. It’s my first time.” Frodo groaned in pleasure as he swallowed the sweetness, and it cooled his throat.

“What do you think of ice-cream?” Aragorn asked with a grin, pulling away the cone-shaped cookie that held inside it the most exquisitely delicious vanilla-flavored cream Frodo had ever tasted. They sat cross-legged, facing each other, on the goose feather coverlet. Aragorn had thought that a silk coverlet would be more appropriate for a king, but Frodo had insisted—if he was going to have to sleep in a bed onto which he needed a stepstool to climb, at least he wanted something familiar, and his mattress in Bag End had been made of goose feather. The windows of their chamber in a room high in the Citadel were open, letting in a lilac-scented spring breeze, and from where Frodo sat, he had a stunning view of the White City.

“I’ve never tasted anything like it,” Frodo said, licking cream from his lips. “Not even in the Shire, and hobbits know food far better than any of the Big People! How do they keep this so cold?”

“Deep down in the lowest parts of the Citadel, deeper than even the dungeons, we have cooling rooms. Some rooms are nearly kept cool enough to turn water to ice.”

“Oh,” Frodo said in awe. “Come, give me some more! Ice-cream you called it?”

Aragorn laughed and wiped Frodo’s sticky chin with a cloth. “I’m glad to see your appetite back.” He thrust the cone in front of Frodo again and laughed as Frodo eagerly lapped up more of the cold sweetness.

Finally, Aragorn sighed and climbed off the bed. “Regretfully, I must return to the hall. I still have men of the South who await my judgment.” Aragorn bent to steal a few licks of the ice-cream, and Frodo giggled to see the formerly grim ranger, now turned king, taking such pleasure in a luxurious treat.

“Don’t go,” Frodo grasped his wrist. “Stay with me instead.”

“You know I’d rather do that than do what I must.”

“You are the king. If you cannot do as you wish, who can?”

“I have enormous responsibility. You would not have me shirk, would you?”

Frodo gave Aragorn a side glance, his cheeks rosy with want. He hoped Aragorn would catch the hint. Despite that they had shared a bed for weeks now, Aragorn had barely touched him. Frodo did not know why Aragorn hesitated, but he intended to change it — and soon.

Aragorn kissed Frodo tenderly. “I must go.” His voice was firm, and Frodo reluctantly released his wrist. Aragorn handed Frodo the cone with the melting ice-cream with a gentle smile. “I promise I will return soon. Then we shall have a feast to attend to tonight.”

“I do not wish to go to another feast.”

“Alas, I must,” Aragorn said. “But you are not required to.”

Frodo watched him leave the room with a sigh of frustration.


***

Aragorn had been listening to a young man from Harad weaving a desperate story about how he had come to join the forces of Mordor. Aragorn tried to focus, as it was his duty to judge justly, but he was weary, and his mind wandered. He had condemned very few men, even those who had aligned themselves with Sauron during the war. His pity ran too deep.

He startled when Frodo entered the hall, striding across the chamber with sure steps, his chin lifted, Elvish cloak fluttering around his slender calves. His clear tenor voice rang out to the man from Harad: “Sir, you are exonerated from all possible wrongs done in the war. Go forth home now and make a new beginning.”

The young man gasped in relief, shocked by so easy a judgment. He looked at Aragorn questioningly, and Aragorn nodded. “The Ringbearer has spoken. Be gone.”

After the young man departed, Aragorn turned to Frodo. “What is this? I am far from finished. There are still three men waiting—“

Frodo’s cheeks were flushed. “Your feast begins in one hour. I will not wait until midnight, when you shall return to the room exhausted…and useless.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “Useless?” Frodo let out a large, plaintive sigh, and Aragorn grasped Frodo’s shoulders. “What is so urgent?”

A small hand slid inside the back of Aragorn’s velvet leggings and over his buttocks. Huge blue eyes looked up, burning with want, and Aragorn immediately hardened. For countless nights since Frodo had shared his bed, Aragorn had used his hands for relief after the hobbit had fallen asleep. He had longed to touch Frodo, but he was afraid. What if it was still too soon? He feared intimacy would bring the horror of Bree back to Frodo, though it almost seemed absurd after all the hobbit had endured since then. Yet, it seemed a valid point to consider. After all, while Frodo had been recovering in the Houses of Healing, Faramir had told Aragorn about the day he and his men had captured Frodo and Sam in Ithilien.

“In truth I had to deliver a blow to his head to knock him out of consciousness,” Faramir had said, shaking his head in regret. “It is not my style to hurt one so much weaker than myself unnecessarily, much less slay, as my father commanded, but Frodo fought us like a wild thing with no regard for himself, kicking and fighting and yelling loud enough to bring all the orcs of Mordor upon us. I worried not only that his shouts would attract the enemy, but that he would do harm to himself. I cannot understand it, my lord. I had made it clear that I would not harm him, that I merely wanted to question him, but as soon as my men touched him…In truth, I do not know what caused him to panic.”

Aragorn knew, and it was this knowledge that kept his hands from Frodo, even now.

While on the quest, there had never been a private moment, but they had managed gropes and fumbling kisses in the dark, fully clothed, with the risk of discovery ever over them. In Lorien, both had grieved too deeply for Gandalf, and Aragorn had not felt comfortable seeking Frodo’s companionship under the constant watch of the elves, so many close in kin to Arwen. Then, too soon after departing Lorien, they had been brutally separated. Aragorn had spent the remainder of the war half believing his dear one to have perished in the harsh land of Mordor. When Frodo had been brought back, battered, burned, ribs jutting through his stretched skin, but alive, it had been more than Aragorn had dared to hope for.

Aragorn grasped Frodo’s wrist and pulled the pale hand from inside his leggings. “Not here,” he said, his breath coming out in pants. “We’ll go back to our room.”

“Why not here?” Frodo pushed Aragorn back toward his throne.

“We shall be discovered,” Aragorn said, eyeing the entrance to the hall.

“Aragorn, you’re as hard as a rock. Just sit. You’ll never make it back to our room. Better here than in a stairwell…”

Aragorn allowed himself to be pushed into his throne, and he watched in a daze as Frodo unclasped his braces and let his breeches fall to the floor. The hobbit stepped out of them, leaving them at the base of the throne.

“The guards, Frodo…” Aragorn whispered, though his lips were numb.

“You are king,” Frodo said with a mischievous smile. “They will not dare talk.”

“I must command their respect.”

“Respect is highly overrated.” Frodo tugged at Aragorn’s hips, and Aragorn rose his bottom enough for Frodo to yank his leggings down. A furious buzzing surged through his body, and he no longer wished to protest. As Frodo had pointed out, he was so hard that he might explode at the slightest touch. Frodo crawled on his bare legs, making him shiver with want, and wrapped his cloak around the two of them. “There,” he said, his breath catching as their hardened members rubbed against each other. “Now, even if your guards come, they will not find us so easy to discover. Remember, it is an Elven cloak. It protected Sam and I in Mordor a time or two.”

Aragorn did not answer, but he clasped Frodo tightly to him. His hands roamed the hobbit’s smooth skin, causing Frodo to thrust maddeningly against him. Aragorn’s hands had nearly reached Frodo’s member. If he did not do something to ease the throb in his groin, he would go mad.

“May I…?”

Frodo lifted his chin, his blue eyes glittering dangerously as he looked up from the shadow of his hood. “If you do not, I shall go home to the Shire and king or not, I will see to it that you never see me again. Understand?”

Aragorn nodded, swallowing. Frodo’s stern countenance caused new shivers of delight through him, and he dipped two of his fingers into Frodo’s hole. Frodo writhed, gasping loudly.

“Is this all right?” Aragorn asked in concern, pulling out his fingers immediately. He could not tell whether Frodo was gasping in fear or pleasure.

“Aragorn,” Frodo gasped, curling his hand around Aragorn’s hardness, causing bolts of hot pleasure. “Do not bother with the fingers.”

Aragorn lifted Frodo, positioning him over his maddeningly stiff shaft.

“Easy, Frodo,” Aragorn said as Frodo pressed down on his shoulders, wriggling madly.

“Pull me down,” Frodo said through gritted teeth. “Why do you just sit there?”

“I do not want to hurt you,” Aragorn said. “You are not accustomed—“

“Aragorn, I have waited for this for months upon horrid months,” Frodo said, his eyes blazing. “Please show me now how it is meant to feel when one is not taken by force.”

Aragorn tugged at Frodo’s hips, pulling him down slowly. Frodo wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s neck, biting his lips, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Are you hurt?” Aragorn whispered, his throat filling unpleasantly.

“Hush! Keep pushing me down.”

Finally Frodo let out a pleasured gasp and opened his eyes again. “Yes,” he breathed, rocking in rhythm over Aragorn’s hardness. “This is how it should be. Move, Aragorn! Faster…faster!”

Now that Aragorn knew for certain that he was no longer hurting Frodo, he began to once again relish the bubbling itch that surged through him. He thrust upward, grunting, no longer caring whether all the Guards of the Citadel came to view them. Their grunts and pants echoed in the hall, and as Aragorn burst and gave his final thrust, he looked into the stony eyes of the former kings that lined the hall. None of them had been so fortuitous.

For many long moments, Frodo sat limp upon Aragorn’s lap, his hairy feet wrapped around Aragorn’s legs, leaning his head against Aragorn’s chest. Their combined wet stickiness pooled in Aragorn’s lap.

At last, Frodo lifted his head from Aragorn’s chest, letting out a sleepy sigh.

“I should very much like more of that ice-cream…if that can be arranged.”

Aragorn looked down at the dear face, now flushed and sweaty, blue eyes shining with adoration and trust. Aragorn let his lips drop on the sweaty brow, kissing, thanking the Valar for granting him this. How it could be that neither Frodo’s experience in Bree nor the Ring nor all he had faced in protecting the Ring had not ripped away his hobbit-like innocence and joy of life, Aragorn did not know. But he was grateful, and he vowed to protect that miracle and make it his utmost duty to make the remainder of Frodo’s days full of love and comfort.


END