Chapter Text
“Come on! Another sip, Frodo.”
“It’s utterly vile.” Frodo’s lips twitched and he tried to stay stern. “I won’t drink another drop.”
Pippin, dressed in full soldier of Gondor garb, laughed as he forced the goblet back to Frodo’s lips. “Come, cousin, the king will be insulted if you don’t drink more. You forget I am a soldier now, and my commands are meant to be obeyed.”
Frodo forced another swallow of the sickly sweet liquid that burned his throat and spread down his chest. “No more.” He pushed the goblet away, barely hiding a grin. “And if the same hobbit that was bird-nesting in the Shire less than a year ago is a real soldier, then Gandalf is a young hobbit lass.”
“Tsk, tsk, cousin Frodo,” Pippin said, feigning annoyance. “Don’t forget -- Ringbearer or not, I can have you hauled to prison for being discourteous to one of the king’s guards.”
“I’d like to see that,” Frodo said with a defiant smile, grabbing the goblet from Pippin and dumping the remainder of the liquid onto the stones. The red liquid trickled in between the cold stones that made up the secluded terrace. “I do believe I had better fare than this when I was captured by orcs in Mordor!”
Pippin sniffed. “I shall tell the king that you have no taste in wine.”
“I care not.” Frodo closed his eyes as if bored and leaned against the terrace wall, letting the sun warm his face. “I am tired, let me sleep.” In truth, he was more than tired. His limbs felt burdened with heavy stones, and the idea of having to climb to his feet to face the nearly thirty-minute trek back to the lodging he shared with the other hobbits near the Houses of Healing nearly brought him to tears. He would not ask Pippin for help this time. His friends fussed over him enough as it was, and especially now, with Pippin in a teasing mood, he would never hear the end of it. Frodo released a heavy sigh. Perhaps if he took a short nap in the sun, he would feel strong enough to walk when he woke.
“Come, Frodo.” Pippin tugged at Frodo’s limp arm. “I’ll help you back to our cottage. I’m sorry I teased; you look exhausted.”
Frodo kept his eyes closed. “I thought you were going to throw me in prison.”
“I am.” Pippin smiled grimly. “You’re to go back to bed and stay under Gandalf’s care. King’s orders.”
Frodo let out a sharp laugh. “Until I hear word from Aragorn himself, I do not move.”
“Is that so?” Frodo’s eyes flew open. Aragorn stood with folded arms, his lips curved in a gentle smile.
“Aragorn,” Frodo said, flushing. He hoped Aragorn would not catch the whiff of the spilled wine between his toes.
“I am afraid we have an unruly hobbit to contend with,” Pippin said.
“Yes,” Frodo said, holding Aragorn’s gaze with earnest blue eyes. “I’m afraid Pippin has been most unmanageable. I fear the only solution is a demotion to kitchen duty.”
Pippin cuffed Frodo’s arm as Aragorn let out a rich laugh. “I would resurrect Sauron before I would assign a hobbit to kitchen duty. After all, our food source is finite.” His gaze on Pippin became suddenly stern. “And speaking of duty, do you not have somewhere you should be?”
Pippin looked at him in confusion a moment before his face fell in horror. “Supper!” He jumped to his feet. “They only serve soldiers on duty at certain times and I fear I’ll miss it! Oh, dear!”
Aragorn and Frodo laughed as Pippin gave them a quick wave of farewell before trotting away at a speed that seemed most unnatural for a hobbit wearing armor.
After Pippin passed out of sight, Aragorn knelt in front of Frodo, his face grave with concern. “Gandalf has sent guards to search for you. He is very worried that you may not be well enough to be out for so long. Are you hiding?”
Frodo closed his eyes again, not sure whether to feel annoyed or relieved by Aragorn’s astute assessment. “Why do you assume I am hiding? Perhaps I only wish a quiet place in the sun where I can think.”
“You have picked the most hidden terrace possible. I only found you because I heard hobbit laughter. There is no sound like it in Middle earth.”
Frodo returned Aragorn’s fond smile, but only briefly. “Perhaps I am hiding.”
“What is it?” Aragorn asked in a soft voice. “Is something distressing you?”
Frodo sighed, clutching his knees to his chest. “It is Boromir.”
“Boromir?” Aragorn said in surprise. “What of him?”
“I…Aragorn.” Frodo sighed again and turned his weary eyes to the king. “I’m very ashamed.”
“What is it?” Aragorn’s voice was soothing, and Frodo was too weak to hold everything inside.
“Boromir has tried to visit me several times since I’ve awakened.”
Aragorn nodded. “He has, himself, only just recovered from grievous battle injuries. He inquired of your health even when he, himself, was bedridden. Have you spoken with him?”
Frodo shook his head. “I cannot.”
Aragorn settled against the wall beside Frodo, and a comfortable silence fell between them. Frodo realized how much he missed moments like this. He wished that instead of friends fussing over his physical ailments and trying to make certain he would not break apart, that they would spend more time just listening.
”Why not?” Aragorn finally asked.
“Well…the last time we spoke was the day…he tried--”
“The day the fellowship broke apart?” Aragorn interrupted gently.
Frodo nodded miserably. “I know it is wrong, Aragorn, but I see him as I saw him that day. His eyes were fierce and vacant.” He shuddered. “And I knew in that moment that he would kill me with no conscience, just as he would an orc. He arms were so crushing when he knocked me down. He is a powerful Man, Aragorn, and his power was thoroughly unleashed. He was not himself.”
“You know it was the influence of the Ring,” Aragorn said softly. “And that influence is gone.”
“I know.” Frodo rested his head on his knees. There was something else he could not bring himself to tell Aragorn, something that had made Boromir’s betrayal still throb in his chest like an infected wound.
Aragorn slid his arm over Frodo’s shoulders and squeezed. “But that does not make your feelings unjustified. You must take this time to recover, Frodo, and not just in body. Your spirit was as badly injured, and I am just as concerned about that. You must not allow anything to stress you now. If Boromir worries you, then do not feel guilty about not wanting to see him. If you wish, I will speak to him…tell him not to disturb you.”
Frodo shivered, but he did not answer.
One long ago night, while the fellowship had traveled through the desolate country of Hollin, Boromir had been cleaning his sword. Frodo had watched in fascination as the warrior’s hands ran a dirty cloth up and down the sword, his fingers powerful yet tender as they serviced his beloved blade.
Frodo’s cheeks grew hot and his breeches tightened. He disappeared with the excuse that he needed to relieve himself, but instead, he sank to his knees and unbuttoned his breeches, drawing out his hardening member. He closed his eyes and gripped himself, imagining Boromir’s hands, tender, strong, pliable, and large enough to easily crush, yet controlled and harnessed.
“Boromir,” he gasped, quickening his hands on himself, picturing the Man grunting with want, harnessing his urge to squeeze until Frodo broke. *Boromir, Boromir, faster!!* He rocked his hips, leaning into a pair of strong hands, imagining with utter clarity the feel of insistent lips on his.
His hands filled with sticky wet, and he kept his eyes shut, picturing Boromir licking his rough hands clean, reveling in the taste of Frodo.
“Frodo?” Frodo’s eyes flew open to find Boromir standing tentatively, watching him. Boromir glanced to Frodo’s breeches, and he released a groan of embarrassment. “I am sorry,” he had said, backing away. “I did not mean to…I was only afraid for you.”
Frodo had been mortified, but Boromir had never again spoken of it, though Frodo noticed an immediate difference in the way Boromir regarded him. Many a night around the modest campfire, Frodo and Boromir locked eyes. Many a time when Boromir thought Frodo did not notice, he stared at the hobbit in naked hunger. Sometimes Frodo met his gaze at these times, giving him a promising smile, allowing the Man to see the blush that colored his cheeks. He grew bolder about disappearing from the company to pleasure himself, though much to his disappointment, Boromir never again followed him. They never approached each other, never dared to explore untapped feelings.
And then the Ring had taken him, shattering all hope.
Frodo clenched his fists and looked at Aragorn, feeling cold with guilt. “I know he does not mean harm. He only wishes to see me after all we’ve been through.”
Aragorn held his hand to Frodo’s brow. “You are warm. Will you allow me to carry you back to your cottage?”
Frodo met Aragorn’s concerned gaze with a weary smile. He knew that he could not walk on his own, and he was too tired to resist. “All right.”
Aragorn wrapped Frodo’s cloak snuggly around the hobbit and lifted him. Frodo slid his arms around Aragorn’s neck and nuzzled his face into his dear friend’s neck. Immediately he began to doze. The only people on the streets of the upper level of the city were Gondorian soldiers, and they watched in curious respect as their king strode through the streets of Minas Tirith with a sleeping halfling cradled in his arms.
TBC