TITLE: Hero

AUTHOR: Conlai

AUTHOR E-MAIL:

PAIRINGS: Frodo/Aragorn, Boromir/Aragorn, Aragorn/Arwen (implied)

RATING: R

WARNING: non-con and BDSM

SUMMARY: As the quest takes its toll on Frodo and Aragorn, they began to rely on one another more and more for understanding and comfort. Eventually, their deepening relationship will require some difficult choices of them both, but will they live to make them?

HERO

Chapter 1

"The Keeper of the North"

Frodo listened to his companions settle into their beds, even as he did so himself. Gandalf's letter was still clutched protectively in his fist, and he held it close to reassure himself of many confusing things. The pallet beneath him was warm and yielding, and as welcoming of sleep as he could hope for; but no rest would come to the troubled hobbit. His eyes were lightly shut and he kept his breathing slow and soft, so to appear to be asleep. He did not want anyone bothered, for the day had been long and tiresome, and Merry and Pippin and Sam had been hoping for a good night's rest. Even Strider, who sat at the window, smoking his pipe, seemed to have relaxed a little.

That was not the first time that night Frodo had found his thoughts dwelling on Strider. Of course, he did realise that it would only be sensible not to put his full trust in him, having shared but one discussion with the arcane Ranger, during which his oddities had roused suspicions in the others. Nevertheless, he could not deny that he felt oddly safe in Strider's presence. And the letter...Gandalf knew of an "Aragorn"who often called himself by the name of "Strider", and though Sam's arguments against this ranger were not without reason, Frodo could not find them supported by any aspect of the man himself that was not pure illusion.

His back was turned toward the one in question, and he knew he was keeping watch out the dark-paned window at the opposite wall, so Frodo allowed himself to stop feigning sleep. He looked around the rustic room, missing Barliman's offered quarters, which the man had said would be suited to hobbit-folk. He had not hoped for convenience, though, he reminded himself. What he had hoped for, he supposed, was a reminder of home, albeit he would not have voiced this thought to any of his companions. He was beginning to feel quite small and very lonely in this place with all its large, looming abandoned buildings and tall men. That feeling came even with all the long walks on which his uncle had taken him in his youth (a subject still often broached in Hobbiton). He could only imagine how the others, Sam especially, were feeling about being so far from home.

Growing suddenly nervous, he found himself looking for something on which to focus in hopes that it would help him sleep, as it had when he was young. He could see nothing, though, for the fire was kept low, and the only light was that of the bright embers, which cast the room in a glowing, unsettling red. An immense disquiet lay heavy upon Frodo, and he found that he no longer wanted to close his eyes, though he was aware of his need for sleep. It felt almost as if a childhood fear were nagging at him, in an unfamiliar place, with a stranger whom he could only trust by his own untested instincts. Worst yet was that something that he could not name was looking for him, hunting him...something dark that he did not understand. He could feel its presence. Faint it was, yet haunting, like a nightmare that lingers for days. It was growing closer, stronger by the minute. His eyes darted once more across the room, and he imagined that the shadows moved. Could they feel him as well?

Frodo hesitated in his thoughts, afraid even to let the question cross his mind, but it came unbidden. Could they feel the Ring?

A chill took Frodo's body, like a sudden draft of cold air, the source of which could not be found. He held the letter in his hand tighter wrinkling the paper. He decided that he must calm himself, if he were to have any sensible thought. He reminded himself that there was no immediate danger, and found that having Strider nearby was very comforting. He averted his eyes from the dimness at one side of the room, and opted to watch the embers die out in the hearth.

"Can you not sleep, Frodo?"

Frodo jumped at the sound of Strider's soft whisper, startled out of a troubled reverie. He sat up a little, and turning to face him, shook his head.

"Come over here," Strider beckoned, keeping his voice low.

Frodo obeyed, and wrapped his blanket about his shoulders, slipping Gandalf's missive into the pocket of his breeches as he did. He sat down at the Ranger's feet. They were silent for a few moments, and Frodo found himself glancing over the tall man's body, fascinated by his significantly different build. He would have thought that he was quite unobtrusive, but Strider was watching every movement of his eyes.

"My feet must seem fair small to one of your folk," Strider said with a little laugh.

Although he was startled, Frodo laughed as well. Hearing such a stern man jest helped to lighten his spirits, somewhat. "We hobbits wonder how you Men keep your balance."

"Many of us don't, much of the time," smiled Strider.

As Frodo's eyes adjusted to the shadows of the corner they sat in, he began to notice a slight redness rimming Strider's eyes. Though he was curious, he didn't know if it would be polite to inquire. "Strider, what's wrong?" he blurted out without thinking. He cursed inwardly, and tried to further explain, stammering under the scrutinising

At that moment, Pippin entered, having left briefly to the adjacent room to relieve himself. Strider's eyes had quickly fallen upon the door as it opened, and Frodo jumped with fright.

Pippin sighed as he turned and slid the old, rusted deadbolt into place. "I don't trust that lock to hold...should something...well, happen."

Strider turned back to the window. "No lock would hold should our enemy wish to pass it."

Pippin shivered visibly. "Don't say such things, please!" He whispered pleadingly. "I'm frightened enough by all this." He stepped cautiously over Sam and laid down, settling hastily into his blanket.

"Forgive me," said Strider gently. "Dark speech is not always suited for dark times." Pippin nodded thankfully at this and shut his eyes.

Frodo stared blankly into the darkness, his brow creased in a disturbed manner. Pippin hardly heard Frodo speaking to him; the hobbit's voice was so quiet. "He's right."

Strider looked at him solicitously, regretting having scared them, but said nothing. Pippin's breaths were soon heard to become deeper with sleep. "I am sorry. I'm just worried, and I show it badly."

"Tell me truthfully, Strider, do you know that they will find us?" Frodo inquired, steadying his voice.

Strider shook his head, trying to find a way to explain his thoughts. It was something he'd never been apt at, even as a child. When the emotions of other young ones were so simple, his had been complex, and in all his years, he still could never place the words he sought. These days, he often opted to relate things by means of logic. "They can feel the call of the One, and it leads them to this place. I have learned from my own friends that they are near at hand. If they do miss us, which is hardly likely, then tonight's happenings have posed another threat. Bree is a veritable nexus for strange travellers and an extremely talkative peerage, and, as you can see, that is a dangerous mixture of kinds."

"You mean Bill Ferny and his southerner," said Frodo.

"Yes, and there are others more dangerous, that Ferny would most certainly help if the right price were offered," Strider spat contemptuously. "Ferny's naught but a whore."

"I'm afraid," said Frodo, "that I may have made more danger for myself that I can handle."

"I don't encourage you to do anything of the sort again, of course, but I beg you not to give anymore worry to the matter. I'm not the only ranger here, you know," Strider disclosed trustingly.

"There are more rangers?" said Frodo, seeming surprised. "Here?"

"Yes," Strider nodded. "Dear friends of mine."

Though Frodo didn't notice, Strider smiled broadly as he said this. Frodo's mind drifted back to his own friends, and the Shire, and he succumbed to a terrible longing. Strider paused for a moment, thinking. "I don't suppose you'd mind telling me how old you are?" he inquired abruptly.

Frodo shook off the deep nostalgia of his thoughts of his own bed and safe hobbit hole. To him, it seemed odd that Strider asked this question, for many hobbits in the Shire had asked the very same. Strider was the last place he had expected to find a reminder of his beloved home, however trivial. "Fifty," he said softly.

Strider gave him a puzzled expression, though there were darker thoughts in his mind that he did not let show on his face, for Gandalf had told him how long Frodo had been in possession of the Ring, and he knew full well the effect it had had on Bilbo and Gollum "You do not look it at all."

"And you?" said Frodo. He was subconsciously expecting Strider to be anywhere from thirty to forty years old, but he noted that the man acted much wiser, more akin to Gandalf.

"Eighty-seven," said Strider, after a moment, his voice wistful. "And I shall not die of my age or any sickness for many years to come."

"You don't look it, I assure you," Frodo whispered, astonished. The verse Gandalf had mentioned came to mind, and suddenly Frodo thought that Strider was much more than he claimed or seemed to be. He looked at the Man, as if now he could see more of him. This was not Strider the Ranger, or anyone deserving of such names as Longshanks or Stick-at-Naught, but someone greater, with a strange sort of power emanating from his very being. This was Aragorn.

Pale grey daylight flooded his vision once again as a sudden chill pulled Frodo from his thoughts. He sighed, shivering with cold as the soggy ground gave way to thin mud beneath his feet for the umpteenth time. It felt as if he was a hundred miles out of Bree, when, in fact, the small party had been travelling like snails for less than a day. Depression had begun to overtake his consciousness, as he and Sam, Pippin, and Merry followed Strider over the dreary northern regions.

They had reached Midgewater Marshes by noon. The stagnant, cold pools made the going even slower for the small hobbits. They missed the damp woodland they had so recently left behind, for there, the cold wind and rain found little leeway, and the smell was of loam and wood and not at all intolerable. Now, breezes constantly brought with them the foul smell of marsh water from nearby, and if one stood in one place for too long, one would eventually sink into an inch of freezing water. What must have been hours before, Merry and Pippin had tried to strike up a conversation, but had failed after a particularly annoying swarm of bugs had descended upon them. After that, the companions fell silent, and a dark, cheerless mood lay over the travellers once again. Strider was the only one whose demeanour had not changed, but that was not surprising; he was as quiet and moody as ever he had been, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

Frodo sensed that Strider was growing impatient with the delay they were causing. His expression, however, remained neutral each time he stopped to wait for them to catch up with him, for he knew the pace he had set for them was brisk.

It must have been nearing three o'clock by then, but the sky was as grey-cast and cloudy as it had been that morning, giving the five companions the feeling that hours were stretched far over there limits. Some of them were beginning to question Strider's skills. Sam, especially, seemed particularly convinced that the Man was fallible in the matters of travel in the wilderness, "Ranger or no". Frodo was the only one present who was wholly discouraged from his own suspicions, as he watched the sureness with which Strider stepped, never seeming to falter, as if he could still see his own footprints from passed times he'd travelled this marshland. His attention was often held over long periods by simply watching him. However, this did not keep the march from being tedious.

"Mr. Frodo," said Sam quietly. "Forgive me if it seems I'm prying, but I would swear that I heard you talking with Mr. Strider last night, for quite some time, too."

Frodo nodded. "I was."

Sam looked uncomfortable. "He didn't say anything that seemed, well, suspicious, did he?"

"No, quite the contrary, Sam," Frodo replied. "Why is it you don't trust him? He's done nothing to prove he's not here to help."

Sam eyed Strider suspiciously for a moment, considering him. "I don't mean to be harsh, but I believe he'll have my full trust when we're all safe in Rivendell."

Frodo smiled slightly. "I suppose that's practical."

Aragorn had retreated into his own thoughts, as he often did to make monotonous journeys bearable. Unease nagged at him. There was some evil afoot that chilled him in an oddly familiar way. The feeling was disturbing to him, not yet sickening, but drawing nigh upon it. As the minutes passed, he felt his suspicions confirmed.

The Nine were somewhere near at hand. Since the incidence of the previous night his expression had become grave with worry on the matter. They knew not yet where the Ring was, but he guessed they knew exactly where it was going. He could see that Frodo felt their presence as well, for the hobbit kept glancing over his shoulder, jumping if someone spoke to him, and he shivered, as if chilled. Strider then became more wary, his gaze dodging stealthily in every shadow, searching for any sign of the Enemy.

In such a way the day passed, until night swept over the land with strange swiftness, bringing with it a cold wind to replace the mist of rain that had hung in the air that day.

Strider made camp quickly on the nearest patch of dry turf. Wearily, the hobbits unpacked their gear, and ate a small portion of the food Barliman had sent with them, each thanking him profusely under his breath. Frodo ate nothing, and only sipped a bit of water from his skin, feeling too tired to stay awake. He broke off from the rest of the group. Sam's eyes followed him nervously for a while, but then the worrisome hobbit figured that his master would not be leaving camp tonight. One by one, the other three hobbits spread their pallets on the ground, and were soon asleep.

Frodo sat down next to Strider, who was again taking first watch. The man's features were kept phlegmatic, leaving Frodo to wonder whether he minded having company.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" he inquired. He remembered that Strider had taken no breakfast in Bree that morning.

"Aren't you?" said the man.

Frodo shook his head. "No, I'm not hungry."

"You should eat. I can wait."

Frodo was puzzled. "Wait how long?"

Strider sighed heavily. "Until we reach Rivendell."

Frodo wondered at that for a few minutes. His eyelids were growing too heavy to uphold.

Strider smiled fondly as the little hobbit at his side fell asleep. Frodo's head lolled over to rest on his shoulder. Tentatively, Strider lifted his arm and put it about the hobbit, who sighed comfortably. Whether it was awake or not, Strider was glad of some company.

"They are coming for him, Aragorn."

Hador's words echoed. Amras stood over Eldin's dead body, weeping little trails of blood that fell onto the corpse. Amras looked up at Aragorn with an unearthly suddenness.

"He will not be your last failure."

Frodo's scream was all he could hear. Then whispers, and he could no longer separate them from the scream. Then it came back, louder now, and as a Wraith cries for the Ring.

"They are coming for him."

Strider's eyes snapped open. His body felt numb from fear. He and Frodo had fallen asleep sitting upright, and the little hobbit still rested peacefully upon his shoulder. Hand shaking in the aftermath of his dream, he stroked Frodo's cheek absently, and found it chilled. He picked him up and laid him back on his pallet, covering him with the blankets already folded at the foot of the bedroll, and then with his own cloak. Wiping cold sweat from his brow, he leant down gently kissed Frodo's lips. Frodo's breath lingered for a moment upon Strider's mouth, and the man sighed, savouring it. Reaching under the cover, he took hold of Frodo's small hand and enclosed it in his own. "I'll not let them take you."

Frodo was lying on his bedroll gazing at the vast expanse of the starless wintry sky, and he was mesmerised by the way the snow was beginning to fall. For all this he was somehow not cold, though he was aware that under his blanket he wore nothing. He raised his head a little and found three sleeping hobbits at his side. He and Strider were now the only ones awake, he realised, and then felt a tightness growing in his stomach. He sat up, letting the cover slide from his bare chest, and saw that the man was approaching. He stopped for a moment and they held one another's gaze for what seemed like an eternity to Frodo. All the while, Frodo felt that tightness growing to a need that he knew he could not ignore for much longer. Finally, Strider knelt down at his side, and they were kissing, bruising one another's lips in mad passion. Though he was unsure of how it had happened, a sudden burst of bodily pleasure sent Frodo over the edge, and he came hard...

Becoming unaware of the fading dream, Frodo's mind shifted back into a state of fear, and he fell from Strider's arms into stifling darkness.

During some dark hour of the night, Frodo awoke suddenly, unsettled by an illusive nightmare. A sheen of sweat covered his brow and he was trembling, but he did not remember of what he had been dreaming. However, as he shifted, he realised there was a pleasantly warm tingle between his legs, and a not entirely pleasant stickiness. The nature of his dream became apparent, and he became very nervous at the thought that someone might have heard him. Strider was the only one awake, and his back was turned toward Frodo. A wreath of silver, wispy smoke hung over the man's head. Frodo saw it grow slightly as Strider blew another thin stream of pipe-smoke from his lips. The posture of his dark silhouette showed that he was sitting up straight and alert, undaunted by the cold, though his cloak was missing...

Frodo looked down. Strider's heavy travelling cloak covered him, having been tucked gently beneath him. The smell of pipe-weed was evident on it, reminding Frodo of Gandalf and Bilbo. Frodo smiled gratefully and snuggled deeper into its folds. Strider must have carried him to his bedroll, he realised.

Faintly, he heard a voice, singing ever so softly in Elvish, and the beauty of it struck him. Only after a few more moments did he realise that it was Strider who was singing. Frodo knew enough Elvish to make out some of the words. "Who is she?" he asked softly, in awe of the man's haunting voice. "This woman you sing of."

Strider turned around suddenly, surprised. He thought for a short moment, and then replied. "Tis the Lay of Luthien...the Elf maiden who gave her love to Beren- a mortal Man," he said slowly.

Frodo could see that Strider was deep in thought, perhaps remembering something. Frodo felt that now that he could almost perceive the age of the man before him.

The familiar smell of pipe-weed was relaxing and sweet, and Frodo inhaled deeply, and then sighed. He looked down, to the figure asleep at his side. Sam's face was as peaceful as Frodo had ever seen, and there was a slight smile upon it. A chill wind blew past, but he pulled his blanket close, and it seemed that it offered more warmth than usual. Though all evil in the world pursued him, he was not afraid now.

He laid down upon his pallet again and nestled into his cover. With the strange image of Strider the Ranger, surrounded by a mist of ambrosial pipe-smoke, he drifted back into sleep.