Diem Kieu: :D Yeah, but it's also really weird, so ending probably not as sad as it could have been. XD I'll edit it in the future, I promise.
Yes! On to Frodrida!
Is very sappy, sappy chapter! O.O And it was also written in two sections of one or two hours apiece, very slapdash done. One-shot-ish, not meant to be perfectly coherent.
This is based on something Diem Kieu brought up in passing, so big thanks to her for the writing of this scene! X)
"Bilbo, my favorite eldest son . . ."
Bilbo's eyes sank shut; he knew a big favor was coming out. "Yes, my favorite mother?"
Sev laughed, slipping her wing about her son's shoulders. Delamarth lay prostrate on the crystal waves, succumbing to a sea of firelight flowing from the horizon beyond. Sev allowed Bilbo to ogle over his beautiful wife for another moment before she nudged him.
"I got married today, 144 years ago," Sev hinted. "That's a special number for your father, you know."
Bilbo's eyebrow shot straight up, but he did not turn away from the siren in the water. "Indeed," was his only reply.
"And thus, I'm sure your father would appreciate very much to have an evening alone. He is raising nine hatchlings and three children, you know, and an anniversary is a wonderful day for a break."
Bilbo grinned. While he could be obstinate and openly reluctant at times, he was a great deal like Frodo, and Sev knew he wouldn't refuse on his father's behalf.
"All right," Bilbo said. "I'll look after them." Then he paused, staring at a dragon-halfling and her hobbit spouse backed against a tree nearby, and he nodded to them. "Some of them, at least; I'm sure Timanaa and Fredegar would be available to take a few."
Sev squeezed Bilbo's shoulders. "Thank you; you're the best." She brushed her crimson membranes over his hair. "Don't forget it, and don't let that siren let you forget it either."
Bilbo called out to her as she trotted up the shore, preparing to shove off with her wings. "That siren has a name, you know!" He shook his head; she was too far away to hear him. He knew it was hard for her. He'd heard the stories over and over again, recorded poems and songs from his surrogate uncle Samwise: Delamarth had once been the Ring, and done horrible things to his father . . . apparently not only the things Sam knew about, and not only the things written, but worse things. In preparation for his marriage, Frodo warned Bilbo about Delamarth: apparently during their travels to Mordor, she had attacked Frodo, for reasons Bilbo's father dare not explain, but she left a huge gouge in Frodo's chest, as well as permanent clawed scars on his neck and all over his ribcage. Frodo had never told anyone else, although eventually had to confess to his wife for her medical education from the Draconic royalty.
Bilbo had never known his wife to do any horrid thing, not to him. He continued to watch her as she swayed with the water; she was such a graceful, beautiful creature. And she doted upon him, offered him affection and passion sometimes even he didn't have the capacity to express back to her. He closed his eyes, remembering their first kiss. She had obviously known better than he did of such things, and he remembered talking to his father about it. Frodo had warned him to be careful: Delamarth was designed to break him apart, no matter how she had changed.
"I wish they could only see what I do," he murmured, as though they could hear him.
"Which is what, my most Precious one?"
Chills ran up Bilbo's back at her voice, and his eyes eased open. She stood over him, completely dry and draped in a radiant dress of black. She settled by his side and rested her hand on the opposite side of his waist. Bilbo sighed and allowed her to lay his head on her shoulder. Her fingers traced over his opposite arm, as soft as her feathers. His eyes flickered.
"It's nothing," he said, pausing as though he could come up with an affectionate nickname to distract her. But he had no ideas on that. He often told her he had no words to describe what he saw in her, and while she often gave him a flat look that told him she felt he was overdoing the flattery, it was the truth; it was all he knew. He meant it more in an apology than anything: she'd have appreciated a sweet nickname.
Of course, she always knew when he was uncertain or lying. This case concerning his struggle with his father's perspective on her was no different. She twisted her fingers in his curls absently, getting a glint in her eye that always terrified Frodo. Bilbo found it endearing. "Nothing? Nothing indeed, Bilbo," she snorted. She caught a graceful fingernail under his chin and tickled faintly. "There's something inside that beautiful throat of yours waiting to come out. Share your concerns with me," she whispered to his vocal cords. Her eyes lifted to his own.
Bilbo stiffened as though his father was standing behind him, repeating that warning again: "Delamarth can hurt you. Be careful."
"My father doesn't trust you, does he?" Bilbo asked.
Delamarth's eyes blazed. "Of course not," she said. Bilbo winced at her livid flare. "I take it he almost didn't turn you over to me; he was the first to recognize that I had changed, but now that I'm married to his son he has understandably grown protective." Over her statement her anger deflated, and she sank against Bilbo's side. "Your mother isn't as bad about it. We were actually getting along early on in their marriage; a century and a half can do more than you would expect." She smirked up at him. "I'm old, aren't I?"
Bilbo stammered his response, and she laughed as he tripped over himself. "Well, no! That is . . . well, you are, but you don't . . . well, my parents are almost as old . . . you don't look that old." He finally turned cherry red and leaned away from her, as though she were uncomfortable with his indecision.
She nudged him. "Love, I'm pulling your leg; don't mind it." Then she paused. "Where are Frodo and Reject, anyway?"
"It's their anniversary today," Bilbo said, glancing back at the white ziggurat bursting from within the mainland forest. "And they're sending the . . ." He paused, searching for a good phrase. He was accustomed to hearing Delamarth's "affectionate nickname" for these particular halflings, but due to his father's chagrin at the phrase he decided it better not to go there. "Their adorable angels down for Timanaa and me to keep an eye on."
Delamarth snorted again, earning a chuckle and a hopeful peck on the cheek from Bilbo. She couldn't keep the sly grin off of her face when he touched her, but she managed to retain some level of disdain in her voice. "Adorable angels. You really are your father's child; they are not angels. By the Valar, my Precious, two dozen of them have horns!"
"Nine at present," Bilbo corrected.
"Anything above two children is up in the dozens and hundreds," Delamarth retorted. "Your parents are insane." She exhaled powerfully.
Bilbo waited a long moment. She would have refused by now if she weren't willing to help; he knew that, deep down, she probably had some space in her heart for any one of Frodo's children. She had long since expressed to Bilbo that even if Chaaempier didn't exist, she couldn't have ever married Frodo: she had been the one to scar him, but his response to her had pained her just as horribly. She didn't accept being vulnerable, or appearing to have heart in any way. If anything Bilbo had learned that of her first.
"Delamarth? You are thinking."
She gave him a dry look, and he felt the retort coming before she even breathed in: "Better than your pasttimes." He'd learned never to hurt at anything she said; she only meant to build herself up one bit at a time, and he didn't mind the attitude. Thus he didn't mind that the look she now sent him was not apologetic, but wavering on a difficult decision, one that he could sway. He smiled at her, and something inside of her head twisted. He leaned forward, and their foreheads met.
"With Demiel moved on, it is no struggle to have a day to ourselves," Bilbo mused. He had a high voice, and no experience with being suave (he'd never needed it, not for courting Delamarth), but she still shuddered and melted against him. He didn't understand what effect he had on her; he thought she was beautiful, but he didn't seem to die inside like she did every time they touched. "Perhaps, if you at least let me watch the Twelve Terrors . . ." He never knew how to say these things. He always ended up tripping over himself with them.
Delamarth shivered with caged laughter, and Bilbo's eyes sank shut: she knew he was being ridiculous, as well as knew precisely what he wanted to say but couldn't. And she knew all too well how to handle such a situation.
"Then?" she prodded.
He abruptly turned red as she chuckled beside him. "Well . . . you know . . . you know what I'm trying to say!"
Delamarth gave him an innocent stare. "Do I? But you haven't said anything yet. More clues, love; what happens if you watch the Twelve Terrors?"
"I'll spend time with you . . ." Bilbo couldn't figure how else to word it. Delamarth laughed for another moment before settling, nodding.
"Holding and reverencing each other in the lunar light, you mean?" she murmured. Bilbo settled, defeated, as she continued. He quickly grew apprehensive, as she slipped her arm over his torso and eased towards him. He initially backed up until he collided with the nearest tree. "Feeling the tide tease our feet while we walk . . . and kiss . . . and express our deepest fears . . ." She pressed her delicate lips to his cheek, faintly and fleeting like a flower petal on the wind. "Our greatest loves . . ." Her lips traveled to the tip of his nose, and she adjusted herself smoothly before him, now facing him with her knees tucked up, balancing perfectly on the balls of her feet. Her mouth grew near to his; he couldn't feel her words, she breathed them so faintly. "Is that what you meant?"
Bilbo nodded dizzily, waiting for her to seal the gap between them, but she just mused to herself and sat back. As he exhaled Bilbo found that he had tensed against the back of the tree, arching towards her until she turned away from him. Perhaps he understood his father's fear a little; the effect she had on him was uncanny.
Delamarth looked him up and down. "Bring the Terrors," she said. "And thank your parents on my behalf for bringing you into this world . . ." She looked like she had something passionate to say, something so emotionally driven that Bilbo would flinch and stiffen as he often did when she spoke. But she didn't. She shook her head, chuckling softly. "So much could have happened," she whispered.
Bilbo peered at her. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"You are young," she said. "You need not understand. Perhaps someday I will tell you." Her eyes glinted, and she leaned forward. Bilbo closed his eyes, anticipatory, but she did not close hers. She very precisely touched her lips to his, so teasingly light, and pulled away. Bilbo opened his eyes again, confused.
She smirked when his eyes turned to hers. "We are not alone yet, mind," she said. "Go and bring your Terrors, as I said, and tell your parents . . ." She swallowed. She could be so emotionally turbulent, sometimes Bilbo was glad he hardly felt emotion at all. At least, relative to her it seemed that way. "Tell them that I love you and will take care of you longer than I will live."
He didn't know what to say to that.
Delamarth lifted one of her great white wings and cupped it as though to surround him. "Pick the biggest feather and take it to them. Tell your mother to squeeze it into the notch."
Bilbo eyed her queerly.
"This part," Delamarth explained, pointing to her central wing joint. "We call it the notch."
Bilbo nodded, then scanned her feathers for the biggest one. He shuffled through the soft pile, feathers flickering and jumping back into place at his touch. He found one unnaturally large feather, right in the middle. He moved to gently pluck it out, but it just slid, and kept sliding, out as he pulled. Finally it plucked free; he expected Delamarth to wince, but it was as though she didn't notice.
He lowered the feather into his hands to survey it. It shimmered like a pearl in the rising moonlight, perfectly smooth. The clear tip, he was certain, could draw blood with its precision. He wondered how that would look . . . a crimson droplet against a snow background, the beautiful stain of her influence on his life and the life of his family.
"Thank you, Delamarth," he said, staring up at her. The image of the blood was replaced by pure feathers and a beautiful face.
She wrapped her wings around him and squeezed him close without lifting a finger. He embraced her, taken aback by this sudden change of mood but glad of her whole being pressed against him.
"Remember to thank them," she whispered. She ruffled his hair with her wing and backed away, watching him intently as he trotted up to the ziggurat.
Sev waited patiently. She knew Bilbo would come, and she wondered if she ought to have been more subtle in her request. But this was for Frodo, not for her, and so any measures necessary would do—Frodo didn't know yet. He had perhaps expected the whole day to go as normal, with the night only restful, perhaps mildly affectionate.
But Sev certainly had other ideas. Her wings shuffled and fluttered anxiously, hoping Frodo wouldn't be too exhausted to go explore the mainland with her.
She stood when Bilbo arrived at the door of the great ziggurat in which they stayed. Elves were clearing the tables from the grand dinner hosted in honor of Frodo and Chaaempier, but Frodo hadn't been in attendance: he'd been so awfully tired.
"Mother, perhaps we should talk somewhere we could be alone," Bilbo started, but Sev held up a hand.
"Of course. The hatchlings are upstairs," she said. She led him up to the chambers across from what all her posterity referred to as the Master Room where she and Frodo resided, and had for almost a century and a half. The Aaxper Room was a feature of architectural mastery from the dragons, magic that could extend a room's size and use far beyond its physical capacity within the ziggurat itself. Thirty or forty hatchlings could fit comfortably at a time, something Sev had picked up on one of her many journeys home.
She moved to enter the Aaxper, but Bilbo grabbed her arm. She stared up at him.
"I can handle them myself," Bilbo said. "I fear if I begin speaking to Father now I will not stop, but this is a gift from my wife." He slipped the huge feather into Sev's claw, and she inspected it. Her eyes lit up at the sudden recognition of added power.
"She wanted to thank you for allowing me the opportunity to be here," he continued, still uncertain of what Delamarth meant. Finally he decided to come outright with what he felt. "Mother, I believe you could respect her more. She is no less creature than the rest of us, and unlike perhaps what you would think, she means me no harm. After her support of you for so long, I would think you'd have stopped calling her a siren."
Sev chuckled. "If this is about believing I don't give Delamarth enough credit, then you are right; I do not. But about referring to her as a siren? Bilbo, she calls me "reject." We are of a friendly rivalry; I'm sure your father has told you stories." Her countenance fell at this, but she shook it off. "I've told her oftentimes that I do not mean malice to her, and I believe truly that you see her as a siren. Desirable, if not sometimes dangerous but overall very beautiful."
Bilbo swallowed and nodded.
"Your father is very worried about you," Sev said, "but that is what scarred fathers do. Delamarth almost broke him, and while she has changed, this is not about what state she is in: this is about what he feels whenever he sees her. He's trying not to, but he sees passion he will never live up to. He sees the fear he always felt when she saw him, although it is very brief now upon first seeing her. This was not the case when he and I were first married, but now that she looks at you with the same possession that she once eyed him, that fear is ignited in him." She shook her head. "Be careful. Leastwise around your father; but when you're alone with her, don't take her for granted."
She sounded a little shaky saying it, but Bilbo decided it was only for the deep hurt Delamarth had ever inflicted on them. He squeezed Sev's shoulders and stepped into the Aaxper Room.
Sev surveyed the feather, wondering what to do with it. She thought about hanging it on the wall, but if Frodo knew it had come from Delamarth it might frighten him. She confessed to herself that he would never say such a thing, that the 'advice' he offered his son often came back to plague him later. And he was right, as usual: his impact on his son's relationship with the Ring knew no bounds. She wondered if he regretted his fear of Delamarth.
Bilbo hoped the same as he explored the Aaxper Room. It was larger than usual, as his parents didn't usually didn't have a dozen living on with them at once. There were charred pieces of wood everywhere; three of the hatchlings had just broken through their shells a week before, and were still extraordinarily young, young enough that often they still needed Sev for direct sustenance.
No doubt Frodo could use a hand more often. Bilbo frowned to himself as he surveyed the ever-continuing room: he considered to do more than just tonight. His only son had moved on long ago. He could take some of this.
After perhaps ten minutes of wandering, he found the edge of the room, where Frodo's voice—rising and falling in that tantalizing, exciting way he told stories—softly filled the air. He remembered stories from when he was young, not so much Frodo's own as those of Bilbo's namesake. Sometimes Bilbo wished he could have met the old adventurer, who had passed away less than a year before Bilbo was born.
"—and he yelled at the spiders, telling them to follow him. He at least had to get them away from the dwarves, even if he knew he could be eaten." Frodo's gaze flickered up to Bilbo, and his eyes shimmered fleetingly before he turned back to the dozen children sprawled on the ground before him. Bilbo counted, only to find that there were were only nine on the floor, six of them hatchlings. Three hatchlings, the middle set of eggs, cuddled against Frodo, one curled around his neck, the other tucked up and sleeping by his ankle, and the third held close to his chest. His thumb absently curved over her shoulder as she snored; she was the only calm one of the three middle hatchlings, and she had trouble learning or speaking. A bad egg, the dragons would have called her, but Frodo loved her more than they would ever know of their own 'bad eggs.'
"But they can't catch him, 'cause he was wearing the magical ring," the eldest piped up.
Frodo actually smiled at that, to Bilbo's surprise. "Yes, yes he was." Frodo thought of Delamarth now, still protecting Bilbo. "So he ran through the woods, taunting the spiders. They grew angry and scared; of course they could not see him. He had to lead them away from his friends, and then he could begin to cut them loose."
Bilbo stepped into the light. "Using nothing other than the great sword Sting, of course."
"Bilbo!" a handful chorused, and most of the others followed. Suddenly nine little ones crowded Bilbo, some of them not so little anymore. He embraced each of them as efficiently as he could, although they all scrambled about him so he couldn't tell which ones he had already greeted.
"Del is waiting downstairs," Bilbo said, and pretty soon all of them were headed for the door. The hatchling hanging around Frodo's neck awakened, nuzzling his father's head before flapping his maturing wings to catch up with his siblings. Frodo gently nudged the hatchling at his foot, who did the same as her brother.
"How is Messyra?" Bilbo asked.
Frodo stared down at her. She squeaked in her sleep, yawned, and cuddled up against him. Frodo smiled initially, as only a loving father could, and laid his other hand across her tiny torso. Her malfunctioned wings fluttered at his touch, gripping his fingers initially.
"I appreciate her lack of energy," Frodo said, and Bilbo chuckled. Then Frodo shook his head. "But I am afraid that she may never be able to move on. She recognizes family, but thus far she cannot say a word. She also cannot walk for herself. The eldest of these are almost ready to assist me, and then I can focus more on helping her."
Bilbo put a hand on his father's shoulder. "That's why I'm here."
Frodo chuckled. "Of course." He glanced down at Messyra, stroking her stick-straight, red-blonde hair back. "Messyra," he whispered, "Bilbo is here."
Messyra's albino eyes flickered open, with pupils of faded gray and irises of milky silver. She smiled up at her father, hugging his neck with her little claws. When she spotted Bilbo, she squeaked and shook in place.
"Hey, Messyra," Bilbo said, kneeling down by Frodo's lap. Messyra reached for Bilbo fruitlessly, and Frodo carefully handed her over. Bilbo pecked her cheek, and she buried her face in his shoulder. "How are you, sweet one?"
She stared up at him with wide eyes. She tried, and frustrated herself in the process, to communicate Frodo's story. Bilbo nodded.
"I know, wasn't it exciting?" Messyra smiled broadly at him, only too glad to be understood. "Listen," Bilbo continued. "Del is downstairs. Are you ready to see Del?"
Messyra's jaw dropped, and she shook in place, trying to throw something out. She strained and stretched, then sneezed a plume of smoke. Bilbo coughed . . . but she then made him stiffen.
"Del," Messyra managed.
Frodo's eyebrows shot straight up, and he stood to stare at Messyra. She smiled at Frodo; no one had ever taught her to frown, Bilbo thought, and of all the things she would never do that was the most hopeful.
"Del!" she cried. "Del, Del, Del!"
Frodo traced his daughter's hair back again. Bilbo peered down at Messyra; she seemed so proud of herself, which he understood, but he wondered if there was something more. He felt magic in her, magic dragons didn't initially have.
"Messyra, has Del been teaching you to speak?" Bilbo asked slowly. Messyra looked up at him, blank at first, but then she nodded emphatically, repeating "Del" over and over again. Then she pointed at her father, concentrating to form a word.
"F . . . f . . ." She bit her lower lip, shoving. Bilbo strained with the influx of magic from her, which Delamarth had taught him to feel. "Fr . . . Frodo," she burst finally. She giggled to herself, then sneezed another ball of smoke.
Frodo contained his excitement long enough to tell her he was proud of her, and asked Bilbo to thank Delamarth on his behalf.
"I will," Bilbo said, occasionally throwing his gaze to Messyra. He embraced his father, and Messyra waved goodbye as her eldest brother carried her towards the door.
"Bilbo, why are you taking your siblings?" Frodo asked.
Bilbo turned back to Frodo, and his eyebrows slacked. His father looked exhausted, and he suddenly saw what he felt his mother had.
"Because you look awful," he said. The moment Frodo started chuckling, Bilbo realized Delamarth would have as well. He blushed. "That is to say . . . well, you certainly look young for your age . . . but I know this has been hard on you . . . I mean, I'm not going to lie and say you look the best you ever have . . . but you don't look that awful . . . I . . ."
Frodo shook his head. "Bilbo, do not trouble yourself. I know perfectly well what you mean, but your concerns are with your own family, not mine. What spurred you to do it?"
Bilbo walked to the door, and Frodo followed. He stepped out, glancing back briefly.
"Mother did."
The Aaxper door closed behind Bilbo, and Frodo sat against the wall, defeated. Sometimes being immortal didn't seem to pay off: he almost wished he were on the brink of death for how little sleep he'd gotten since these last eggs hatched. He had insisted Sev go back to the dragons and learn, specifically from Elskalaanth, who was a master healer and engineer. Mehssylau, Sev called the innovators. With a mother gone—learning of draconic royalty secrets or not—caring for the hatchlings was so much harder.
He didn't hear the door open. He sat in muddled thought while Sev watched him, his breath heaving and his eyes sealed shut, ready for deep rest. She thought on the miles and miles she wanted to travel that night . . . and threw it all out. Tonight was not the time. If anything, Frodo needed a breather right now. She'd been travelling enough recently; she could sacrifice one desire for this.
She knelt down by his side, studying his every move and his every feature. Every time she thought she knew him from head to toe, she looked at him again, and realized another thousand years wouldn't be enough. And the more she learned the more she feared parting with him . . . if they ever did part again. She set her mind as she studied him not to leave, not for another few years at least. She had learned enough, and missed her family in her absence.
She reached forward to touch him, but thought the better of it when his eyelids flickered tiredly. She settled for letting her claw drift to the ground inches shy of his pale fingers . . . the fingers of a writer, of a quiet warrior. One sharpened, black nail lifted: the remnants of his pointer finger, although its hand lay limp on the other side of his legs, called to her touch—needing, tired, wanting. It was the only scar she had been unable to mend.
Perhaps she would ask Elskalaanth if there was any way to repair it. She knew Frodo didn't care for that mark upon him.
When he seemed to be asleep, Sev traced her claws across the golden band on his wrist closest to her. She felt his pulse in it; his veins had begun to grow into the metal. She'd known it was a part of his skin, a part of his body, and Delamarth didn't even know how to remove it. Aluekrai had told Sev there was no way to be rid of them; any enemy could control him if they got close enough.
Frodo did not seem to awaken. Sev tucked the white feather into her notch to hold it out of the way while she reached over him. She slacked down by his side, facing him, and allowed her fingers to roam over the bite marks permanently staining his flesh with blood that would not wash away. It was no wonder to her that he still feared Delamarth.
Frodo allowed her to touch him for another long moment, savoring the caress of what should have been harsh scales across his skin. Her claws were composed of such fine grains that it spanned the gap between an itch and a rub.
Sev sensed movement deep within him, and so began to pull away. Frodo twitched initially and reached up for her hand. She hesitated and sank back down; her waist rested against his knee, and he leaned forward to meet her.
"You're welcome to keep going," he murmured, his eyes flickering open. "How are you?"
Sev smirked, but any attitude in her smile faded when Frodo reached up to cup her jaw. She felt for his hand that remained on the ground and sheathed it with her own, allowing her scales to rub across the back of his hand. She picked it up, feeling every inch from his fingertips to his wrist, then farther upward. Frodo's forehead rested against hers, derived of her affectionate touch for three months now. After having it for so many years it was difficult to be without the gentle, sometimes burning passion he knew too well.
"I just flew in this evening," she whispered. His eyes sank closed as her voice traced his jaw. She let a lazy hesitation into her movement, absorbing the full roll of his cheek pressed limply against hers as she eased her lips towards his ear. "I asked Bilbo if he would take the load off of you; you've been a responsible . . ." She pecked the border of his cheek where it met his curls; his skin echoed with tingles. "Loving . . ." Her next kiss, lighter than the last, came closer to his temple. "Exhausted . . ." Her lips lingered, faint, against his forehead. ". . . I suppose I could take longer telling you, but you've been a wonderful father while I've been gone." She brought his head down to rest under her neck. "And a companion I've been yearning to come home to. And in light of our anniversary celebration today—,"
Frodo stiffened. "Oh, Sev, I'm so sorry; I forgot entirely."
Sev wrapped her arms solidly around his torso, as though he would run away and scramble to make plans of some kind. "No. No, no, no; I already had something in mind. However, because of how tired and amazing you are, I've decided it would be better to change plans."
His brow furrowed. "You can't change on my account; it's your anniversary as well."
She snorted. "Yes, I can." He didn't manage to stifle his huge yawn, and her moan of sympathy vibrated through his head. "Come. Into the Master Room—you need to rest."
Her notch tingled, and Sev glanced up at it. The feather there shivered, latching into the bone, and began to multiply. Feathers swelled from the bone in her wing, staining crimson red as they grew, and flocked the membranes of her wings. She almost panicked until she realized what it undoubtedly meant, but why Delamarth would give her feathers under her skin, she did not know.
She extended a claw to Frodo, and he rose to his feet, fingers entwined limply with hers. The feathers halted their growth, and now covered the front and back of her wings. Perhaps they had better traction with the wind, or perhaps tighter turns. Or perhaps Delamarth believed every creature—including dragons—was jealous of her feathered wings and assumed Sev would feel privileged to have them.
Sev puzzled over this until she entered the Master Room with Frodo. He looked so awfully tired, and she confessed to herself that his features seemed tantalizingly lenient. Her gaze strayed to his lips a handful of times, and she lowered him onto the bed. He drifted in and out of sleep.
"What would you like, Frodo?" she whispered.
He inhaled and exhaled powerfully. "Anything." Then he paused, rethinking his statement as her hand crossed over his torso to caress his own fingers. "Touch."
Sev's eyebrow lifted in amusement.
"Touch it is," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "I'll just have you sit up for a second." She lifted him to a sitting position, situated him as comfortably as she could, and proceeded to slip the buttons of his vest out. Frodo lowered it to the bed; he didn't understand what she was getting at.
"Now lie down on your stomach."
Frodo eyed her curiously, but obeyed as she discarded the vest. She used the blanket as leverage to scoot him farther down along the bed.
"And relax," she insisted. She eyed his back with a tsk. "You look insanely tense."
Frodo did his best, but he was curious: he couldn't relax, not until he knew what she was doing. Sev didn't wait longer than a few seconds before she braced her hands against his shoulder blades and pressed into his white shirt and the knotted muscle, kneading his skin lazily. Frodo's eyes rolled back, and his head slacked down into the pillow in front of him. She bunched the tensity in his shoulders by fistfuls, working down his back to the middle of it, before she began rolling her knuckles across what she had already done.
"Sev . . ." Frodo didn't entirely know what to say.
"Come on, Frodo; just tell me, 'You should have thought of this earlier.'" Sev chuckled at her own statement, but Frodo shook his head.
"It couldn't be better," he muttered.
Sev traced her nails across his back after that, up his neck and into his hair. He mumbled something even he couldn't discern. While his children were sure to embrace him and cuddle with him, this was different. Vastly different. Something he'd missed, far longer than she had been gone.
Sev carried on in this pattern long into the night. Frodo slept on and off with her efforts, feeling every last bit of pressure and ache flake away at her persistent touch. He awakened more fully when she shifted her touch to his hardened feet, pressing her thumbs along every inch of the sole to loosen its tense grip Frodo hadn't even noticed. She restlessly slipped over him, kneeling up on the bed to get more leverage in pressing down on his back. She gently squeezed his upper arms, unraveling their tension as well.
Then she eyed the feathers on her wings.
"Frodo, Delamarth sent a gift with Bilbo tonight."
Frodo didn't move. Sev slowly lowered her wings, allowing the tips of her feathers to brush against his arms. He awakened to take in the swarming caress as she lowered more feathers over his skin.
"She sent a feather that multiplied when I put it into my notch." Frodo shuffled towards her, and she lifted him off the bed with her wings, backing him into her torso. "I wonder if this is why."
Sev wrapped her arms around him to hold him up and allowed her feathers to trace the curls back from his face, then drift down to his hands. He breathed a heavy sigh, and his eyes sank open. She stared at them intently until they turned to her.
"She also taught Messyra to speak," Frodo said. "I gather she used some form of magic."
Sev almost dropped him. "What?!" Then she realized that question was useless; he doubtlessly told her what he knew thus far. She threw it aside. "Frodo, that's wonderful! What did she say?"
Frodo's lips stretched into a smile; Sev eyed him, longing and anxious. "'Del' was her first word. Then she said my name." His brow furrowed, and Sev suddenly wanted that smile to come back. "I don't suppose she'll teach her to call you properly; probably 'reject' or some such."
"I'd let her do it; my daughter can speak and will form her own perspective of me," Sev said. She lifted Frodo closer to her, allowing her lips to settle on his jaw; she left them there while she spoke. "Besides . . . all the world for now is in your smile alone. The day has afforded sufficient sorrow . . ." She pecked the tip of his ear and allowed kisses to roam through his curls. She tightened her grip when he slacked in place. ". . . but now all the happiness it might have had is here in Frodo of Valinor, and I could not be more fortunate or grateful to have him in my arms for the rest of my life."
Frodo nodded, unsure what to say in response. He wanted her to keep going, not necessarily talking, but kissing him. He pressed her fingers against his chest. "It's a shame there are only so many hours before the rest of the world wakes up."
A grin lit Sev's face for a short moment, and she realized that she could still see Frodo's face despite the lateness of the hour. She glanced up at the moon. It was not full that night, but in Valinor the moon was unnaturally close at this time of year: the waxing half shed a powerful glow across endless treetops. She frowned when her gaze lingered on the patch of forest that was still burned, the branches sticking up like broken bones. She lifted her free hand from around his chest, pressing it against his back just below his neck. Sure enough, there were still flakes of ash. His skin may very well never recover, not after all this time.
"You have a lot of scars, sir," she said.
Frodo didn't want to talk about them. He brought her hand around again, pressing it to his lips. "And I have a lot of consolation for them."
And thus the tables turned. Every memory flooded back to her, over the last hundred years or so that they'd been married, far beyond that. She sat, frozen, while he knelt up and gathered her against his chest. Her hands rested limply on his shirt collar as he leaned down to kiss her, his lips brushing softly against hers. A sigh filled the air, from whom they could not tell, surging Frodo with unconscious energy. He cupped her close to him, habitually running his fingers along the brim of scales on her wings. His hands drifted down the extent of her wings to frame her waist, as easily as though not a day had gone between since they were last alone. But he felt the isolation deep down, and as it spread to the surface of his being he caressed her lips warmly. Enthusiasm and energy trickled into his movement, his fingers restlessly traveling her shoulders, neck, and face. Her eyes shot wide open when he clutched her closer and added tenderness to his touch.
Finally he parted from her and dotted her jaw with faint kisses, but did not push it; if anything, being married for so long had taught him to savor every moment and every touch, not to speed it along. He slowed, coming to rest with his head on top of hers.
Sev blinked away her innate surprise. "You seem in a good mood," she said slowly. "I doubt I wish to know what you were thinking in that time."
"Even if you don't, I'm of a mind to tell you," Frodo murmured, pressing her wing to his cheek. Sev abruptly turned bright red and waited. "No need to get stiff," he continued; he stroked her back to press the tension out. "I have nothing to say that I would not repeat in front of your mother."
Sev chuckled. "But something to make Nithkerekk upset with you?"
"Absolutely."
"He's better than you think, you know," Sev interjected. Frodo could tell she was drawing away the subject; he didn't know how to assure her that there was nothing to be afraid of, for the deep conversation that made her nervous and disconnected would not even come up. She squirmed a little in his arms, and he gave her wiggle room. "Elskalaanth is very stubborn, and a good creature. She's bringing out some good in him."
"Truly?" Frodo shook his head. "My closest friend, you are distracting me. I have something to say."
Sev bit her lip shut. She knew it wasn't right to derail, and so she glanced down at the blanket below her kneeling position.
"Go ahead," she said, stiffening herself. "I'm ready."
Frodo lifted a hand from her back and tilted her chin up towards him. "Sev . . . my Chaaempier . . ." He leaned forward and closed her eyes with the whisper of a fingertip, followed by a faint brush of his lips. "I wish you could see what I do." He kissed the border of her cheek, allowed her hair to tickle his face. "Hear what I do." His mouth barely grazed hers before he backed a breath away. "But then I recognize that this love that I have is not that of any other, that the opportunity to appreciate you will never go away, and that no one else will ever have the privilege to feel it." Her cheek rose to meet his, and they swayed together there for a short moment. She began humming, and Frodo lowered his cheek to feel her voice move.
"And you are a soft kisser," he added.
Sev blushed suddenly, and the laugh that echoed from her mouth was nothing short of nervous. Frodo shook his head. "Sev, I'm serious!" He reached back and stepped off the bed, beckoning for her to follow. Sev stood, still taken aback by his comment, and still furiously red. He took her hand and led her into a basic, relaxed dancing position. She rested her head on his heart, one hand beside her cheek and the other around his shoulder, as though she could capture the precious beats of lifeblood within him, hold it in her fingers. She wrapped her wings around him as well.
"I suppose what I mean to say," Frodo said before he began a slow waltz in lazy circles around the moonlit floor, "is that I feel how you care for me." He buried a kiss in her hair. "And I hope I give you the same wonder, the same amazement, that I feel—I couldn't imagine a life without it, and love you too much to let you go without it either."
Silence settled over the room as they swayed together, not squeezed tighter than either could breathe in and not a world apart: together, as only best friends of the marriage nature are in casual, but affectionate in a way they could let anyone in the world see.
Sev felt the dawn before she opened her eyes; she didn't want to leave this endless pacing about the floor with the creature she loved more than anything.
"The world is awake," she said at last, wondering if Frodo had fallen asleep in his endless pattern. But he had not. He had taken time to study her face, think about what life would be like if he lost her forever, like he once had. As though his thoughts broke to become reality, she slipped out of his arms and stepped towards the door. "Bilbo will be bringing the hatchlings back soon. You should rest."
Frodo grabbed her arm and dragged her back towards the balcony. She stared up at him, and he nodded to the door. He led her outside, and the crisp morning of Valinor shone with a brilliance of red and gold over the forested ziggurats. The last of the stars faded on an inky horizon behind them, as did the exhausted crescent moon.
Bilbo waved from below. Delamarth held Messyra; all the others were asleep, doubtlessly tired from whatever Delamarth had kept them up doing the night before. Frodo waved back.
"Let them see," he whispered to Sev, feeling her shiver. She relaxed as well as she could, and in front any that wished to contend his ownership, Frodo kissed and held his precious Chaaempier.
Precious, he thought. What an accurate phrase.