A/N: I apologize for the long period without posting. I've had a bit of writer's block, and have been obligated in other fandoms. Not to mention school. But anyways, here's chapter four. To avoid confusion, I'll tell you now that this is Aragorn's POV. Like you wouldn't have guessed that in the first sentence.
I hope to update more frequently from now on. I've already started chapter five. :) Enjoy!
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I look over at Frodo. The small hobbit is gasping for air as though he cannot breathe. I feel sympathy for him, as I myself find the dark confinements of the mine more than a little disconcerting.
Without thinking, I place my hand on his shoulder to steady him. His eyes snap open, and a myriad of emotions flicker across the open and delicate face. Heat rushes through me, and I pull away my hand. It would be a bad idea to encourage the feelings I have for him any further. Our fates are very different, and I have pledged myself to Arwen.
I wish that I had not. The small creature before me, so full of strength, evokes powerful feelings that I have never felt before. Something akin to them, yes. I love Arwen, but the love I feel for her doesn't compare to this flame that Frodo has stirred in me. My heart swells to behold him, even now, as his face is filled with distrust towards me.
No wonder that he is angry with me. I should not have done those things to him. He likes me, I know. But my feelings are dangerous in their intensity, and he should not be exposed to them. He should stick with Sam, the faithful and gentle hobbit who loves him simply and with abandon. Sam could give him what I could not. Stability, familiarity, even something so practical as *size*. A man and a hobbit are not the perfect match.
But my heart seems not to have gotten the message. I can still feel the rage and fear I felt when I heard him call out my name in despair. Those many nights ago, when we first entered Moria, and the thing in the lake tried to take him. It was only through luck that he was saved.
When he screamed my name, the only thing on my mind was that he was looking to me to protect him. And I could not fail him. Thankfully, the others were there, or my word would not have been honored, and Frodo would have perished in the maw of that creature.
The thought chills me, and I wrap my blankets more tightly around myself, though this chill comes from within. Even now, as I watch the little one sleep, even as my heat expands with joy at the sight of his beautiful visage, I see Arwen's sculpted cheekbones and beautiful features. She plagues me. I am constantly reminding myself that she cannot actually read my thoughts, and will not appear suddenly, heart-broken and sad.
She gave up her immortality for me. I cannot forsake her.
But at the same time, I cannot seem to stop wanting and caring for Frodo. Such a large burden he carries, but without complaint. One cannot help but be intrigued by the strength enclosed in such a small package.
***
I have seen many things as a ranger, but fear causes my hands to tremble and my will to falter when I hear the coming of it. The cavern shakes and the stones fall.
Gandalf fears this creature. And it would be wise of me to take after his example.
But the stairway is tall and trecherous. I hestitate, and look to Gandalf. "Lead them on, Aragorn!"
It takes but a moment for my decision to be made, and by then, I'm already following the rest of them down the narrow stairs.
Orcs are extraordinarily bad shots. Arrows bounce off the stairway all around us, but not one of us is hit. As always, one eye is on Frodo. As the rest of us, he is terrified at the prospect of crossing this gap in the path. And it must be his fear that drives him to stay towards the back of the group, even as Boromir takes Merry and Pippin, and Gimli jumps.
He has no choice but to go now. We exchange a brief glance, and I see the fear as a palpable thing behind the crystal blue eyes. But he nods slowly, and again I marvel at the strength and courage in this being.
But our attention is drawn away from the gap when the thing draws nearer, and the archway collapses further, sending bits of stone crashing down around us. Without thinking, I draw Frodo close to me to protect him from them.
When they stop momentarily, I can see that more of the stair has fallen. And our section is beginning to crumble and fall. Frodo looks up at me again, and the fear has darkened his eyes.
"Lean forwards," I instruct, as coolly as someone in my position possibly could. He does as I say, and as I predicted, the pillar of stone comes to rest against the other, where the rest of the fellowship waits for us.
Quickly I get him across, and then I myself follow. I do not watch as the pillar falls away into the black nothingness, for we are already on our way, running.
***
I have never heard such agony in a cry. My heart feels numb at the prospect of Gandalf's death, but I am their leader, and I cannot give in to grief now.
But Frodo, Frodo is mindless with it. His scream bounces off the walls and echoes infinitely. I don't know what he would have done if Boromir had not restrained him. He was straining towards the bridge, almost as if he meant to jump after Gandalf.
And then, the unthinkable happens. One of the orc's arrows, presumably dipped in poison, pierces Frodo's breast. He jerks back suddenly in surprise, before falling to the ground.
My heart clenches in fear now, for he is not moving. I do not know what I will do if he is dead. I do not. And I don't care to think about it, because there is no way that Frodo is dead. It cannot be.
Nevertheless, my stomach churns and nausea rises in my throat as I rush back to him, heedless of the arrows that bounce into the walls around me. We've just lost Gandalf. We cannot lose Frodo. We cannot.
I bend next to him, and his eyes fixate on me as he tries to rise. "Let go of me!" he whispers harshly, angrily. I wonder if he even realizes that he's been shot. But at least he's alive.
There is no time to pay heed to his comfort. I scoop him up hastily in my arms, and run as fast as I can, trying not to jostle him too much.
He lets out a harsh cry, half-moan, half-scream, and it chills me to the bone.
***
I lay him down roughly on the rocks outside. Immediately, the other hobbits swarm around me, trying to get close to their wounded and asking if he's okay.
I feel an irrational anger well up in me, and I believe it has something to do with the panic that is also growing in my heart. Frodo's face is pale and sweaty, and he's bleeding heavily and freely. I worry that this is beyond me, and that Frodo will die. And even as irrational as it is, the thought disrupts my others, and adds a color of fear and self-doubt to my movements.
I close my eyes briefly, to focus on what needs to be done now. Frodo needs immediate attention, but at the same time, I know we must get out of these hills before nightfall. Tears are coming to everyone now, at Gandalf's recent demise and Frodo's current state. I force myself to become numb to all around me. I cannot function if I allow myself to feel. Tears can come later, when I'm alone and everyone is safe.
"Legolas, get them up." Even to my own ears, my voice sounds harsh. Legolas looks at me quietly for a moment, as though reading my every thought, before turning to Boromir, who has strayed a bit away from the group.
I return to my charge, knowing that Legolas will take care of everything. I trust him.
I look at Frodo, trying my best to coolly assess his condition and the best way to move him. But at all costs, I avoid looking into his eyes. They're still wide open, and I can feel them searching my face for answers I do not have. If I let myself see those eyes, then I will lose my delightful numbness, and Frodo may die for my own feelings of inadequacy.
Finally, I just bite my lip and lift him up as carefully as I can. He gives out a shout of pain, and it threatens to cut past my defenses. I force myself to ignore it the best I can, and begin to start away, not waiting for the others. They will follow shortly.
***
That night, few of the fellowship rest, though all are weary. I am too busy tending to Frodo, to heed the call of sleep, and the others are too shaken up by Gandalf's death. And even if they weren't, Frodo's occasional cries of deep, animal pain would render them unable to rest.
I am doing the best I can, but the poison is still working its way through his system. I turn helplessly to Legolas. It is hard for me to admit my failings, but for Frodo, I will swallow my pride. "Legolas. I have no knowledge of the poison that has been used. Perhaps you could help?" The blonde elf inclines his head slightly, and goes to speak to the hobbits for a moment.
I cannot hear what is said, because though I may be a ranger, I am no elf. But the hobbits nod their heads frantically and head off quickly into the woods in all directions.
Legolas returns to me, and whispers briefly in my ear. "I have sent them to find some barak flowers. They will help to slow the poisoning, though they will also put him to sleep." Legolas stands from his crouch and heads into the woods as well, presumably to aid in the search.
My eyes return to Frodo's face. He's panting now. Why didn't I think of the barak flower? It is a well-known remedy. Perhaps I have not detached myself as much as I had thought.
Frodo's so pale. His face has a beautiful, but unhealthy cast to it, and his skin is pearly white and shines in the light of the setting sun with a sheen of sweat to it.
"Strider...." he moans. I listen attentively. "Strider....hurts..." I place my hand gently on his brow. His skin feels hot to the touch. I gently wipe away some of the sweat that is threatening to drip into his eyes.
I lean closer. "I know, Frodo. I know." I can't help myself. I kiss him gently on the forehead. His eyes roll up in his head for a moment before the lids close. He is not asleep though, because his breathing, if anything, has increased in its rapidity.
"Hang on, little one." Again, I press my lips to the smooth skin of his forehead. And then I curse myself as I wish for different circumstances and a kiss not quite so platonic. I had decided not to let my thoughts wander here.
But apparently, my mind sees it fit now to wander where it wants. And, for just a moment, I allow it the freedom to do as it pleases. Which invariably leads back to the small hobbit that lies now in my sole care. In my fantasy, he is healthy again, and the Ring is gone. There is no reason for worry, and Arwen has gone away. Frodo lies sprawled happily across my chest, his breath and mine mingling. His height means that he lies solely on my torso.
He sprinkles butterfly kisses on my face, around my mouth, and when he finally does reach my lips, I am ready for him, and capture his pretty pink lips in mine, tasting again his essence. After a moment, he pulls away, laughing softly like the tinkling of silver bells. Just the imagining of a sound that I have only heard once, briefly, is enough to make my cock harden in my breeches.
And then, in the real world, Frodo coughs, and I am snapped back to reality with an ache in my groin. What fool am I, that I would indulge myself at such a moment. Frodo is in danger. Frodo is dying. And I cannot think of anything I can do to save him.
Panic threatens to close in when I hear him gasping for air. I lift his head carefully, gently, so as not to jostle his wound too grieviously, but he hisses in pain all the same. But. Better he have air than avoid the slight pain of an arrow wound.
Cradling his head on my lap, I return to the ever present problem. How am I to stop this? The arrow hit close to his heart, so the poison is spreading fast. Legolas and the hobbits are still not back, and I can almost feel the poison spreading its black death throughout his tiny body.
I stroke his cheek with my thumb. He smiles just the tiniest bit.
A moment later, one of the hobbits comes crashing through the underbrush. I know it is one of the hobbits, because Legolas *never* 'crashes'.
By the time Sam gets there, I am holding Frodo in my arms and waiting impatiently. In his hand he holds a crush of the barak flowers in his small hand. Without waiting to be courteous, I snatch them away from him, tearing a small piece and giving it to Frodo. "Here," I say softly. He tries to sit up farther, but seems to be too tired to do so.
I give him the flower anyways, and hope he does not choke. Thankfully, he swallows, and I lay his head back on the fold of blankets.
"Is he going to be okay?" Sam asks anxiously. I am apalled to find myself jealous of the small hobbit and his relationship with Frodo. They trust each other implicitly. In a relationship, there would be no issues with size. Frodo cares deeply for Sam, and nothing will ever change that. And Sam is utterly devoted to Frodo. How can I possibly hope to get in the middle of that?
Frodo makes a soft little snorting sound, and my attention is immediately drawn to him. His eyes roll up into his head, and he falls quietly. I quickly check his pulse. I hadn't known that the barak flowers would work so effectively and so quickly.
But his lips are turning a pale blue, the color that every healer knows. He's not breathing. "Frodo?" My voice is laid thick with worry. "Frodo?!?" I hiss. He's still not breathing. I gave him too much. I gave him too much, and now he's going to die. No.
I'm panicking. I know it. But I can't stop it. Frodo isn't breathing. It's all well and good to deny my feelings, but FRODO ISN'T BREATHING.
My hands are skittering about, touching quickly and briefly his chest his body, my body. Like birds not knowing where to rest. Or butterflies.
"Strider! Strider, why are his lips turning blue? Strider..."
"Be quiet, Sam!" The noise is distracting me. Everything is distracting me. The fact that Frodo is still not breathing distracts me. Think. I know what to do. I know what to do. But what is that? Why can't I remember?
And then it comes to me, clear as a bell. The answer steadies my own breathing, reassures my hands. I know what to do. I pinch his nose with my fingers and lean in to press my mouth against his. Like a kiss, but so much more. Life is borne upon this gesture. In and out. In and out. I must be careful; his lungs are so much smaller than mine. I could kill him while attempting to save him.
And then there it is. I can feel him breathing on his own. I want to collapse with relief and sing with joy, but he is still in peril yet, and besides, I am too tired to sing and too busy to collapse.