Reassurance
---------------
Hunched up, Aragorn sat leaning against a smooth rock, contentedly puffing at his elvish-carved pipe and listening intently . . . listening, and gazing. Although hardly anything was to be gained from his trained senses, highly skilled and experienced as they were.
Their surroundings were eerie, mysterious, in the jet of the clear night. Excepting the intensified brightness of the spectacular moon, and its twinkling sisters, the stars, their small campfire existed as the only source of light for miles around, which caused the ranger to feel only a little wary, even though he was used to the pitch blackness of night time. Yet the stars seemed to be protectors, for nothing of a bad nature ever occurred whilst they shone above. Stars were special to him.
The huge, triangular forms of the first few trees were only just determinable, before the shapes became utterly lost to the deepness of the thick forest -- the forest they were camping on the edge of, resting between it and the clear, deep water . . . shimmering . . . shimmering. For the beaming rays of moonlight spilled upon the surface of the wide River Anduin generously, reflecting the light and illuminating the slight ripples caused by its weak current. It glinted, prettily, all the distance across to the opposite shore, and Aragorn discovered himself to become strangely fascinated by its glistening beauty.
Hearing did not tell him a great deal more; indeed, it seemed as if the only existences capable of sound-generating motion were those of his own, the river, and the forest. All was silent, save for the gentle lapping of the calm water upon sandy shores and the pleasant crackling of the spitting, makeshift fire at his feet; though the graceful whooshes of the swaying Evergreens in the cool breeze were audible also, like soft voices whispering to one another, soothing each other.
Everything was peaceful, and he savoured it, enjoying this rare opportunity to relax in a calming atmosphere. Moments such as these were scarce, and they allowed him a little time to reflect back on the past, on his life; to wonder of the future, which seemed so distant; to think of those whom he loved and cherished.
There would be no peace in Mordor . . . Mordor: was it there he truly wished to go? The route Aragorn had originally intended to take was leading to Minas Tirith, to return once more to his own realm. Months ago he planned to break away from the rest of the Fellowship at this point of the quest, to accompany Boromir.
But, now . . . now the ranger had quickly decided otherwise. Gandalf -- his dear friend, the Grey Pilgrim -- had fallen into the evil shadows of Moria, and he could not abandon Frodo to travel to those forsaken lands alone; though his heart desperately yearned for his own city, strongly desiring the boundary walls of Gondor to dwell on the outside of his presence, for it had been too long since they had.
Aragorn knew, somehow, the Ring-bearer would not choose that particular path himself -- not with the strong doubt in Boromir growing rapidly in his troubled mind each day. Frodo understood more fully than any of them that the Ring had to be destroyed, and there could be no hesitation, no delay in its deliberate riddance. The route to Minas Tirith would not be his own, and indeed not the Ring's.
The ranger had seen the fear in his eyes, the dread whenever somebody mentioned his possible future road. And in those particular cases, the Ring- bearer had pleaded for hours upon hours in solitude to anyone who neared him. Having approached him many times, Aragorn had forced his expression to hide the worry and remain only friendly, but Frodo had practically begged for his own space; and each time the ranger was granted no choice but to walk away and retreat to sit with the other six members of the Fellowship. The concern was mounting.
Taking his pipe out of his mouth, Aragorn wrapped it in the rag of silken cloth he used to protect it from harm and placed it in his pack, sighing. The course of the future would soon be decided, however much pondering was done over it. He pushed himself up onto two heavy feet and walked over to the other side of the camp in order to fetch his water bottle, which he had abandoned there earlier in the evening.
As he stretched up and retrieved the leather pouch from the tree branch, a small sniff sounded from one of the seven resting forms nearby, as well as the shifting of a squirming body on the ground.
Surprised that somebody who had experienced a very tiresome day could remain even half awake when they were allowed sleep, Aragorn frowned and slowly made his way along the line of varied-sized figures, only to stop at the feet of one of the smaller bundles of blankets. Obviously he had not been the only Being this night to brood over the soon-coming events . . .
Frodo was restlessly tossing and turning where he lay, writhing in the blankets to try and get comfy, but it was viewable that he was unable to do so. He had not slept easily the previous night, either . . . Aragorn knew that for certain, as he had purposely placed his bedroll next to his to try and monitor his state carefully.
A small sigh of frustration escaped the hobbit's lips and he reached up a hand to rub his dirty face, smudging the muck on his nose; obviously he had not noticed the ranger stride over. Carefully and silently treading between his and Sam's bedrolls, Aragorn knelt down behind him and reached out a hand to place it lightly on his shoulder.
"Frodo?"
The hobbit jumped, twisting round to face his name-speaker and squinting in the dark, his expression wary, not to mention startled. Aragorn just smiled and held up his hands to make it perfectly clear that he was not some evil, brutal orc preparing to murder him.
"Aragorn," he breathed in relief, relaxing slightly when he realised who it was. "You scared me . . ."
"Sorry, Frodo," apologised Aragorn quietly, laying a hand on his forearm and giving him a swift, searching look. "I could not help but notice how restless you are. Can you not sleep?"
Frodo lowered his gaze, chewing his chapped lips whilst awkwardly fingering the slightly frayed edge of his worn blanket, whispering in answer. "No. I know I should be familiar with it by now, but this ground is so hard and uneven . . . And . . . and there are things on my mind . . ."
Aragorn nodded. There was no need in urging him to continue from where he had broken off his speech just yet, and he regarded the hobbit thoughtfully for a moment.
"Why don't you come over and sit by the fire for a short while?" he suggested evenly.
Frodo passed him a glimpse of mild surprise before opening his mouth to slowly speak. "Oh -- I don't . . . I . . . yes, all right then," he agreed hesitantly, as if he was extremely wary, cautious, of something. Aragorn wondered for an instant what showed in his own grey eyes, those which Beings so often coiled and whimpered under.
Struggling to rid his features of the blankets swaddled in twisted positions around his body, the hobbit quickly scrabbled up -- grimacing at the slight dizziness which suddenly washed over him -- and blinked dazedly, trying to motivate his muscles to move.
Turning sharply on his heel after getting to his feet himself, Aragorn led the way over to the other side of the small clearing, resuming his slouched seat leaning against the huge rock. Frodo shot a curious glance at him and dropped to the ground, sitting down with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin rested upon them, distanced quite far from the ranger's side . . .
Quietly, Aragorn watched him.
Dazed and exhausted he looked; dark bags of weariness were ringed underneath the hobbit's eyes and he appeared flustered and hot, his fair skin flushed with a blotchy, pinkish-red colour: the exact look of somebody coming down with a fever.
However, it was this unfamiliar character in the replacement of a normal, talkative Frodo which concerned Aragorn the most. Even when the hobbit had been wounded with the Morgul knife, and they had journeyed that anxious trip from Weathertop to Rivendell, he had forever remained sociable, always communicative.
Yet now he seemed to dwell far away, in a dark world of his own somewhere, not making any effort to construct conversation, which had -- up until Gandalf's death -- been an unmistakable aspect of the bright, lively Baggins. Lowering his water bottle, the ranger shifted himself slightly to face the hobbit more appropriately, venturing to speak . . .
"What is troubling you, Frodo?" he questioned lightly.
The transparent glaze which covered Frodo's eyes disappeared somewhat, his blue iris' instead becoming heavy and full of badly-disguised grief, as he raised his head to look at his friend.
"Nothing, Aragorn," he replied slowly, although the guilt of the lie was evident in those eyes. "Nothing . . . I'm fine."
There was silence, and the ranger sighed slightly, gazing out at the glittering water for a few thoughtful moments; then he slowly turned his head back to the right direction.
"Frodo," he began softly, holding up a hand, "I may not have known you as long as Gandalf did -- or as well, for that matter -- but I have learned more about you than I think you realise . . ."
Momentarily he paused, choosing to ignore the brief gasp at the mention of the defeated wizard, and continued, calmly . . .
"We have travelled far enough together for me to be constantly aware of your changing moods, for me to be able to tell how you are feeling . . . Numerous times I have tended to many individuals in the act of healing, learning to pick up on their emotions -- especially those of anguish, weariness, despair -- and I have helped them; or at least tried to . . ."
A penetrating frown creasing his brow, Aragorn said firmly, seriously, "Frodo, I -would- understand, if only you were willing to talk."
Another silence -- this time, longer.
Fixing his gaze on the sandy ground, Frodo considered the ranger's words. Yet before he could think of any reply, a sudden wave of strong emotion passed through him and he was alarmed at the unwanted liquid sheeting his eyes, glossing his vision with tears. A huge lump grew and stuck in his throat. He tried desperately to restrain it, but it was no use; a single tear trickled over his eyelid and slid down his cheek, a cool, tingling sensation over his heated skin.
And Aragorn, it seemed, had not failed to notice; pity and sadness shone in his eyes. For a moment he did nothing, then in more of a friendly request than a command . . .
"Come here."
The brittle wall which weakly surrounded his confined and struggling emotions crumbled down and shattered. Hurriedly Frodo scrambled to his feet and stumbled forwards, lunging into the man's awaiting arms which enveloped his small form and drew him near -- as near as could be for a friend and his carer.
He was held so close in that gentle clasp, strong arms wrapped tightly around him . . . and he felt safe, out of harm's way -- warm. It had been Rivendell when he had last felt as secure as this -- pieced together with love and encouragement -- for he always did do when his beloved Uncle was present. Although now Bilbo was not here, and Aragorn was the old hobbit's replacement, it felt pleasant: comfortable. It was nice, relieving, to be reassured by somebody older, wiser and larger -- and by nothing but a simple, yet tender embrace.
The smaller arms of the comfort-seeking hobbit entwined around Aragorn's neck, and he clutched the shoulder material of the grey-blue tunic firmly between his fingers as if grasping it to hold on to life. He did not want to let go; he could not let go; anytime he did would be too soon.
Slowly the ranger slid a hand up to Frodo's neck and laid it there, stroking the back with his rough thumb, his touch as light as he could possibly make it. The soft skin was hot against his palm . . . too hot. He frowned. It -was- possible to try and stop the fever from rising to a higher scale, by cooling the hobbit's body temperature down with cold compresses to his face and chest. But usually with fever came sickness, and the sickness could not be prevented out here in the wild, especially as he had no suspicion at all as to what was wrong.
Deciding not to dwell on the matter until it became more serious, Aragorn raised his hand a little way up to run it through Frodo's hair, his strong fingers delving into the thick, dark-brown curls and supporting his head, gently massaging.
Still he cried -- harder than ever.
"Sssssh."
The hobbit released a small, high-pitched groan from the back of his throat and he buried his head into Aragorn's shoulder, who could feel him trembling a little with the sobs which were failing to suppress. Instead they unsteadied his breathing.
"Frodo . . ." Aragorn carefully pried the small fingers off his shoulders -- where they clung to the cotton clothing -- and pushed him away, so the hobbit was standing to face him directly.
Streams of sparkling tears streaked down Frodo's burning cheeks and he looked away, ashamed and embarrassed, his face glowing a deep shade of crimson. The ranger put a finger to his chin, insistently forcing him to tilt up his head and meet his stare.
"Ara-Aragorn . . . I . . . I'm sorry," he stammered in apology, freely weeping, bringing up his hands and cupping them over his face to shield his eyes.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," replied Aragorn reassuringly. "Look at me, Frodo. It is all right to cry, so do not ever feel ashamed. I know that you have been putting this off for a long while now."
"I don't know why . . . I feel so hopeless," whispered Frodo in a desperate tone, and Aragorn smiled sadly. He squeezed the hobbit's shoulder in encouragement.
"Then tell me about it. You have to speak, and I swear to you: once it is free from your system, you will feel better for it."
"B-but . . . It's everything . . . I'm s-so miserable, Aragorn," Frodo wailed quietly. He closed his eyes to block further tears from arising, though his pupils began to sting from the forming flood which was now trapped behind shut flaps.
Aragorn -- not knowing what else to do for the hobbit -- pulled Frodo to him once again, bracing him against his chest and rocking him for a moment, then settling him comfortably in his lap. He stretched over to reach his pack, straining all tendons and ligaments in his arms and back to grab it with one hand and retrieve a large blanket from within its contents. Shaking it out of its neat, repeated fold, he wrapped it around the little Ring-bearer, tucking it snugly into the gaps about his small features.
"There we go . . ." Aragorn noticed Frodo's inquisitive, slightly suspicious expression and he raised his dark eyebrows. "We would not want you catching a chill on top of everything else now, would we?"
"I wouldn't m-mind too much," said Frodo shakily, wiping his red and bloodshot eyes on the torn sleeve of his shirt. "I'm used to being in a state of w-weakness by now; a few shivers and a runny nose would not be a great deal of h-harm to me after Morgul knives and Ca-Cave-Troll spears."
"Even so . . . I do not wish to see you fall ill."
Even as he said it, Aragorn silently cursed himself. That statement should have been spoken along much different lines. Slight fever was already showing, and considering the fact that he was a hobbit, Frodo's appetite had hardly categorised as great over the past couple of weeks. And now the ranger thought about it, the fever would probably prevent any possible chills anyway.
"I would be so blinded," muttered Frodo, his tearful emotions subsiding somewhat, "by what I already feel; I do not think I would notice the discomfort too much if I was to become unwell."
Trying not to frown, Aragorn brushed his hand over his friend's hot forehead briefly, then tenderly tucked messy curls behind a delicate, pointed ear.
"Tell me."
To the ranger's surprise and confusion, Frodo exhaled in a faint laugh, almost as a sigh -- but then his faced returned to its rigid shape; he took a deep, shuddering breath, as if the air were freezing cold, and began to talk . . .
"I do not know exactly w-why I feel the way I do; I cannot even determine what is -is- I feel; all I know is that I have no hope, no courage, no . . . no anything." He sighed -- this time, a proper sigh.
"I am nothing: n-nothing compared to any individual of this company. All you others, you all possess certain aspects which are required for this quest, but me -- w-what do I hold? I am frail, and weak, unable to . . . to fulfil my d-duty without being succumbed to the Ring. It has taken hold of me, but it was not supposed to. My task was to fight it, to resist its p- power, but I know -- I know, myself -- I have not resisted hard enough, for it controls me. If I . . . if I cannot fight it now, what will happen when it is time to cast it back into Mount Doom? I . . . I'm scared: s-scared that I am not strong enough to do what I am expected to do."
Taking a deep, shallow breath, Frodo carried on, pouring tears leaking out of eye corners once again.
"I am also scared for my friends: my cousins: Merry, P-Pip . . . and Sam. Not for you, because I -know- you understand fully what is g-going on, and you can definitely look after yourself. But, for those three . . . I love them so d-dearly -- no one could even begin to know how much! If something ever happened to either one . . . l-like it did . . . like it did to . . . I couldn't ever live with myself. I have led them into such danger, onto such a leaf which holds so much despair and loss like it is merely water -- so much evil."
"Hobbits are not fit for meddling with evil affairs. They do not understand it p-properly, and those three least of all. Especially I th-think Pippin. He is still so young, and every time I glance at him such guilt wells up inside me; it f-fills me entirely leaving nothing else, and my heart begins to race . . . It's just . . . everything is so helpless, and I cannot see any way out of pain, grief . . . death. But if I fail -- of which I am certain -- there will be t-tons of it to follow, and I alone will be condemning Middle-earth to doom. What am I to do? When I know what would happen if I did not complete my task, but cannot prevent it, and yet I am the only one who could change the course of the future."
For a moment he was aware of nothing but the words he had spoken. Then the ranger's arms -- which were wrapped loosely around the hobbit's waist -- tightened around the slender form, pulling him closer to lean against his broad chest where Frodo tentatively rested his tired head. It was quiet for several minutes.
After carefully listening, Aragorn had had to clamp his lips together in order to prevent himself from bursting into shocked protest. Now he could do nothing for his friend but offer the warmth of his body.
Frodo seemed to completely underestimate his own abilities, holding himself in such low esteem; and he truly thought it would be entirely his fault if the quest failed?
To try and banish the silence and to calm Frodo down -- for the hobbit's ribcage was rising and falling much too quickly indeed -- Aragorn began to softly hum, leaning down to breathe in the hair which tickled his neck slightly.
The Elvish song was very low in pitch, but the scenery was beautifully perfect, the stars seeming to glitter and sparkle in the hollow, deep misty, blue sky even more as the incredible notes vibrated strongly in his throat and chest. He buried a hand beneath the blanket and slid it between skin and cotton shirt, laying it against the small of Frodo's back, stroking gently with the light tips of his fingers and the circulating lines of his rough palms.
The calming caresses aided Frodo to relax and he slumped nearer against the man's upper-torso with a sigh, listening to the soothing melody which raised them high above the ground and into the atmosphere. Any awkwardness was now forgotten and his breathing evened out and quietened -- although the heat radiating from his skin in immense waves worried the ranger deeply, but not as much as the former statements had done.
He ceased his enjoyable humming, ending the song on one last quivering note, which wavered all around in the air and pleasantly echoed, reflecting off the soft, hushed trees. Steadily looking up, Frodo gave the ranger a small smile, and Aragorn returned the gesture before his face grew stern.
"Frodo, I do not know how these things entered your thoughts, but I can guess, and that is referring to the Ring itself. You are correct: it is gradually corrupting you and here is where it is starting, by filling your mind with hopeless images and your heart with terrible graveness and doubt. You must pay no heed to them! No one can fight the evilness of the Ring, whether that is your task or not; but for someone to have carried it so far, bearing so much pain along the way, you are doing remarkably well. I have never seen such a strong will."
"The Ring -will- try to prevent you from destroying it, because it does not wish to be destroyed; but as long as you carry on fighting it the way you have been doing these past months, and you keep images of those you love clearly in your head, you will defeat it. You are not frail, nor are you weak; you the strongest member of this Fellowship, and it is only you who fails to observe that . . . everyone has the deepest and utmost respects for you. No other of this company carries the burden you bear, and nor will they ever do, so do not think of yourself so lowly."
"Once this is all over, you will be honoured amongst the honoured, and everyone will call your name in wonder, bowing down to Frodo Baggins of the Shire, the great halfling: for you will have saved their countries and their peoples, bringing everything to peace. If you will spare a portion of your heart for hope, Mr. Baggins, the quest will not fail, and there is -always- hope. Remember, Frodo: you are not alone . . ."
"But . . . where shall I find hope if I do not already possess any?" asked Frodo quietly. His hand absently slithered upwards and ventured inside his shirt, where it curled over the Ring tightly, its sharp coolness sending jagged jolts through the nerves in his wrist and down to his heart.
The hobbit did not seem to realise what he had done, and with grim eyes, Aragorn noticed this. Gently he closed his free hand around Frodo's, tugging it away from the tiny ring of gold in his possession and replacing it with the ranger's own thumb, beginning to massage the different muscles with forceful amounts of pressure.
"You shall find hope in your friends, your dear loved ones: the people who care about you, as you do for them . . ."
A frown creased the Ring-bearer's forehead for a moment as he gasped, but then un-tensed as the familiar twitching itch left his hand with Aragorn's strong strokes.
"Aragorn?"
"Yes, Frodo?"
"Do you think of Arwen when all hope deserts you?"
For long seconds Aragorn was unable to answer. The question had been a simple one, yet meaningful at the same time; it was as if somebody had just kicked him from behind, jolting him back to somewhere. He finished the skilful rubbing of Frodo's hand and pressed the fingers together, carefully replacing it back in the hobbit's lap and sighing.
"Yes, I think of Arwen . . . though sometimes the thoughts involving her bring me further grief than a little comfort . . ."
"You miss her," said Frodo softly, "don't you?" It was Aragorn's turn to look elsewhere.
"I miss her."
Frodo took a deep breath and said with much difficulty, "You must feel similar to me. I miss Bilbo so much it hurts . . . And when Gandalf -- when he fell . . . it was worse. It flared up inside me and I did not think I could take another step. I felt empty, numb . . . and now it will not go away."
"Gandalf's death affected you the most, I know that," said Aragorn quietly, resuming the tender ministrations over Frodo's back, the hobbit briefly shuddering at the touch before settling. "You both cared so dearly for each other; afterwards I did not think you would ever recover."
"I shan't ever recover fully . . . not now that he is gone. I will never speak or set eyes upon him again -- and I hate that. I hate it so much it burns!"
Something huge erupted inside of him and Frodo burst into another spout of weeping, soaking the front of the ranger's shirt.
"He said to me, you know . . . he-he said: many that live deserve death . . . and-and some that d-die deserved life . . . He . . . He didn't deserve death! . . . He didn't! . . . He did not deserve to die!"
"Ssssssh," Aragorn soothed, "I know. I know it hurts. There is a time for grieving, and a time to move on. You may grieve for as long as it takes the wounds to heal . . ."
"W . . . Wounds?"
The ranger placed his hand over Frodo's chest, directly above his heart.
"Yes. These wounds -- the ones which are so raw and open: the holes of your loss. They are not viewable to others, to friends, unless they are spoken of . . . that is why we have seemed so blind to you."
The hobbit shook his head and only answered once he was calm and no longer choking on tears.
"I did not speak because . . . because I thought you would think me stupid -- childish. I wanted to prove to everyone that I -was- strong enough to fulfil my task as Ring-bearer, as not to give anybody doubts, even though I doubted myself. Gandalf was no longer with us and therefore I did not know where to turn for comfort, so I ignored my emotions . . . but I think in the end they gained the better of me."
"You thought we would not notice anything," said Aragorn, his eyebrows raised, and Frodo nodded slightly.
"It was not hard to view that something was wrong," the ranger told him softly. "You are not eating properly -- hardly anything at the moment; you barely sleep at nights and in resting times you spend time alone, muttering no word to anybody. That is not the normal hobbit I know of."
"I . . . I didn't . . . Is that why Sam keeps pestering me to eat?" asked Frodo slowly, suddenly comprehending his friend's recent behaviour when they had been in close proximity with each other.
"Probably, yes. He's worried about you, as is everybody else . . . including myself. But I think Sam observed that you were not right before the rest of us; he has consulted me many a time since Moria."
"W-What?" Frodo jerked upright in the man's lap. "But . . . there's no need for worry!" he protested.
Aragorn smiled wryly and carefully guided his head back down. "I think there you are quite mistaken."
The hobbit wrenched his jaw apart in defiant retort. When he discovered nothing to say, however, he closed it again.
"You know how you are feeling. Perhaps if you allowed us to help you, Frodo, you may begin to move on. In the future, if you ever desire comfort, you need only ask for it. Now . . . try to sleep. It is late, and we have another active day ahead of us; I doubt there will be any time for rest tomorrow."
Snuggling more comfortably into the crook of the Aragorn's arm, something of a smile showed upon Frodo's face, though tears -- now silent -- still flowed down his flustered cheeks. The ranger lightly brushed them away and fondly stroked the hobbit's forehead with the backs of his fingers, comforting, calming; and he smiled in satisfaction when the wet eyelashes eventually drooped and fluttered shut. He held Frodo gently, and for an hour soothingly rocked him, repeatedly pushing his soft hair back and out of the hobbit's face.
Frodo had obeyed Aragorn's command thinking that -- considering the unpleasant experiences of the past few nights -- there was no possible way he was going to fall asleep; however, he was mistaken. He found that his troubles were leaving him in peace, and they were not constantly barging through his mind, banishing the happy thoughts for what seemed like eternity and replacing them with every negative feeling known to mortals. Quietness and relief filled him; and suddenly the Ring-bearer was exceptionally weary, but in a manner that was for once comfortable.
The ranger's heart drummed powerfully inside his large ribcage -- with such strength -- and Frodo listened drowsily, the beating vibrations echoing with soft thuds in his ear, less swiftly than his own racing pulse. He wished he possessed such firm sturdiness. Twisting his arms around the man's waist, the hobbit breathed in deeply and sighed; and the warm touches and hushes began to lull him into a tranquil slumber: undisturbed and relaxed.
"Thank you," he whispered, vaguely feeling the ranger's gentle squeeze before he thankfully slipped into a tired state of welcome unawareness . . .
~ The End ~
---------------
Hunched up, Aragorn sat leaning against a smooth rock, contentedly puffing at his elvish-carved pipe and listening intently . . . listening, and gazing. Although hardly anything was to be gained from his trained senses, highly skilled and experienced as they were.
Their surroundings were eerie, mysterious, in the jet of the clear night. Excepting the intensified brightness of the spectacular moon, and its twinkling sisters, the stars, their small campfire existed as the only source of light for miles around, which caused the ranger to feel only a little wary, even though he was used to the pitch blackness of night time. Yet the stars seemed to be protectors, for nothing of a bad nature ever occurred whilst they shone above. Stars were special to him.
The huge, triangular forms of the first few trees were only just determinable, before the shapes became utterly lost to the deepness of the thick forest -- the forest they were camping on the edge of, resting between it and the clear, deep water . . . shimmering . . . shimmering. For the beaming rays of moonlight spilled upon the surface of the wide River Anduin generously, reflecting the light and illuminating the slight ripples caused by its weak current. It glinted, prettily, all the distance across to the opposite shore, and Aragorn discovered himself to become strangely fascinated by its glistening beauty.
Hearing did not tell him a great deal more; indeed, it seemed as if the only existences capable of sound-generating motion were those of his own, the river, and the forest. All was silent, save for the gentle lapping of the calm water upon sandy shores and the pleasant crackling of the spitting, makeshift fire at his feet; though the graceful whooshes of the swaying Evergreens in the cool breeze were audible also, like soft voices whispering to one another, soothing each other.
Everything was peaceful, and he savoured it, enjoying this rare opportunity to relax in a calming atmosphere. Moments such as these were scarce, and they allowed him a little time to reflect back on the past, on his life; to wonder of the future, which seemed so distant; to think of those whom he loved and cherished.
There would be no peace in Mordor . . . Mordor: was it there he truly wished to go? The route Aragorn had originally intended to take was leading to Minas Tirith, to return once more to his own realm. Months ago he planned to break away from the rest of the Fellowship at this point of the quest, to accompany Boromir.
But, now . . . now the ranger had quickly decided otherwise. Gandalf -- his dear friend, the Grey Pilgrim -- had fallen into the evil shadows of Moria, and he could not abandon Frodo to travel to those forsaken lands alone; though his heart desperately yearned for his own city, strongly desiring the boundary walls of Gondor to dwell on the outside of his presence, for it had been too long since they had.
Aragorn knew, somehow, the Ring-bearer would not choose that particular path himself -- not with the strong doubt in Boromir growing rapidly in his troubled mind each day. Frodo understood more fully than any of them that the Ring had to be destroyed, and there could be no hesitation, no delay in its deliberate riddance. The route to Minas Tirith would not be his own, and indeed not the Ring's.
The ranger had seen the fear in his eyes, the dread whenever somebody mentioned his possible future road. And in those particular cases, the Ring- bearer had pleaded for hours upon hours in solitude to anyone who neared him. Having approached him many times, Aragorn had forced his expression to hide the worry and remain only friendly, but Frodo had practically begged for his own space; and each time the ranger was granted no choice but to walk away and retreat to sit with the other six members of the Fellowship. The concern was mounting.
Taking his pipe out of his mouth, Aragorn wrapped it in the rag of silken cloth he used to protect it from harm and placed it in his pack, sighing. The course of the future would soon be decided, however much pondering was done over it. He pushed himself up onto two heavy feet and walked over to the other side of the camp in order to fetch his water bottle, which he had abandoned there earlier in the evening.
As he stretched up and retrieved the leather pouch from the tree branch, a small sniff sounded from one of the seven resting forms nearby, as well as the shifting of a squirming body on the ground.
Surprised that somebody who had experienced a very tiresome day could remain even half awake when they were allowed sleep, Aragorn frowned and slowly made his way along the line of varied-sized figures, only to stop at the feet of one of the smaller bundles of blankets. Obviously he had not been the only Being this night to brood over the soon-coming events . . .
Frodo was restlessly tossing and turning where he lay, writhing in the blankets to try and get comfy, but it was viewable that he was unable to do so. He had not slept easily the previous night, either . . . Aragorn knew that for certain, as he had purposely placed his bedroll next to his to try and monitor his state carefully.
A small sigh of frustration escaped the hobbit's lips and he reached up a hand to rub his dirty face, smudging the muck on his nose; obviously he had not noticed the ranger stride over. Carefully and silently treading between his and Sam's bedrolls, Aragorn knelt down behind him and reached out a hand to place it lightly on his shoulder.
"Frodo?"
The hobbit jumped, twisting round to face his name-speaker and squinting in the dark, his expression wary, not to mention startled. Aragorn just smiled and held up his hands to make it perfectly clear that he was not some evil, brutal orc preparing to murder him.
"Aragorn," he breathed in relief, relaxing slightly when he realised who it was. "You scared me . . ."
"Sorry, Frodo," apologised Aragorn quietly, laying a hand on his forearm and giving him a swift, searching look. "I could not help but notice how restless you are. Can you not sleep?"
Frodo lowered his gaze, chewing his chapped lips whilst awkwardly fingering the slightly frayed edge of his worn blanket, whispering in answer. "No. I know I should be familiar with it by now, but this ground is so hard and uneven . . . And . . . and there are things on my mind . . ."
Aragorn nodded. There was no need in urging him to continue from where he had broken off his speech just yet, and he regarded the hobbit thoughtfully for a moment.
"Why don't you come over and sit by the fire for a short while?" he suggested evenly.
Frodo passed him a glimpse of mild surprise before opening his mouth to slowly speak. "Oh -- I don't . . . I . . . yes, all right then," he agreed hesitantly, as if he was extremely wary, cautious, of something. Aragorn wondered for an instant what showed in his own grey eyes, those which Beings so often coiled and whimpered under.
Struggling to rid his features of the blankets swaddled in twisted positions around his body, the hobbit quickly scrabbled up -- grimacing at the slight dizziness which suddenly washed over him -- and blinked dazedly, trying to motivate his muscles to move.
Turning sharply on his heel after getting to his feet himself, Aragorn led the way over to the other side of the small clearing, resuming his slouched seat leaning against the huge rock. Frodo shot a curious glance at him and dropped to the ground, sitting down with his knees drawn up to his chest and his chin rested upon them, distanced quite far from the ranger's side . . .
Quietly, Aragorn watched him.
Dazed and exhausted he looked; dark bags of weariness were ringed underneath the hobbit's eyes and he appeared flustered and hot, his fair skin flushed with a blotchy, pinkish-red colour: the exact look of somebody coming down with a fever.
However, it was this unfamiliar character in the replacement of a normal, talkative Frodo which concerned Aragorn the most. Even when the hobbit had been wounded with the Morgul knife, and they had journeyed that anxious trip from Weathertop to Rivendell, he had forever remained sociable, always communicative.
Yet now he seemed to dwell far away, in a dark world of his own somewhere, not making any effort to construct conversation, which had -- up until Gandalf's death -- been an unmistakable aspect of the bright, lively Baggins. Lowering his water bottle, the ranger shifted himself slightly to face the hobbit more appropriately, venturing to speak . . .
"What is troubling you, Frodo?" he questioned lightly.
The transparent glaze which covered Frodo's eyes disappeared somewhat, his blue iris' instead becoming heavy and full of badly-disguised grief, as he raised his head to look at his friend.
"Nothing, Aragorn," he replied slowly, although the guilt of the lie was evident in those eyes. "Nothing . . . I'm fine."
There was silence, and the ranger sighed slightly, gazing out at the glittering water for a few thoughtful moments; then he slowly turned his head back to the right direction.
"Frodo," he began softly, holding up a hand, "I may not have known you as long as Gandalf did -- or as well, for that matter -- but I have learned more about you than I think you realise . . ."
Momentarily he paused, choosing to ignore the brief gasp at the mention of the defeated wizard, and continued, calmly . . .
"We have travelled far enough together for me to be constantly aware of your changing moods, for me to be able to tell how you are feeling . . . Numerous times I have tended to many individuals in the act of healing, learning to pick up on their emotions -- especially those of anguish, weariness, despair -- and I have helped them; or at least tried to . . ."
A penetrating frown creasing his brow, Aragorn said firmly, seriously, "Frodo, I -would- understand, if only you were willing to talk."
Another silence -- this time, longer.
Fixing his gaze on the sandy ground, Frodo considered the ranger's words. Yet before he could think of any reply, a sudden wave of strong emotion passed through him and he was alarmed at the unwanted liquid sheeting his eyes, glossing his vision with tears. A huge lump grew and stuck in his throat. He tried desperately to restrain it, but it was no use; a single tear trickled over his eyelid and slid down his cheek, a cool, tingling sensation over his heated skin.
And Aragorn, it seemed, had not failed to notice; pity and sadness shone in his eyes. For a moment he did nothing, then in more of a friendly request than a command . . .
"Come here."
The brittle wall which weakly surrounded his confined and struggling emotions crumbled down and shattered. Hurriedly Frodo scrambled to his feet and stumbled forwards, lunging into the man's awaiting arms which enveloped his small form and drew him near -- as near as could be for a friend and his carer.
He was held so close in that gentle clasp, strong arms wrapped tightly around him . . . and he felt safe, out of harm's way -- warm. It had been Rivendell when he had last felt as secure as this -- pieced together with love and encouragement -- for he always did do when his beloved Uncle was present. Although now Bilbo was not here, and Aragorn was the old hobbit's replacement, it felt pleasant: comfortable. It was nice, relieving, to be reassured by somebody older, wiser and larger -- and by nothing but a simple, yet tender embrace.
The smaller arms of the comfort-seeking hobbit entwined around Aragorn's neck, and he clutched the shoulder material of the grey-blue tunic firmly between his fingers as if grasping it to hold on to life. He did not want to let go; he could not let go; anytime he did would be too soon.
Slowly the ranger slid a hand up to Frodo's neck and laid it there, stroking the back with his rough thumb, his touch as light as he could possibly make it. The soft skin was hot against his palm . . . too hot. He frowned. It -was- possible to try and stop the fever from rising to a higher scale, by cooling the hobbit's body temperature down with cold compresses to his face and chest. But usually with fever came sickness, and the sickness could not be prevented out here in the wild, especially as he had no suspicion at all as to what was wrong.
Deciding not to dwell on the matter until it became more serious, Aragorn raised his hand a little way up to run it through Frodo's hair, his strong fingers delving into the thick, dark-brown curls and supporting his head, gently massaging.
Still he cried -- harder than ever.
"Sssssh."
The hobbit released a small, high-pitched groan from the back of his throat and he buried his head into Aragorn's shoulder, who could feel him trembling a little with the sobs which were failing to suppress. Instead they unsteadied his breathing.
"Frodo . . ." Aragorn carefully pried the small fingers off his shoulders -- where they clung to the cotton clothing -- and pushed him away, so the hobbit was standing to face him directly.
Streams of sparkling tears streaked down Frodo's burning cheeks and he looked away, ashamed and embarrassed, his face glowing a deep shade of crimson. The ranger put a finger to his chin, insistently forcing him to tilt up his head and meet his stare.
"Ara-Aragorn . . . I . . . I'm sorry," he stammered in apology, freely weeping, bringing up his hands and cupping them over his face to shield his eyes.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," replied Aragorn reassuringly. "Look at me, Frodo. It is all right to cry, so do not ever feel ashamed. I know that you have been putting this off for a long while now."
"I don't know why . . . I feel so hopeless," whispered Frodo in a desperate tone, and Aragorn smiled sadly. He squeezed the hobbit's shoulder in encouragement.
"Then tell me about it. You have to speak, and I swear to you: once it is free from your system, you will feel better for it."
"B-but . . . It's everything . . . I'm s-so miserable, Aragorn," Frodo wailed quietly. He closed his eyes to block further tears from arising, though his pupils began to sting from the forming flood which was now trapped behind shut flaps.
Aragorn -- not knowing what else to do for the hobbit -- pulled Frodo to him once again, bracing him against his chest and rocking him for a moment, then settling him comfortably in his lap. He stretched over to reach his pack, straining all tendons and ligaments in his arms and back to grab it with one hand and retrieve a large blanket from within its contents. Shaking it out of its neat, repeated fold, he wrapped it around the little Ring-bearer, tucking it snugly into the gaps about his small features.
"There we go . . ." Aragorn noticed Frodo's inquisitive, slightly suspicious expression and he raised his dark eyebrows. "We would not want you catching a chill on top of everything else now, would we?"
"I wouldn't m-mind too much," said Frodo shakily, wiping his red and bloodshot eyes on the torn sleeve of his shirt. "I'm used to being in a state of w-weakness by now; a few shivers and a runny nose would not be a great deal of h-harm to me after Morgul knives and Ca-Cave-Troll spears."
"Even so . . . I do not wish to see you fall ill."
Even as he said it, Aragorn silently cursed himself. That statement should have been spoken along much different lines. Slight fever was already showing, and considering the fact that he was a hobbit, Frodo's appetite had hardly categorised as great over the past couple of weeks. And now the ranger thought about it, the fever would probably prevent any possible chills anyway.
"I would be so blinded," muttered Frodo, his tearful emotions subsiding somewhat, "by what I already feel; I do not think I would notice the discomfort too much if I was to become unwell."
Trying not to frown, Aragorn brushed his hand over his friend's hot forehead briefly, then tenderly tucked messy curls behind a delicate, pointed ear.
"Tell me."
To the ranger's surprise and confusion, Frodo exhaled in a faint laugh, almost as a sigh -- but then his faced returned to its rigid shape; he took a deep, shuddering breath, as if the air were freezing cold, and began to talk . . .
"I do not know exactly w-why I feel the way I do; I cannot even determine what is -is- I feel; all I know is that I have no hope, no courage, no . . . no anything." He sighed -- this time, a proper sigh.
"I am nothing: n-nothing compared to any individual of this company. All you others, you all possess certain aspects which are required for this quest, but me -- w-what do I hold? I am frail, and weak, unable to . . . to fulfil my d-duty without being succumbed to the Ring. It has taken hold of me, but it was not supposed to. My task was to fight it, to resist its p- power, but I know -- I know, myself -- I have not resisted hard enough, for it controls me. If I . . . if I cannot fight it now, what will happen when it is time to cast it back into Mount Doom? I . . . I'm scared: s-scared that I am not strong enough to do what I am expected to do."
Taking a deep, shallow breath, Frodo carried on, pouring tears leaking out of eye corners once again.
"I am also scared for my friends: my cousins: Merry, P-Pip . . . and Sam. Not for you, because I -know- you understand fully what is g-going on, and you can definitely look after yourself. But, for those three . . . I love them so d-dearly -- no one could even begin to know how much! If something ever happened to either one . . . l-like it did . . . like it did to . . . I couldn't ever live with myself. I have led them into such danger, onto such a leaf which holds so much despair and loss like it is merely water -- so much evil."
"Hobbits are not fit for meddling with evil affairs. They do not understand it p-properly, and those three least of all. Especially I th-think Pippin. He is still so young, and every time I glance at him such guilt wells up inside me; it f-fills me entirely leaving nothing else, and my heart begins to race . . . It's just . . . everything is so helpless, and I cannot see any way out of pain, grief . . . death. But if I fail -- of which I am certain -- there will be t-tons of it to follow, and I alone will be condemning Middle-earth to doom. What am I to do? When I know what would happen if I did not complete my task, but cannot prevent it, and yet I am the only one who could change the course of the future."
For a moment he was aware of nothing but the words he had spoken. Then the ranger's arms -- which were wrapped loosely around the hobbit's waist -- tightened around the slender form, pulling him closer to lean against his broad chest where Frodo tentatively rested his tired head. It was quiet for several minutes.
After carefully listening, Aragorn had had to clamp his lips together in order to prevent himself from bursting into shocked protest. Now he could do nothing for his friend but offer the warmth of his body.
Frodo seemed to completely underestimate his own abilities, holding himself in such low esteem; and he truly thought it would be entirely his fault if the quest failed?
To try and banish the silence and to calm Frodo down -- for the hobbit's ribcage was rising and falling much too quickly indeed -- Aragorn began to softly hum, leaning down to breathe in the hair which tickled his neck slightly.
The Elvish song was very low in pitch, but the scenery was beautifully perfect, the stars seeming to glitter and sparkle in the hollow, deep misty, blue sky even more as the incredible notes vibrated strongly in his throat and chest. He buried a hand beneath the blanket and slid it between skin and cotton shirt, laying it against the small of Frodo's back, stroking gently with the light tips of his fingers and the circulating lines of his rough palms.
The calming caresses aided Frodo to relax and he slumped nearer against the man's upper-torso with a sigh, listening to the soothing melody which raised them high above the ground and into the atmosphere. Any awkwardness was now forgotten and his breathing evened out and quietened -- although the heat radiating from his skin in immense waves worried the ranger deeply, but not as much as the former statements had done.
He ceased his enjoyable humming, ending the song on one last quivering note, which wavered all around in the air and pleasantly echoed, reflecting off the soft, hushed trees. Steadily looking up, Frodo gave the ranger a small smile, and Aragorn returned the gesture before his face grew stern.
"Frodo, I do not know how these things entered your thoughts, but I can guess, and that is referring to the Ring itself. You are correct: it is gradually corrupting you and here is where it is starting, by filling your mind with hopeless images and your heart with terrible graveness and doubt. You must pay no heed to them! No one can fight the evilness of the Ring, whether that is your task or not; but for someone to have carried it so far, bearing so much pain along the way, you are doing remarkably well. I have never seen such a strong will."
"The Ring -will- try to prevent you from destroying it, because it does not wish to be destroyed; but as long as you carry on fighting it the way you have been doing these past months, and you keep images of those you love clearly in your head, you will defeat it. You are not frail, nor are you weak; you the strongest member of this Fellowship, and it is only you who fails to observe that . . . everyone has the deepest and utmost respects for you. No other of this company carries the burden you bear, and nor will they ever do, so do not think of yourself so lowly."
"Once this is all over, you will be honoured amongst the honoured, and everyone will call your name in wonder, bowing down to Frodo Baggins of the Shire, the great halfling: for you will have saved their countries and their peoples, bringing everything to peace. If you will spare a portion of your heart for hope, Mr. Baggins, the quest will not fail, and there is -always- hope. Remember, Frodo: you are not alone . . ."
"But . . . where shall I find hope if I do not already possess any?" asked Frodo quietly. His hand absently slithered upwards and ventured inside his shirt, where it curled over the Ring tightly, its sharp coolness sending jagged jolts through the nerves in his wrist and down to his heart.
The hobbit did not seem to realise what he had done, and with grim eyes, Aragorn noticed this. Gently he closed his free hand around Frodo's, tugging it away from the tiny ring of gold in his possession and replacing it with the ranger's own thumb, beginning to massage the different muscles with forceful amounts of pressure.
"You shall find hope in your friends, your dear loved ones: the people who care about you, as you do for them . . ."
A frown creased the Ring-bearer's forehead for a moment as he gasped, but then un-tensed as the familiar twitching itch left his hand with Aragorn's strong strokes.
"Aragorn?"
"Yes, Frodo?"
"Do you think of Arwen when all hope deserts you?"
For long seconds Aragorn was unable to answer. The question had been a simple one, yet meaningful at the same time; it was as if somebody had just kicked him from behind, jolting him back to somewhere. He finished the skilful rubbing of Frodo's hand and pressed the fingers together, carefully replacing it back in the hobbit's lap and sighing.
"Yes, I think of Arwen . . . though sometimes the thoughts involving her bring me further grief than a little comfort . . ."
"You miss her," said Frodo softly, "don't you?" It was Aragorn's turn to look elsewhere.
"I miss her."
Frodo took a deep breath and said with much difficulty, "You must feel similar to me. I miss Bilbo so much it hurts . . . And when Gandalf -- when he fell . . . it was worse. It flared up inside me and I did not think I could take another step. I felt empty, numb . . . and now it will not go away."
"Gandalf's death affected you the most, I know that," said Aragorn quietly, resuming the tender ministrations over Frodo's back, the hobbit briefly shuddering at the touch before settling. "You both cared so dearly for each other; afterwards I did not think you would ever recover."
"I shan't ever recover fully . . . not now that he is gone. I will never speak or set eyes upon him again -- and I hate that. I hate it so much it burns!"
Something huge erupted inside of him and Frodo burst into another spout of weeping, soaking the front of the ranger's shirt.
"He said to me, you know . . . he-he said: many that live deserve death . . . and-and some that d-die deserved life . . . He . . . He didn't deserve death! . . . He didn't! . . . He did not deserve to die!"
"Ssssssh," Aragorn soothed, "I know. I know it hurts. There is a time for grieving, and a time to move on. You may grieve for as long as it takes the wounds to heal . . ."
"W . . . Wounds?"
The ranger placed his hand over Frodo's chest, directly above his heart.
"Yes. These wounds -- the ones which are so raw and open: the holes of your loss. They are not viewable to others, to friends, unless they are spoken of . . . that is why we have seemed so blind to you."
The hobbit shook his head and only answered once he was calm and no longer choking on tears.
"I did not speak because . . . because I thought you would think me stupid -- childish. I wanted to prove to everyone that I -was- strong enough to fulfil my task as Ring-bearer, as not to give anybody doubts, even though I doubted myself. Gandalf was no longer with us and therefore I did not know where to turn for comfort, so I ignored my emotions . . . but I think in the end they gained the better of me."
"You thought we would not notice anything," said Aragorn, his eyebrows raised, and Frodo nodded slightly.
"It was not hard to view that something was wrong," the ranger told him softly. "You are not eating properly -- hardly anything at the moment; you barely sleep at nights and in resting times you spend time alone, muttering no word to anybody. That is not the normal hobbit I know of."
"I . . . I didn't . . . Is that why Sam keeps pestering me to eat?" asked Frodo slowly, suddenly comprehending his friend's recent behaviour when they had been in close proximity with each other.
"Probably, yes. He's worried about you, as is everybody else . . . including myself. But I think Sam observed that you were not right before the rest of us; he has consulted me many a time since Moria."
"W-What?" Frodo jerked upright in the man's lap. "But . . . there's no need for worry!" he protested.
Aragorn smiled wryly and carefully guided his head back down. "I think there you are quite mistaken."
The hobbit wrenched his jaw apart in defiant retort. When he discovered nothing to say, however, he closed it again.
"You know how you are feeling. Perhaps if you allowed us to help you, Frodo, you may begin to move on. In the future, if you ever desire comfort, you need only ask for it. Now . . . try to sleep. It is late, and we have another active day ahead of us; I doubt there will be any time for rest tomorrow."
Snuggling more comfortably into the crook of the Aragorn's arm, something of a smile showed upon Frodo's face, though tears -- now silent -- still flowed down his flustered cheeks. The ranger lightly brushed them away and fondly stroked the hobbit's forehead with the backs of his fingers, comforting, calming; and he smiled in satisfaction when the wet eyelashes eventually drooped and fluttered shut. He held Frodo gently, and for an hour soothingly rocked him, repeatedly pushing his soft hair back and out of the hobbit's face.
Frodo had obeyed Aragorn's command thinking that -- considering the unpleasant experiences of the past few nights -- there was no possible way he was going to fall asleep; however, he was mistaken. He found that his troubles were leaving him in peace, and they were not constantly barging through his mind, banishing the happy thoughts for what seemed like eternity and replacing them with every negative feeling known to mortals. Quietness and relief filled him; and suddenly the Ring-bearer was exceptionally weary, but in a manner that was for once comfortable.
The ranger's heart drummed powerfully inside his large ribcage -- with such strength -- and Frodo listened drowsily, the beating vibrations echoing with soft thuds in his ear, less swiftly than his own racing pulse. He wished he possessed such firm sturdiness. Twisting his arms around the man's waist, the hobbit breathed in deeply and sighed; and the warm touches and hushes began to lull him into a tranquil slumber: undisturbed and relaxed.
"Thank you," he whispered, vaguely feeling the ranger's gentle squeeze before he thankfully slipped into a tired state of welcome unawareness . . .
~ The End ~