Title:  Equals  
 
Author:  AK - calmjedi@hotmail.com  
 
Pairings:  Aragorn/Frodo, implied Frodo/Sam, implied 
Aragorn/Arwen  
 
Rating:  NC17ish  
 
Category:  First Time, Interspecies, PWP, Missing Scene  
 
Summary:  The events of the last meeting between Aragorn 
and Frodo as shown in the film.  As I like to imagine them, 
anyway.  Aragorn POV.  
 
Disclaimer:  I'm not solvent, and they're not mine.  Don't 
sue.  
 
Warnings:  Contains experimental verb tense.  
 
Author's Notes:  This fic is my first contribution to this 
fandom.  Some of the lines they speak are from the movie, 
and some are my own.  I doubt there will be any confusion.  
Any and all mistakes are mine.  Big thanks goes to 
JWolfine, my illustrious buddy and beta-hobbit.  As always, 
feedback and/or constructive criticism very welcome.  
 
 
* * * * *  
 
 
As I crash through the lush forest, cursing my 
inattentiveness and searching frantically for Frodo, two 
thoughts plague me.  
 
The first is--what in the name of Mordor has happened?  
 
The second--why am I even asking myself such a question?  
 
I'd known it the minute I saw Boromir's shield resting by 
Frodo's pack, there against the tree.  Boromir's will was 
strong, but not strong enough; we'd all recognized that 
when he'd held the Ring aloft on Caradhras.  When he'd 
stared at it in that strange, otherworldly state of 
distraction, his weakness was as clear to me as the day.  
It glittered in Boromir's eyes as surely as the silver 
chain by which he had held it, suspended in air.  
 
Well, *I* had recognized that weakness.  Certainly some 
awareness had glimmered in Gandalf's eyes, during the 
meeting of the Council.  Had it not?  By the Valar, why 
hadn't we been more careful?  More watchful?  
 
I berate myself a thousand times over for this folly of 
mine, and a sharp pain stings in my heart.  If anything has 
happened to Frodo...  
 
The noise of the Rauros drowns out much of the subtler 
sound in the area, and so I run over the moist turf like a 
madman, scouting the hills and shore with all my skill and 
a desperation I've not felt in an age.  If we lose Frodo 
not to Sauron, not to goblins or orcs or the Nazgul, but to 
Boromir, overtaken by greed for the Ring...I shall never 
forgive myself.  
 
When I catch sight of him, sitting on the ground, I start 
in relief.  
 
He is alive, at least.  
 
"Frodo," I say sharply.  He looks all right, if rather 
bedraggled--there are leaves in his hair, grasses and dirt 
on his cloak as if he's been rolling about on the ground.  
 
But what does that signify?  We are all of us dirtied.  
 
"It has taken Boromir," he says simply, and the words wash 
over me in those dark, stressful seconds before you 
discover just how wrong things have gone.  My panic and my 
agony of fear was given instant respite when I first saw 
him, but in these quick moments of questions without 
answers, my concern returns sharply.  I fear for Frodo--
though he is alive, at least--and I fear for the Ring.  In 
the wrong hands  
 
(Boromir's hands)  
 
it will be our destruction even as it was Isildur's, my 
kinsman so long dead.  
 
Does Boromir have the Ring?  Elbereth had those hands been 
on  
 
(Frodo)  
 
the Ring?  
 
A strange meshing of anger and fear rises in me then.  
"Where is the Ring?" I demand, stepping towards him, and 
the question is tinged with panic.  I can hear it in my own 
voice.  It is not the best tack to take with a frightened 
hobbit, least of all Frodo.  I should know better.  But I 
am afraid.  Terrified, even, of what Boromir might have 
done in his desire for the Ring.  Had he attacked Frodo?  
Hurt him?  
 
He scrambles up, turns and runs from me.  I am at first too 
startled to react.  
 
"Stay away!" he cries warningly, and half-runs, half-backs 
away, staring at me in a mad sort of terrified expectation.  
 
"Frodo, I swore to protect you," I say, spreading my arms 
in the best gesture of harmlessness that I can manage.  
Knowing I have frightened him, I step forward slowly, 
trying to put across to him my good intentions.  
 
"Can you protect me from yourself?"  His voice is harsh, 
wary.  
 
Even angry.  It is not an unreasonable anger.  Persecution 
from one's comrades-in-arms is surely a difficult thing to 
take, and hobbits seem to always bear their hearts upon 
their sleeves, to wear each feeling clearly upon the face.  
He stands stock-still as I move closer to him, though he 
looks as though he might still choose to run from me.  I 
step towards him quite slowly now.  
 
"Would you destroy it?" he demands, and something happens 
for which I am not prepared:  I hear the direct call of the 
Ring.  
 
(Aragorn)  
 
I glance at the object in his hand, and following my eyes, 
he does the same, then looks back up to me.  The Ring lies 
alone in his open palm, its silver chain now gone.  The 
whisper is strange, eerie and yet entirely desirable.  
 
(Aragorn)  
 
The Ring is calling me, summoning me by my name.  My gaze 
lingers on its golden sparkle  
 
(Elessar)  
 
and for a minute the desire takes me, the sheer perfection 
of the roundness of that shining golden band  
 
but it means nothing.  Deeper, stronger than the whispered 
call of the Ring is Frodo's face beyond and above it.  The 
Ring must be destroyed--I know this to be true.  I focus 
upon his face, its once-soft innocence now marred by pain 
and fatigue, and I do not slow.  His hair and cloak blow 
softly in the breeze.  
 
For he is waiting, waiting for something.  Perhaps he 
recognizes the futility of fleeing from me, or perhaps he 
trusts me?  
 
He does not look as though he trusts me, and Frodo wears 
his heart always upon his face.  His blue eyes contain 
worlds of pain and betrayal.  
 
But he has ceased running and merely stands, waiting, 
agonized.  For a word, an act.  For me to take the Ring, or 
for violence at my hands, I suppose.  For further betrayal, 
or for reassurance.  This last is what I will seek to give 
him.  
 
I look at the hobbit, look at his posture, the wary 
futility of purpose in his eyes.  
 
Yes--he has given up.  Had I the mind and heart to take the 
Ring, he would not attempt to keep it from me.  Even now it 
lies open to me, resting flawless in his outstretched palm.  
 
Has Boromir so broken his spirit, then?  
 
As I take a step closer, he flinches away from me, winces 
slightly as though suddenly intensely aware  
 
(afraid)  
 
of me.  Of my size.  Hobbits are such little creatures, and 
he looks so small against the backdrop of sprawling grey 
stone.  I can tell he is feeling the difference in size 
between us.  
 
He is afraid of me, and I am much larger, much stronger.  
He fears me and he has given up, is standing quite still.  
He looks so vulnerable, and so dangerously beautiful in 
that vulnerability.  
 
My heart goes out to him.  
 
Even as the Ring still beckons to me.  
 
As I do not mean to intimidate him, I do the only thing I 
can do.  I kneel, to approach him on his own level, as an 
equal.  
 
And yet his eyes flicker with dismay and dim fear as I 
kneel before him.  There is bitter wariness within them, 
grief and simple exhaustion.  I see these things and am 
much saddened.  Frodo has been through too much.  
 
My hand twitches slightly in the air above his.  For an 
instant my fingers hover of their own accord over his open 
palm, but my will and my love for Frodo is stronger than 
the siren pull of the Ring.  With both my hands, I close 
his fingers over the evil object.  
 
"I would've gone with you to the end, into the very fires 
of Mordor," I tell him gently, and I mean it.  I long to go 
with him despite his intentions.  My heart aches.  Who will 
protect him, if he goes on alone?  
 
Gazing into his eyes, I press his closed fist back, to his 
chest, with both my hands.  He clutches it and stares at 
me, and a slow spark of warmth shines forth from his eyes.  
A light of peace dwells within them like a beacon.  I put 
up my hands as I draw them back, signifying my refusal with 
every fiber of my being.  
 
"I know," he says, and for a second we are both silent.  
 
"Look after the others, especially Sam.  He will not 
understand," he says quietly, and I nod.  He loves Sam, and 
Sam obviously adores him.  Whether it is as apparent to the 
others as it is to me, I do not know.  But Sam shall 
certainly not understand, and I do not look forward to 
having to tell him that Frodo has gone on alone.  
 
We stare at each other, and then, leaning forward, I take 
him into my arms.  For a time, we remain there as I hold 
him, and he rests within the protective circle of my arms.  
 
I only wish that I could keep him there.  
 
For I love Frodo.  
 
A strange madness it is, to have such feelings and desire 
for a hobbit.  I must be mad.  
 
I am not certain when I began to care for him.  Perhaps it 
was that first night in Bree.  It matters not, for I will 
never say anything to it.  There is no place in his heart 
for me.  
 
And for that matter, there is no place in my life for him.  
Arwen holds my world in her pale, slender hands, and I love 
her more than all Middle Earth and life itself.  My Arwen, 
so strong, and beautiful.  When this is over, I shall 
return to Rivendell.  Finally, I would not choose any but 
her.  
 
And yet I gravitate towards Frodo as if he were a very 
force of nature.  I cannot name the reasons for it, and 
that perhaps more than anything disturbs me.  
 
But I do not wish to sour his opinion of me.  I do not wish 
to destroy the trust he has placed in me, for my vigilant 
defense of him and the other hobbits.  For my protection of 
them, and for my refusal to be swayed by the whispered lure 
of the Ring.  I would not tarnish or dishonor that trust.  
 
When he finally pulls away from my embrace, I drop my arms 
towards my sides, but I allow, for a moment, one finger to 
linger over the top of his right foot.  
 
I barely notice him slip the Ring back onto its silver 
chain, for his foot is large and heavy, covered in dark, 
thick hair as my finger moves over the soft skin.  Tis such 
a strange appendage!  Despite the crusty dirt speckling 
them, despite their odd look, I find his feet appealing.  
 
I feel it must be their immeasurable endurance, the 
undeniably tough and well-structured sturdiness of the 
hobbit foot.  Had I tread the many miles from Rivendell 
barefoot, my own feet would be bruised, cut, and aching by 
now.  
 
But halflings are not so very different from men, and just 
as interesting as elves, and I am not altogether in my 
right mind, for with the same finger, I begin to trace the 
short dark hairs up from his foot to his ankle, and surely 
I am mad with my feeling for him, for I take his ankle 
lightly in my hand, gripping it with a soft squeeze.  
 
At this he stiffens, and I freeze, knowing I have crossed a 
line, gone too far in my foolish, yearning desire for him.  
 
My stomach tightens, and I withdraw my hand.  I cannot meet 
his eyes.  Surely he will flee from me now, for different 
reasons than before, but I have not the heart to go after 
him again.  I have no right to touch him.  He is a hobbit, 
and it would be unnatural for me, a man, to do anything 
more than comfort him with the embrace of brothers in this 
time of his need.  
 
And there is more--though I might kneel before him, we are 
not equals in power or in strength.  He has become too 
vulnerable for me to trust myself, and approaching him this 
way is folly no matter how one looks at it.  I curse myself 
for my moment of stupidity.  
 
I begin to stand, to apologize and move away.  As I begin 
to rise, stiffly, I cannot help but see his face.  And it 
stops me.  
 
His eyes are a fantastic blue, barely darker than the sky 
on a cloudless day.  Lighter than Arwen's, but deeper 
somehow.  Unearthly eyes, especially for a hobbit.  He 
looks at me hard, and with an intense curiosity, all else 
in his expression faded to mere traces.  With interest 
and...  
 
...affection?  
 
When he places his head on my neck, I feel I should die.  
 
He will not reject me utterly for my stupidity, then.  For 
it is surely stupidity to think there could be anything 
between us.  I am a man betrothed; he is a young hobbit who 
knew only a life of innocence before this quest.  We are 
each of us enamored of another.  Tis folly to even 
consider.  
 
But he will...forgive me.  The knowledge is humbling.  
 
Leaning forward into his embrace, I replace my arms around 
his small body.  Holding him feels good, *right* somehow, 
and I can feel by his tight clutch that he shares my 
appreciation of this small comfort, at least.  
 
And then, he shocks me.  
 
Raising his head, and turning it, he brushes my mouth with 
his--a swift kiss, and he licks quickly, delicately at my 
lower lip.  
 
Pulling his head back, he stares at me.  It hits me fully, 
as it sometimes does:  Frodo is no child.  
 
I have to remind myself of this occassionally.  The 
Hobbits' diminuitive size, open expression of all emotions, 
and blatant need for protection often causes me to forget 
that they are not children, but rather as to little men.  
For all his broken innocence, Frodo is no child--his 
courage and nobility of spirit rivals that of any man.  
 
And so perhaps my desire for him is not so very unnatural.  
 
And perhaps not unrequited either.  He looks ever so 
slightly confused, as though not certain of what he has 
committed himself to, but he is there, looking openly at 
me, and with a curiosity, and with a sort of wonder.  
 
Frodo is no less beautiful than my Arwen, and I touch him 
with an equal tenderness.  He catches his breath as with 
renewed confidence I stroke the hair on his ankle once 
more, then grasp his chin in my other hand.  
 
Leaning in, I kiss him as carefully as I am able.  For a 
brief moment the meeting of our lips is clumsy; but the 
moment passes quickly, smoothing into a lovely kiss 
indeed.  His mouth is ideal for kissing--small, yes, but 
soft and well-proportioned as the perfect rose.  
 
Respectfully I kiss him.  This small being, this hobbit 
will do what none of us can.  I admire him for that more 
than I can express in any language that I know, and so I 
try to tell him with my kisses.  I feel mad, for surely 
this is happening outside of sanity.  I am mad for his 
beauty, mad with his taste.  
 
As our lips meet and hold, I am intoxicatingly aware of his 
body pressed to mine, of his curves and his small hollows 
and hardnesses.  His lips are smooth beneath mine just as 
all of him is.  
 
Against my stomach I feel his length stirring beneath his 
layers of clothing, and the look in his eyes has 
roughened.  He is so beautiful, lovely as a woman, and so 
small, body in miniature as to a child, and yet so very 
*male*.  For a moment of further insanity--as if I needed 
any more insanity--I wish that I were the hobbit Samwise.  
 
Sam is a simple creature even for a hobbit, with his 
gardener's knowledge and his cooking pans, but I would have 
his life and his sensibility and even his body simply 
because Frodo loves him so, and I would have that love for 
myself.  His body, too, yes, for it fits into Frodo's as a 
child's puzzle fits together to make a whole.  I have seen 
it when they sleep against each other at night, squeezed 
together like they were born to it, even as Merry and 
Pippin intertwine, and the four of them get tangled 
together this way and that.  
 
For all these, I would be Sam.  The fantasy takes me only 
for a moment; it is a silly, girlish, fleeting wish, but 
there it is all the same.  
 
I want to touch Frodo, his most secret of places.  I 
desperately want to taste him, to take him in hand and feel 
him and experience the strange newness of this little body, 
and I want to watch his face as I do all of it.  
 
If he does intend to go on alone, these may be my last 
moments with Frodo.  The thought is bitter, fearful.  I 
worry it as a sore tooth.  
 
(what if someone should come upon us?)  
 
But the forest is quiet around us, save for the ever-
rushing noise from the river.  
 
Reaching between our bodies, I place my hand deliberately 
low on his stomach.  I slide my hand down slightly, and he 
makes the question on my lips irrelevant with a small, 
answering movement of his narrow hips.  His large blue eyes 
meet mine, and he slides himself against the touch of my 
hand--slightly up and then back down.  
 
The movement is slight, almost nothing.  
 
And yet everything.  
 
Want beckons in his look, and the ever-present curiosity 
that stirs a response in my own leggings.  My fingers, 
skilled with a blade or a bow, fumble upon the tiny 
fastenings of his short trousers.  
 
After a few moments they yield to me, and reaching into his 
trousers, I withdraw his cock.  It is small, yes, but well-
proportioned as all of him, and already hard when I get it 
in my hand.  Idly I encircle it in my fist, and give him 
two quick strokes up and down.  His sex fits perfectly into 
my closed hand.  He makes a small sound, and I look up from 
my experimentation, quickly back up into his face.  
 
He smiles his arousal and his interest, and for an instant 
he looks like the far happier, more carefree hobbit I met 
all those nights ago in Bree.  
 
Tis only minor encouragement, but I take it as a command, 
moving my hand over his organ faster, taking time to rub at 
the head.  He thrusts back into my hand, his hips moving of 
their own accord.  
 
For a moment I pause to outline the spectre of his nipple 
with a finger, teasing him as I look into his eyes.  
 
He smiles but gasps when I do it again, and the outline of 
his nipple hardens through his clothing.  The sound he 
makes delights my ears, but he is well-aroused now, and 
impatient.  
 
"Aragorn," he says, pleadingly.  
 
"Yes, Frodo."  I am amused as well as aroused, and I know 
both feelings come forth in my voice.  
 
"Touch me again," he requests, with an effort, and I can do 
naught but obey him.  Curling my hand about his cock, I 
touch him with reverence, stirring the short hairs with a 
finger, breathing in the scent of his neck as I do so.  
 
He is so beautiful.  I run my other hand over the creamy 
skin of his neck.  At this angle his head is slightly above 
mine, and when he looks down at me, his expression has 
become inscrutable.  I cannot touch him enough, and I long 
to shed the bulk of his clothing, and the similar layers of 
mine, and take him on the ground in this very spot, right 
in the forest with our companions roaming about and Mordor 
just across the river.  If we had but the time, I would see 
him lying on his back across fine linens, his dark curly 
hair tousled over crisp white sheets, and I would spread 
apart his legs and press them back.  I would touch him, 
gently, in that darkest and most secret of places, and I 
would just take him.  I would ravish him even as I kiss him 
now.  He is so beautiful and I am reeling with want.  
 
But this is enough.  There is not enough time to shed 
clothes, not enough time for greater intimacy than this.  
 
This is enough.  
 
I watch his face to gauge reactions to the subtler motions 
of my hand.  To see what will best satisfy him.  His small 
face, as I pleasure him, is achingly vulnerable, beautiful 
and dizzying.  
 
And then he says:  "Oh, Aragorn," and sighs.  
 
He tilts his head back, eyes closed in pleasure, and the 
ring dangles in the air, its chain tangled in his clenched 
fingers.  The silver chain draws my eyes down to the Ring 
almost naturally.  
 
For a minute, its piquant gold tempts me sharply, startling 
me.  It is but a moment, hardly enough to seize my 
attention away from Frodo but just enough to disturb.  I 
quickly remove my eyes from the enticement of the object, 
looking instead to Frodo's delicate face, with its slight, 
elfin features, his pointy hobbit ears.  His dark lashes 
are long, exquisite and closed over his cheeks.  He is so 
terribly beautiful, surely the most lovely of his race I 
have ever seen.  Moved to kiss him again, I take his lips 
with my own, and with ardor beset him with a flurry of 
kisses.  He responds with a passion that surprises me, and 
his mouth is hard on mine, powerful and dominating.  He 
nips me.  
 
As we kiss I do not slow my hand, and his pelvis begins to 
move a touch frantically, losing any rhythm as his length 
thrusts violently into my hand.  I squeeze him a bit harder 
then, and intensify the speed of my labours.  When I reach 
with one hand underneath his manhood, to fondle his little 
sac, he moans into my lips.  Reaching back into his 
trousers, I take one finger and outline the pucker of flesh 
at his rear, circling it again and again.  I would go 
farther, but I fear hurting him.  
 
And he seems to enjoy my attentions well enough.  His small 
knees buckle, and he drapes both arms over my shoulders.  I 
move one arm about him, steadying his little body as I 
continue to pull and caress his cock, eliciting small 
sounds from him.  
 
His eyes, already squeezed shut, close even harder as his 
little face contorts, and his lips part a bit.  His small 
body stiffens suddenly, and his slim hips arc under my 
hands in a final spasm as he comes.  I keep moving my hand 
over him until he is quite finished.  It takes several 
seconds.  
 
Though drunk on his scent and the contented bliss on his 
delicate face, I myself feel a creeping fear and 
discontent.  I think it is a warrior's premonition.  I have 
a feeling of dread.  I feel the lines in my own forehead, 
hear Arwen's voice as when she mentioned the cares I carry 
now.  
 
I pray she will never know the mortal terror I know at this 
moment.  Looking into his little face, all is clear as 
moonlight before me.  If Frodo fails, all should fail, and 
how can I let him go alone?  I feel so close to him now...a 
coward I am not, but the thought of letting him go on alone 
makes me bite my lip.  
 
He brings his head back down, opens his brilliant lit-blue 
eyes.  Carefully I rearrange his clothing and refasten his 
breeches; he moves his own hand over my chest, sliding it 
lower until I grab his wrist.  His intentions are obvious, 
and though my manhood is hard and ready, straining towards 
his touch, even, there is not the time for anything more.  
 
"Aragorn," he says, twisting his wrist within my hand.  
"Let me."  
 
"No, Frodo," I tell him, and my voice is low as I refuse.  
"Let me just look at you."  
 
A frown darkens his face then, and I feel his eyes upon me 
as a reproach.  When he moves again to break free of my 
grasp, I let him go.  
 
His determined fingers creep like small burrowing animals 
into my clothing, under tunic and beneath leggings, and I 
let him.  I want this.  When he takes my length in hand the 
whole of my body trembles with my desire for him.  I allow 
myself to sink more fully to the ground, half-crouching, 
half-sitting on my haunches, and still in a kneeling 
posture.  My legs are well apart, my body supported, so 
that when I fall, dizzied from my want of him, the ground 
shall bear me up.  I force my arms to remain at my sides.  
 
When he crouches before me, and leans forward, touching his 
tongue to my straining cock, I cannot stop myself from 
crying out.  He licks deliberately, tasting thoughtfully, a 
priceless expression upon his face.  His hand is still 
wrapped around my sex.  
 
For a moment he pauses, as if reconsidering what he is 
taking on.  
 
I wonder if he's never done this before.  He is, after all, 
an unmarried hobbit from the Shire.  But he quickly regains 
his composure.  
 
Hobbit equilibrium.  I want to smile, but also, strangely, 
to weep.  
 
His small hand does not go all the way around my cock, but 
it feels good nonetheless.  
 
Oh yes--so good.  The soaring pleasure emanating from me is 
inarguably sexual in nature, but the act itself, incredible 
though it may be, pales in comparison to the joy I am 
deriving simply from having this shamefully secret, 
unwhispered fantasy play out.  Frodo stands before me, his 
body so close to mine, his fingers moving over my sex.  I 
think I am in love with Frodo.  
 
He ends up clasping both hands around my cock and moving 
them rhythmically up and down.  Fully hardened, my length 
pulsates in his loose grip, and he again puts his mouth to 
my cock.  My hips thrust upwards, I cannot help myself, and 
I need more.  
 
He takes the whole head of my sex into his little rosebud 
mouth, and the heat, the wetness nearly make me scream.  
The urge to grasp his head and force myself deep into his 
mouth seizes me shamefully, and I barely resist it.  I am 
stopped only by the knowledge that I should hurt him if I 
tried, and he would let me hurt him now for he is lost, 
lost.  
 
Throwing my head back, I clench my teeth and my whole body 
bucks wildly as he continues to rub and suck and lick at my 
cock, faster now, and he looks up at me almost fearfully.  
He has been stimulating me only a few minutes, but I have 
lost control of myself.  I cry his name, moving 
frantically, heedless in my passion.  His hands jerk over 
my cock, his tongue slipping around and into the slit.  
 
I come.  
 
The bliss moment drags into forever, even when my hips 
thrust with a bit too much abandon, and my sex loses 
contact with his mouth, spurting fluid out in quick pulses.  
 
The sweetness of the moment abates slowly, and I return to 
myself.  
 
When I open my eyes, Frodo has sat back and is wiping at 
his face, where white droplets cling to his cheek, his 
chin, his rosy mouth.  
 
Stopping him, I lean forward and gently clean his face with 
lips and tongue.  As my tongue bathes his creamy cheek he 
laughs softly, a light musical hobbit laugh.  I kiss him 
again, and he laughs again.  He tastes good, his breath 
neither fresh nor stale, but rather marked by the sweetness 
of hobbit pipeweed.  
 
I savor the taste of it.  Of all of him.  
 
He tucks my length back into my leggings, seeming self-
conscious now.  For a minute we stare at each other, saying 
nothing.  The moment is strange, but not as awkward as I'd 
feared it might be.  We both know it likely we will not 
meet again, and we do not speak.  
 
As I gaze into his delicate face I think of Isildur, my 
ancestor.  A morbid line of thought for such a sacred, 
precious moment, and yet the significance of the connection 
is not lost on me.  Isildur, my kinsman, weak with his 
mortal's greed for power.  Weak, and so long dead.  
 
Better for Frodo to go alone.  Tis as he said; I have 
refused the Ring this time, but I cannot trust myself.  
None of us can.  He alone can do this thing.  
 
And yet, I loathe that choice with all my breath.  I fear 
for him.  The road to Mordor shall try him greatly, I know, 
and he is such a little thing.  
 
"You are so beautiful," I whisper harshly, intent upon his 
long, dark lashes, and the dazzling, natural blue over 
which they flicker.  
 
He starts back at that, lovely in his embarrassment, and 
looks at the ground.  Gently I turn up his chin, tilting 
his head so that I might behold his eyes for merely a few 
more seconds.  His small, slightly pointy ears bewitch me, 
but his eyes are what keep me enraptured.  His huge blue 
eyes are as the wildest Elvish poetry, a cerulean intense 
as a hot flame and as the coldest perfect stream.  I cannot 
describe them, really.  
 
And then, from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of 
his shortsword.  I leap to my feet.  
 
Startled by my abrupt movement, he glances down at his 
weapon, which glows an eerie light blue in the afternoon 
light.  His expression turns to dread, all the various 
horrors restored to his face.  How I love him, and how I 
admire him.  
 
And how I pity him.  
 
"Go Frodo!" I urge.  
 
He stands still, seeming unwilling to move.  Unready, as if 
in a dream.  
 
"Run!" I shout at him, backing away with sword drawn.  
 
Frodo will do what he must, and I will protect him for as 
long as I am able.  I will see him off safely, but I can do 
nothing if he does not move.  "Run!" I shout again.  
 
Before I turn to go, to fight, I spare one glance back at 
him.  I behold one last time his unearthly beauty.  The 
slanting afternoon sunlight shines down on tousled curls as 
he turns to run.  His cloak flaps out behind him, his 
burning blue eyes beyond my gaze now, but I am grateful for 
that last look, as grateful for it as I am for the sacred, 
uninterrupted minutes during which I knelt before him and 
we exchanged what tactile comforts we could.  
 
I may never see Frodo again.  I am glad Sam went with him.  
 
But I do not know whether he lives or is dead.  
 
I suppose it does not bear too much thought.  If he lives, 
it is well, and if he is dead, he will have perished in as 
noble a quest as any man or elf ever undertook.  
 
And, if he is perished, I shall no doubt follow him soon.  
The fate of the Ring shall determine all our fates.  
 
Never, before this quest, did I anticipate possessing such 
intense feelings for such a creature as a hobbit.  Because 
they reach only a small size, I did not expect hobbits to 
be such astonishing beings; all that a man can be and 
more.  Frodo was that, to me.  My equal and more.  His 
diminuitive stature does not matter--all that is of 
consequence is his strength, and his courage.  If anyone 
can destroy the Ring, he can.  
 
As I told Boromir softly, in his last moments within this 
world...I let Frodo go.  
 
Frodo's fate is out of our hands.