TITLE: Hero
AUTHOR: Conlai
AUTHOR E-MAIL: danny_ellas@hotmail.com
PAIRINGS: Frodo/Aragorn, Boromir/Aragorn, Aragorn/Arwen (implied)
RATING: NC-17
WARNING: non-con and BDSM
SUMMARY: As the quest takes its toll on Frodo and Aragorn, they began 
to rely on one another more and more for understanding and comfort. 
Eventually, their deepening relationship will require some difficult choices 
of them both.


~~~


Hero
Chapter 1
“The Keeper of the North”



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

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

His back was turned toward the one in question, and he knew he was 
keeping watch out the dark-paned window at the opposite wall, so Frodo 
allowed himself to stop feigning sleep. He looked around the rustic room, 
missing Barliman’s offered quarters, which the man had said would be 
suited to hobbit-folk. He had not hoped for convenience, though, he 
reminded himself. What he had hoped for, he supposed, was a reminder of 
home, albeit he would not have voiced this thought to any of his 
companions. He was beginning to feel quite small and very lonely in this 
place with all its large, looming abandoned buildings and tall men. That 
feeling came even with all the long walks on which his uncle had taken 
him in his youth (a subject still often broached in Hobbiton). He could 
only imagine how the others, Sam especially, were feeling about being so 
far from home. 
	
Growing suddenly nervous, he found himself looking for something on 
which to focus in hopes that it would help him sleep, as it had when he 
was young. He could see nothing, though, for the fire was kept low, and 
the only light was that of the bright embers, which cast the room in a 
glowing, unsettling red. An immense disquiet lay heavy upon Frodo, and 
he found that he no longer wanted to close his eyes, though he was aware 
of his need for sleep. It felt almost as if a childhood fear were nagging at 
him, in an unfamiliar place, with a stranger whom he could only trust by 
his own untested instincts. Worst yet was that something that he could not 
name was looking for him, hunting him...something dark that he did not 
understand. He could feel its presence. Faint it was, yet haunting, like a 
nightmare that lingers for days. It was growing closer, stronger by the 
minute. His eyes darted once more across the room, and he imagined that 
the shadows moved. Could they feel him as well? 

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

A chill took Frodo's body, like a sudden draft of cold air, the source of 
which could not be found. He held the letter in his hand tighter wrinkling 
the paper. He decided that he must calm himself, if he were to have any 
sensible thought. He reminded himself that there was no immediate 
danger, and found that having Strider nearby was very comforting. He 
averted his eyes from the dimness at one side of the room, and opted to 
watch the embers die out in the hearth.
	
"Can you not sleep, Frodo?"
	
Frodo jumped at the sound of Strider's soft whisper, startled out of a 
troubled reverie. He sat up a little, and turning to face him, shook his head.
	
"Come over here," Strider beckoned, keeping his voice low. 

Frodo obeyed, and wrapped his blanket about his shoulders, slipping 
Gandalf‘s missive into the pocket of his breeches as he did. He sat down at 
the Ranger's feet. They were silent for a few moments, and Frodo found 
himself glancing over the tall man's body, fascinated by his significantly 
different build. He would have thought that he was quite unobtrusive, but 
Strider was watching every movement of his eyes.
	
“My feet must seem fair small to one of your folk,” Strider said with a 
little laugh. 
	
Although he was startled, Frodo laughed as well. Hearing such a stern man 
jest helped to lighten his spirits, somewhat. "We hobbits wonder how you 
Men keep your balance.” 
	
"Many of us don't, much of the time,” smiled Strider. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean Bill Ferny and his southerner,” said Frodo.

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

“I’m afraid,” said Frodo, “that I may have made more danger for myself 
that I can handle.”

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

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

“Yes,” Strider nodded. “Dear friends of mine.”

Though Frodo didn’t notice, Strider smiled broadly as he said this. Frodo’s 
mind drifted back to his own friends, and the Shire, and he succumbed to a 
terrible longing. Strider paused for a moment, thinking. "I don’t suppose 
you’d mind telling me how old you are?” he inquired abruptly. 
	
Frodo shook off the deep nostalgia of his thoughts of his own bed and safe 
hobbit hole. To him, it seemed odd that Strider asked this question, for 
many hobbits in the Shire had asked the very same. Strider was the last 
place he had expected to find a reminder of his beloved home, however 
trivial. "Fifty," he said softly.
	
Strider gave him a puzzled expression, though there were darker thoughts 
in his mind that he did not let show on his face, for Gandalf had told him 
how long Frodo had been in possession of the Ring, and he knew full well 
the effect it had had on Bilbo and Gollum “You do not look it at all."
	
"And you?" said Frodo. He was subconsciously expecting Strider to be 
anywhere from thirty to forty years old, but he noted that the man acted 
much wiser, more akin to Gandalf. 
	
"Eighty-seven," said Strider, after a moment, his voice wistful. "And I 
shall not die of my age or any sickness for many years to come."
	
"You don’t look it, I assure you," Frodo whispered, astonished. The verse 
Gandalf had mentioned came to mind, and suddenly Frodo thought that 
Strider was much more than he claimed or seemed to be. He looked at the 
Man, as if now he could see more of him. This was not Strider the Ranger, 
or anyone deserving of such names as Longshanks or Stick-at-Naught, but 
someone greater, with a strange sort of power emanating from his very 
being. This was Aragorn.//

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

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

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

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

Frodo nodded. “I was.”

Sam looked uncomfortable. “He didn’t say anything that seemed, well, 
suspicious, did he?”

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

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

Frodo smiled slightly. “I suppose that’s practical.

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

The Nine were somewhere near at hand. Since the incidence of the 
previous night his expression had become grave with worry on the matter. 
They knew not yet where the Ring was, but he guessed they knew exactly 
where it was going. He could see that Frodo felt their presence as well, for 
the hobbit kept glancing over his shoulder, jumping if someone spoke to 
him, and he shivered, as if chilled. Strider then became more wary, his 
gaze dodging stealthily in every shadow, searching for any sign of the 
Enemy.
	
In such a way the day passed, until night swept over the land with strange 
swiftness, bringing with it a cold wind to replace the mist of rain that had 
hung in the air that day.
	
Strider made camp quickly on the nearest patch of dry turf. Wearily, the 
hobbits unpacked their gear, and ate a small portion of the food Barliman 
had sent with them, each thanking him profusely under his breath. Frodo 
ate nothing, and only sipped a bit of water from his skin, feeling too tired 
to stay awake. He broke off from the rest of the group. Sam’s eyes 
followed him nervously for a while, but then the worrisome hobbit figured 
that his master would not be leaving camp tonight. One by one, the other 
three hobbits spread their pallets on the ground, and were soon asleep.
	
Frodo sat down next to Strider, who was again taking first watch. The 
man’s features were kept phlegmatic, leaving Frodo to wonder whether he 
minded having company.
	
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he inquired. He remembered that 
Strider had taken no breakfast in Bree that morning.
	
“Aren’t you?” said the man.
	
Frodo shook his head. “No, I’m not hungry.”
	
“You should eat. I can wait.”
	
Frodo was puzzled. “Wait how long?”
	
Strider sighed heavily. “Until we reach Rivendell.”
	
Frodo wondered at that for a few minutes. His eyelids were growing too 
heavy to uphold.
	
Strider smiled fondly as the little hobbit at his side fell asleep. Frodo’s 
head lolled over to rest on his shoulder. Tentatively, Strider lifted his arm 
and put it about the hobbit, who sighed comfortably. Whether it was 
awake or not, Strider was glad of some company. 

//“They are coming for him, Aragorn.” 

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

“He will not be your last failure.”

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

“They are coming for him.”//

Strider’s eyes snapped open. His body felt numb from fear. He and Frodo 
had fallen asleep sitting upright, and the little hobbit still rested peacefully 
upon his shoulder. Hand shaking in the aftermath of his dream, he stroked 
Frodo’s cheek absently, and found it chilled. He picked him up and laid 
him back on his pallet, covering him with the blankets already folded at 
the foot of the bedroll, and then with his own cloak. Wiping cold sweat 
from his brow, he leant down gently kissed Frodo’s lips. Frodo’s breath 
lingered for a moment upon Strider’s mouth, and the man sighed, 
savouring it. Reaching under the cover, he took hold of Frodo’s small 
hand and enclosed it in his own. “I’ll not let them take you.”  
	
//Frodo was lying on his bedroll gazing at the vast expanse of the starless 
wintry sky, and he was mesmerised by the way the snow was beginning to 
fall. For all this he was somehow not cold, though he was aware that under 
his blanket he wore nothing. He raised his head a little and found three 
sleeping hobbits at his side. He and Strider were now the only ones awake, 
he realised, and then felt a tightness growing in his stomach. He sat up, 
letting the cover slide from his bare chest, and saw that the man was 
approaching. He stopped for a moment and they held one another’s gaze 
for what seemed like an eternity to Frodo. All the while, Frodo felt that 
tightness growing to a need that he knew he could not ignore for much 
longer. Finally, Strider knelt down at his side, and they were kissing, 
bruising one another’s lips in mad passion. Though he was unsure of how 
it had happened, a sudden burst of bodily pleasure sent Frodo over the 
edge, and he came hard…

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

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

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

Faintly, he heard a voice, singing ever so softly in Elvish, and the beauty 
of it struck him. Only after a few more moments did he realise that it was 
Strider who was singing. Frodo knew enough Elvish to make out some of 
the words. “Who is she?” he asked softly, in awe of the man’s haunting 
voice. “This woman you sing of.”
	
Strider turned around suddenly, surprised. He thought for a short moment, 
and then replied. “`Tis the Lay of Luthien...the Elf maiden who gave her 
love to Beren- a mortal Man,” he said slowly. 
	
Frodo could see that Strider was deep in thought, perhaps remembering 
something. Frodo felt that now that he could almost perceive the age of the 
man before him. 

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

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



~~~




Hero
Chapter 2
“A Missive and Dark Words”


Hearing Frodo’s soft snores resume behind him, Strider pulled forth from 
his shirt pocket the bit of parchment he had hidden so quickly at the sound 
of Frodo’s voice. He’d held it so often that now it was like to silk from his 
constant fingering of it, and it was on the verge of tearing at the soft 
creases. He unfolded it to view Arwen’s flowing script, and the words that 
he kept close to his heart. Memories filled his mind, shifting from one to 
another, until his thoughts turned to receiving this treasured missive, only 
a day ago.

//“They are coming for him, Aragorn,” whispered Hador urgently, as he 
and Aragorn slipped through a backdoor at the end of the hall. The 
diminished voices of those in The Pony’s common room were suddenly 
silenced as Aragorn shut the door gently behind him and turned to face his 
fellow ranger. “The horsemen know his whereabouts.”

“Where did you learn this?” inquired Aragorn. 

“They crossed paths with Amras and Eldin not two days ago, a mile off 
the Greenway.”

Aragorn grew nervous. “Are they here? I would speak with them,” he said, 
doubt already glinting in his voice.

After a short pause, Hador shook his head sadly. “Amras was killed.” 

Aragorn stood stock still, then bowed his head in grief. Amras was one of 
his dear friends. “And what of Eldin?“ he asked, struggling to regain his 
voice.

“I brought Eldin here, unbeknownst to the landlord. I laid him upstairs. He 
was badly wounded,” Hador spoke quietly.

“Take me to him,” commanded Aragorn firmly. Hador nodded and led the 
way back into the inn. As Aragorn passed the door to the hobbit’s room, 
he noticed that it was cracked open slightly. As he made to close it, he saw 
Frodo’s eyes upon him, surveying him worriedly from his place at the 
doorframe. Aragorn knelt down before the hobbit. “Stay here,” he 
instructed gently, and he shut the door.

No one took any notice of the two rangers passing hurriedly through the 
common room and ascending the stairs. Hador led Aragorn to a darkened 
end of the upstairs corridor. The door at the unlit end of the hallway bore a 
tarnished brass number thirteen, hanging crookedly on its rusty nails. 

“I figured he’d be safe here,” said Hador quietly. “None of Barliman’s 
customers like to stay here. Superstitious fools,” he scoffed. 

Aragorn caught Hador’s hand as the man reached out to turn the brass 
knob. “I’ll tend to him,” he began, his voice low. “But I must ask you to 
remain with the hobbits.”

“I had planned to see to that,” Hador nodded. “The fifth room?”

“Yes. I shall be back as soon as is possible,” Aragorn promised. “And 
Hador,“ he said as he opened the door to the room. “Thank you.” 

Hador glanced inside briefly. Aragorn could hear a slight strain in his 
voice when he spoke. “Would that I had been able to do more for Amras,” 
he whispered. “I am glad of your help. I would have been able to do no 
more for Eldin. He, too, I may have lost.”

Though Aragorn said nothing in response, he clapped his friend lightly on 
the shoulder, conveying that Amras’s passing had been no fault of 
Hador’s. He watched Hador turn and retreat until he was entirely lost to 
the light of the single candle in Eldin’s room. He shut and bolted the door 
behind him, and approached the small bed in the corner, keeping the fall 
of his soft leather boots on the wood floor silent. The sight of Eldin’s face 
was sombre, for the young ranger seemed pale and without life. Aragorn 
could not so much as detect the rise and fall of his chest until he had 
seated himself on the edge of the bed. Eldin opened his eyes slightly and 
turned his head to look at Aragorn. Aragorn laid his hand gently on 
Eldin’s cheek, careful not to flinch at how chilled the younger man’s skin 
was.

He forced himself to smile, hoping to give some strength to Eldin. 
“Remember me?” he asked jokingly.

“As a boy remembers his father. Yes, Aragorn, I know you.” His voice 
was weak.

Aragorn drew back the covers to expose Eldin’s upper-half. An ugly gash 
spanned from one side of his rib cage to the other, and around it, the skin 
was dark, as if bruised. A cloth, soaked in warm water was laid across it. 
Aragorn removed it. “Hador did well not to staunch the blood flow from 
the wound,” he commented. “It is poisoned with something deadly.”

He rose and surveyed a small pot that hung over the dying fire. The water 
in it was near boiling. He reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled 
forth six withering leaves of athelas. “Alas, this is near all that is left of 
my store,” he said to himself as he crushed the leaves and dropped them 
into the water. “I pray it will be enough.” He took a clean cloth from a 
table nearby which he soaked in the water and placed along Eldon’s 
wound in replacement of the other. Eldin cried out weakly in agony, 
clenching his teeth as the steaming water made contact with his abused 
flesh. Aragorn did what he could to soothe him.

Once he had looked over the rest of Eldin’s body and cleaned the minor 
hurts upon him, he covered the ranger’s limp form once again and tucked 
the blanket around his shoulders. Eldin’s eyes were shut as if he was 
slumbering peacefully, so Aragorn was mildly startled when he spoke.

“My bag is on the table. Pray, give it me.”

Aragorn handed him the worn haversack, and Eldin took from the pouch a 
piece of folded paper. He laid it in Aragorn’s open hand. “It chanced that I 
was in Imladris not yet a month ago. The Lady bade me bring you this…” 
he stopped, trying to regain his breath.

Though Aragorn’s heart jumped excitedly at these words, he remembered 
Eldin’s condition. “Speak no more,” he said softly. “Rest, if you are able. I 
shall stay at your side for a while longer.” He slipped the note into his 
shirt. He brushed his palm over Eldin’s eyelids, shutting them gently. He 
slid his hand down to caress the cold cheek, until he was sleeping, and 
Aragorn could continue his work without causing Eldin so much pain. He 
removed the cloth from his wound and laid his warm hands upon Eldin’s 
mangled skin. He focused every ounce of his energy on helping him to 
heal, on driving the consuming darkness from the body of his dear friend. 
A low groan escaped Eldin, as he felt a strange heat enter him and spread 
throughout, burning like wildfire even as it drove away the cold of the 
Morgul blade that had pierced him so deeply. After several minutes, 
Eldin’s breathing become easier as he relaxed into a shallow sleep.

Aragorn pulled his hands away from Eldin, a light sheen of sweat upon his 
brow. He let himself fall onto the mattress at Eldin’s side, for he was so 
drained from giving his energy to another body that he could not yet 
support his own weight. He found that Eldin’s eyes were open once again, 
yet now they stared piercingly at him, clear and sharp once again, free of 
the Shadow. A tear shone in the corner of one.

“Why do you weep?” asked Aragorn, forcing the words out.

“Amras,” whispered Eldin. “I could not save him.”

With some difficulty, Aragorn moved closer to Eldin to offer him a 
comforting embrace. He made to lay a kiss on the other’s forehead, but 
Eldin jerked his chin upward and met Aragorn’s lips with his own, 
crushing them together. Aragorn was only slightly surprised by this 
intimate act, for he knew what Eldin was doing. He parted his lips 
willingly to welcome Eldin’s tongue. Aragorn felt some of the heat passed 
back into his weakened body, and, after a moment, felt that he could stand 
again. With a last endearing bite to Aragorn bottom lip, Eldin broke the 
kiss. “You looked like you needed that,” he stated, drying his eyes.

“I think I may have,” Aragorn said as he rose, finding his legs working 
quite well. “I’ll send Hador back up in a moment. Try to sleep.” Aragorn 
shut the door gently behind him, and made his way back down to room 
five. 

He found Hador standing outside the partially open door, watching the 
Hobbits within. “They do not know of my presence,” said Hador quietly. 
“I guess that yet another dirty ranger would frighten them even more than 
you already have.”

Aragorn nodded. “That is best. You should go back to Eldin,” he 
instructed. Hador looked questioningly at him, wanting news of his 
friend’s condition. “He shall be fine,” Aragorn smiled. “But continue to 
bathe the wound in heated water, with athelas, if you have it.”

Hador went quickly back toward the common room, and Aragorn slipped 
soundlessly in with the hobbits. They were all in bed, but Frodo raised his 
head from his pillow. “Strider!” he exclaimed softly. “I didn’t know where 
you’d gone - I - well, I was worried.”

Strider was very nearly touched by this remark. He smiled as he pulled a 
chair from the corner and set it down by the window. “You should not 
waste time worrying for me.”

Frodo laid down again on his pallet, and apparently fell asleep. Strider 
pulled the letter from his shirt, and slowly, carefully, untied the green silk 
ribbon with which it was bound. Upon it was neat Elvish script, 
unmistakeably Arwen’s hand. His hands shook with delight as he read it.

Estel,

Amras and Eldin have informed me that you are travelling towards 
Imladris. I look forward to being with you again, if only for a short while. 
I received your message from last August, and I believe that the day’s heat 
has taken strange effect on you. I have never known a more impudent man 
than you, Estel. No, I will not wait for you in my bedchamber, and, if I 
did, it would not be without a sufficient amount of clothing, my dear. 
Furthermore, do not so much as expect me to kiss you until you have 
bathed.
Glorfindel has set out to find you and your charges. We have learned that 
Nazgul follow you closely. Please, my love, tread carefully, and come 
home safely. Your path is dangerous. I love you.

Arwen//

As Aragorn reread this last sentence for the thousandth time, his heart 
gave a wild beat. He folded the letter again, and held it gently in his hands, 
raising his eyes to the star-bound night sky, he whispered, “Amin melleth 
lle, Arwen.” A sudden thought struck him, and he turned, looking towards 
Frodo. “And you, as well. Goodnight...little hobbit.”

~~~

Hero
Chapter 3
“They Are Coming For Him”


When morning came, the hobbits found it as miserable and wet as the day 
before, though now it seemed a little warmer. Frodo awoke suddenly to 
the faint greyness preceding dawn, but could not will himself to rise until 
it became absolutely necessary. It seemed he had only just gotten warm, 
and he buried himself deep into the folds of his cover. Strider’s firm 
footfalls drew near, and a gentle hand was laid on Frodo’s back. It shook 
him, just enough to bring him to wakefulness. Frodo stretched and enjoyed 
his last moment of warmth, then rose and reached for his jacket, which he 
had been using to cover his feet. He huddled into it and went to sit down 
by the weak fire Strider had managed to start, next to Merry. Pippin and 
Sam were still asleep. Merry was eating an apple, which Frodo stared at, 
trying to rouse his appetite, but he blanched visibly at he very thought of 
food. Strider, having woken Sam and lightly kicked Pippin (as everyone 
knew very well was what Pippin needed at this time of the morning), took 
his seat at Frodo’s side, half an apple in his hand. He drew a hunting knife 
from his belt, and with it cut a small piece from the apple. He held it out 
towards Frodo.

“Here,” he encouraged. “It’s been a full day since you’ve taken any food. 
You should have something.” 

Frodo looked at it for a moment, trying to convince himself that he was 
hungry, but eventually just shook his head. Strider turned away, 
shrugging. He tossed the bit of apple into the fire. Frodo noticed, but 
before he could protest, he saw Strider’s eyes upon him, and the smile on 
the man’s normally stern features.

“I’m not planning to eat until you do,” he remarked in a manner Frodo 
almost thought cheeky. How odd it sounded coming from Strider! It made 
him laugh after a moment.

“Fine, then,” he said, and accepted a larger piece of the apple Strider cut 
for him. “Thank you.” Sometime after the first few bites he took, his 
stomachache went away, and he realised that he had been quite hungry.

They continued their march after that, at no less of a pace, and within the 
hour of climbing steadily, they had reached higher ground. Spirits 
lightened considerably at the prospect of leaving the cold marshland 
behind, but Strider only grew more restless. Questions and concerns 
plagued him like a disease. Where was Gandalf? He had never known 
anything serious enough to make the Wizard break such a necessary 
meeting, especially when someone was desperately depending upon him. 
And the Wraiths…where were they? Surely, they too would make for 
Amon Sûl, but, in that case, so would Gandalf. If he had to choose 
between risking an attack by the nine and risking missing Gandalf…

The sight of the hills before him silenced his thoughts. His mind returned 
to navigating the most traversable path through them - something he had 
not bothered to worry about since he was in his twenties. He soon came 
upon an area of flatland that he could not recall. So accustomed was he to 
travelling alone that he stopped abruptly, without thinking. Not a moment 
later something bumped his backside heavily, followed by a small umph! 
Startled, he turned, but only encountered Frodo, prone upon the ground, 
just as surprised as he himself was. Instinctively, he extended his hand to 
help him up, which Frodo took with slight hesitation. 

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered, brushing mud and grass from his clothes. “I 
wasn’t looking where I was going…”

Strider shook his head. “That was my fault. I ought not stop dead in my 
tracks when people are walking behind me.”

“I was just a bit distracted…”

Strider and Frodo looked downward simultaneously and noticed that they 
had not yet let go of one another’s hands. Gasping, they both jerked away 
from the other. Frodo thought he might have enjoyed the feel of holding 
Strider’s hand a little too much for comfort. He turned away from his 
embarrassment, blushing deeply, only to find his three companions staring 
confusedly at him.

Not long after, as Strider led the hobbits around a tall hillock, Weathertop 
loomed into view. It stood silent; a ruined monolith of a kingdom long 
dead. It had been a long while since Strider had come to it, for whatever 
reason, and a strange feeling of nostalgia bore over him at the stoic image 
of the watchtower.

“This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl,” he said wistfully to 
himself. He turned back to the others, who stood, waiting patiently for his 
direction. “We shall rest here tonight.” He listened to the few sighs of 
relief from the hobbits. Who were tired and, inevitably, hungry.

They found that the hill was traversable, once Strider had located the path 
that led to a man-made overhang near the summit. This would serve as 
their shelter.

As they made their way upward, Frodo’s spirits plummeted heavily. 
Though no one said anything of it, fear and concern was written on every 
face. Gandalf was not there. Something was terribly wrong.

“These are for you,” said Strider, handing the hobbits the little blades he’d 
been carrying. “Keep them close.” He watched the hobbits for a moment, 
and saw that they were awkward with the weight of the short swords. He 
made a mental note to find some time to train them before they would 
have need of skill in battle. “I’m going to have a look around,” he 
informed them. “Stay here.” He caught Frodo’s look of discomfort, and 
smiled reassuringly before leaving them. He descended the hill quickly, 
then disappeared into the brush.

Strider had walked a half-mile when the sun went down. As the shades of 
evening deepened, he picked up a broken dead limb of the appropriate size 
and shape, and took from his belt an oilskin. He drew the oil-soaked cloth 
from it and bound it firmly about the wood, then struck flint against tinder 
and set it alight. The torch didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness as it 
should have, as if its light was somehow quelled. 

He made his way steadily to higher, dry ground, his boots encrusted with 
mud from travelling in drowned valleys. He was searching for Glorfindel, 
whose coming Arwen had told him of, for they needed the Elf lord’s 
guidance and protection at present. Though Aragorn did not much doubt 
his skill in battle, he knew that he could not take on any number of the 
Nine alone. He needed Glorfindel’s help in protecting the hobbits, Frodo 
especially. If the Nine were to take from Frodo what he secretly 
carried…Aragorn shuddered. 

Suddenly, a pungent odour hit him like a wave. He stumbled as he realised 
with a lurch of his stomach that it was the smell of one dead. He went 
forward a ways, and as he turned a corner of the natural hedgerow at his 
side, he fell back with a soft, sickened cry. He dropped the torch onto the 
path, where the grass began to smoulder beneath it. Before Aragorn lay 
Amras, one leg trapped beneath his maimed horse. His wide, pale eyes 
stared up blankly at Aragorn, dim moonlight reflected eerily in them. 
Dried upon his cheek was a dark trail of blood from his mouth, gaping 
wide in a terrible scream.

Aragorn eventually felt his heart resume its rhythm, and suddenly tears 
began to stream from his eyes unchecked. Amras had been a noble man, 
and a beloved friend to him. To see his fair face stilled in such horrific 
agony...

Aragorn rose from the muddy ground, and reached out to Amras, gently 
shutting the man’s eyes. He pulled Amras’s cloak from under his stiff 
form and wrapped him in it, covering his face, and carefully freed him 
from the weight of the dead animal. Numbly, Aragorn dragged the other 
ranger to the base of a small tree and laid him there, offering a final 
blessing. His vision skewed by tears, he turned away, refusing to look 
back. The oil on the torch continued to burn, and he picked it up and 
stamped upon the glowing tendrils of grass. Aragorn broke into a swift 
run, now more cautious than ever he had been, feeling the dangers and 
fears begin to close in around him. 

He crested the small hill that sat dwarfed at the sprawling base of Amon 
Sûl, and let himself slide down its gravelled side. A thick fog had pooled 
in the dell below, making it impossible to see where Weathertop’s path 
began. Out of instinct, he knelt down and swept his hand through the mist, 
clearing it long enough for the imprint of an iron-shod foot to be 
illuminated in the torch-light, and then others similar, leading towards the 
climbing path. Though the ground was soaked with rainwater, none had 
yet collected in the depression left in the mud. It had been made not 
minutes before. 

A sudden ring of steel clashing with steel sounded from the summit of the 
hill, and Aragorn sped off toward the noises. Now, he could hear the 
hobbits terrified yells, and suddenly, a scream rent the air. Aragorn nearly 
crumpled to the ground as it ripped throughout his person, but, determined 
to reach the hobbits, he diligently kept his footing and ran on. There were 
other stranger noises, as well, that sounded as if they were coming from 
far beneath the ground; eerie words of a black language he did not know. 
He reached the wide summit, and as one hooded figure turned and raised 
his blade, Aragorn drew his own sword and countered the attack with 
great skill. He waved his torch before him, and his enemy cowered at its 
light. As he fought, he sought out each of the hobbits, but found only 
three. The other four Wraiths all stood in one place, not noticing his 
attack, and he knew that he’d found Frodo. Then, their leader drew back 
his blade, and drove it downward with terrible force. Frodo’s agonised 
scream filled Aragorn’s ears, or his mind, rather. The Wraiths had not 
finished their cruel work yet: Frodo still had the Ring, but whether he was 
alive or not was still to be determined.

Aragorn dodged the next blow from his opponent and sprang away, 
overborne by rage at the thought of pain inflicted upon Frodo. Heedlessly, 
he threw himself into the midst of the fray, driving his enemy back with 
fire and sword. Moments later, he came close to being relieved at the 
sound of Frodo’s completely audible cry. If he had taken off the Ring, he 
would no longer be as vulnerable. As Aragorn turned his head to see that 
Sam had gotten safely to Frodo’s side, one of the Morgul blades cut into 
his side. With an enraged growl, he drove the Wraith that had attacked 
him off the edge of the flat summit. He was forced to pause as pain 
coursed through his being.

Three other of the hooded figures had fled, receding back into the starless 
darkness, but one remained, poised for a second attack. Aragorn’s back 
was toward his enemy, but he felt the Wraiths presence better than any 
other sense would allow. He turned only as he let the torch fly from his 
hand. The brand embedded itself in the spectral face of the Nagûl. With 
another sickening screech, it, too, fled.

“Strider!” Sam’s shout was desperate. Aragorn rushed to the hobbits, and 
they quickly cleared a space for him at Frodo’s side. He picked up the 
knife that had fallen at Frodo’s side. “He has been stabbed by a Morgul 
blade,” Aragorn said breathlessly, his own side growing cold. He threw 
the hilt to the ground in disgust as it disintegrated into a foul breeze. His 
pain was nearly forgotten as he looked down at Frodo‘s pale face, still 
harbouring an expression of shock. “This is beyond my skill to heal,” he 
said as he lifted Frodo arduously from the ground. “He needs Elvish 
medicine.”

Leading them down to the outcropping where they’d made camp, he 
helped them gather their things with all possible speed. “Are any of you 
hurt?” he asked, helping Pippin on with his haversack. The three hobbits 
shook their heads in negation. “Good,” said Strider. “Come, now. 
Quickly!”

Even in the blind dark Strider knew his way through the forests in this 
land. Despite his wound, which he did not mention, he kept a gruelling 
pace. “We’re six days from Rivendell!” Sam yelled as he ran. “He’ll never 
make it!”

Strider did not respond. He could not. He knew that the possibilities of 
Frodo reaching Rivendell were small, if at all existent. Already, the little 
hobbit was incoherent, crying for Gandalf, crying in pain for help. “Hold 
on, Frodo.“ There was a catch in Strider’s voice.

For nearly two hours they continued, the hobbits dutifully running along 
behind their guide, and Strider carrying a delirious Frodo over one 
shoulder. He stopped only when he heard one of the hobbits fall to the 
ground behind him. He halted and turned to see Merry and Sam, who 
looked ready to collapse themselves, helping Pippin up from his hands and 
knees. He fell back, taking them now at a slower walk, and placed his free 
hand on Pippin’s back. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “but I had to get you 
all as far away from them as possible. You know what they want.” Pippin 
nodded shakily. “And now you know how far they’re willing to go to 
obtain what they want. They will kill every one of us without hesitation if 
they find us.” 

He led them into a patch of dense underbrush, careful with his charge. The 
thicket soon opened up to a clearing, and to the hobbits it seemed like to a 
small room, with four high, vine-covered walls. Strider laid Frodo down 
on a bed of moss and soft loam, removing the hobbit’s weskit and shirt. 
The wound he exposed was deep and bleeding heavily, and dark veins had 
surfaced around it. He removed his warm cloak to cover the shivering 
hobbit. He opened the pouch at his side, but found only three leaves of 
athelas left to him. They had withered and dried, and so he resolved to boil 
them to salvage any virtue left in them.

“Sam,” he said softly. In a moment, Sam was at his side, desperate to help 
his injured master. “Lend me one of your pots. I need you and the others 
to stay here and watch over Frodo. Do any of you carry flint and tinder?”

Sam nodded as he took his pack from his shoulder and detached one of his 
pots from it. He handed it to Strider, nodding. “I do.”

“Good, get a fire going, Sam. I’ll return shortly. *Stay here*.”

Sam complied, not voicing his fear of another attack while they were 
alone. When Strider had gone, he turned to Merry and Pippin. “Help me 
find some wood and stones, if you will,” he requested, and they set to 
work building a fire, making sure it would not create much smoke. Sam 
couldn’t seem to stop glancing back worriedly at Frodo, who was still 
gasping for air and choking on pained sobs. 

Once the precious dry branches they’d gathered had caught, he went and 
seated himself close to his master. “Mr. Frodo,” he whispered soothingly. 
He took Frodo’s cold left hand in his own warm one, and he flinched at 
the feel of it. Frodo’s skin felt so lifeless, like he’d already…Sam could 
not so much as bear to think the word. “Mr. Frodo, can you hear me?” 
Merry and Pippin looked on with tears in their eyes at Sam, whose voice 
was cracking with sadness. Frodo responded only with a despondent look 
into Sam’s hazel eyes, as if to say he was sorry. Sam looked back into 
Frodo’s eyes, and restrained the cries of despair from bursting from his 
aching throat. Frodo’s beautiful sapphire eyes were red-rimmed and 
bloodshot, the colours in them shone with unearthly light, like blue flame. 
Sam shook his head. “You’re not givin’ up,” he said, brushing sweat-
soaked curls from Frodo’s brow. He lowered his voice to whisper. “I can’t 
explain it, but something inside me’s saying that you’ve got something 
more to do before…the end, and so do I. This ain’t your time,” he wept.


Pain assailed Frodo’s body, and he shut his eyes against the bright light 
above him. The night was nearly dark enough save the moon and stars 
bearing down over him, but the fire burning next to him was like staring 
into the Sun. Strangely, it seemed that the black veil cast over the light and 
the world was the real source of the pain, though he was thankful for what 
he thought it to be doing. The pain became bearable again in a few 
moments, and he could open his eyes. Sam’s gentle face was above him, 
and though he could hear his friends voice he could find no words. All he 
could do was look to Sam, for any amount of strength. Sam was giving it, 
working like mad to pass some of it on to Frodo, but it was beyond Frodo 
to reach it. He could feel the barrier between himself and the living world 
growing by the minute, as if a skin of cruel armour thickening around him. 
It was enclosing him, suffocating him. It was killing him.


The sound of running water caught Strider’s sharp ears. He limped toward 
it, remembering the stream from his journey to Bree. Once he’d reached 
the water’s edge he leant down and filled the pot to capacity. Even in the 
night he could see the dark tinge clouding the water, as blood dripped 
down from his side. Though he was growing dizzy, he knew that Frodo’s 
hurt was worse and far more dangerous. Diligently, he got to his feet and 
started back to toward the glade.

Sam stood and reached for his sword as he heard the footsteps 
approaching, but relaxed when Strider emerged from the thicket at his 
right. “Put your blade away, Master Gamgee.“ he said, trying to catch his 
breath through clenched teeth. “I am no enemy of yours.” 

Sam now noticed the man’s limp, which had worsened on his way back. 
Strider set the pot in the fire, keeping the handle safely away from the 
flames. “Strider, you’re hurt,” Sam said, concerned.

Strider smiled, but Sam saw the pain concealed beneath the gesture. “You 
have had a change of heart, Master Gamgee.”

“You would have died saving him,” Sam said quietly. “I’d trust anyone 
that’d do that.”

“Thank you, Sam. Having your trust is greatly treasured.” He dropped his 
voice, so that Sam did not hear it.
“It makes me feel much safer, not having you out for my blood.” He took 
an old, soft cloth from his pack and unfolded it, then dipped it in the warm 
water.

“That won’t help, will it?” Sam asked. “The water ain’t even near boiled:”

“No, it isn’t, but until the water is hot enough to clean the wound this will 
do to soothe the pain.” He uncovered Frodo’s maimed shoulder and 
dabbed around the injury gently. Frodo tried to pull away as Strider 
pressed the warm cloth into the wound itself, but Strider persisted, 
slipping a hand under Frodo’s blood-stained shirt and rubbing his cold 
chest to assuage the pain. Frodo relaxed, and succumbed to Strider’s 
touch. By the time Strider felt he had sufficiently calmed Frodo, the water 
was beginning to boil. He gathered the last of his athelas leaves and 
crushed them, then dropped them into the pot. A sweet aroma instantly 
filled the air, and the others who were unhurt suddenly felt less weary. 
Though Sam did his best to solace his friend, holding his hand near his 
own face, Frodo groaned though clenched teeth as Strider placed the 
steaming cloth over the stab-wound, letting it bleed freely.

“He’ll bleed to death!” cried Sam.

Strider lifted the cloth slightly, and Sam saw that Frodo’s blood had 
become marbled with a strange blackness. “This may serve to flush out 
some of the poison,” said Strider. “And if he does die, then it will be a 
mercy for him to bleed to death rather than remain with this sickened 
blood flowing in his veins.”

Though grief-stricken, Sam nodded in agreement as he brushed his hand 
over Frodo’s cheek.

Once Frodo was used to the heat of the water, he quieted, and his 
breathing became easier. Weakened by loss of blood, he ceased to struggle 
when pained. When the blood flowed red again, Strider laid his hand over 
the wound. Several minutes passed, and, somehow, Frodo's wild, 
bloodshot eyes steadied. He even gave Sam’s hand a little squeeze, which 
brought Sam an insurmountable wave of new hope. “Look! He’s not 
hurting so bad anymore! What do you suppose…”

“Strider, of course! I never did doubt he could work such a miracle,” 
exclaimed Merry, smiling.

“No, the leaf, mostly,” Strider corrected good-naturedly. “And that will 
soon wear off, unfortunately. If you will, Sam, bathe that wound for me.”

Sam nodded, obviously happy to comply. Strider was glad that the others 
had directed all their attention towards Frodo as he gingerly removed his 
leather jerkin and unbuttoned the doublet beneath it. The gash on his side 
looked worse than what was on Frodo’s shoulder, but Strider could only 
imagine how bearing the Ring would worsen the effects he was beginning 
to feel. Also, he remembered the odd swelling on Frodo's chest, and how it 
had pained the hobbit so. He feared greatly that a shard of the blade had 
embedded itself within Frodo, but he realised that he could do nothing for 
it at present. They would have to hasten onward to Rivendell, and he and 
the hobbits would have to bear the toil, and Frodo would have to bear the 
delay.

Taking another clean cloth from his bag, he dipped it into the steaming 
water and applied it to his injury, brow knitting in pain. Distracted as he 
was, he did not notice Pippin’s quiet approach.

“Oh!” gasped the young hobbit. “Strider, you’re hurt.” Pippin was 
confused. “Why aren’t you as bad off as Frodo?”

“Sauron’s evil was already at work in Frodo’s body,” Strider said, 
mentioning nothing of his suspicions. 

Pippin glanced worriedly at his cousin, then leant down and picked up 
Strider’s worn jerkin, studying it absently. “I don’t know how you’ve 
managed to ignore that, running all this way, carrying Frodo and all. It 
must be quite painful.”

Strider wet the cloth again. “I suppose I’ve learned to ignore it, after so 
many years…ouch.” He winced as he touched the cloth to his injury. 
Pippin grinned.


~~~
TBC