Title: Ringspell
Author: Bill the Pony (billthepony_@hotmail.com)  
Author's Website: http://www.squidge.org/~pumpkin/bill/paddock.html  
Category: PWP, First-Time, Interspecies, Angst, Other  
Pairing: Aragorn/Frodo 
Warnings: Graphic Sex, Violent Sex 
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: The Ring's subversive power tempts Aragorn. 
Disclaimer: Tolkien would be appalled, and what's more, he'd probably be right. 
I don't own any of this-- his heirs and New Line Cinemas do, and it isn't being 
used by me for a profit in any way. 
Feedback: Yes, including constructive criticism 
Story Notes: This fic came of a bunny I had after I read my umpteenth "F/A Fic 
that Just Didn't Work for Me." I sat down and said, "Damn it, if that pairing 
were going to happen, HERE is how." Wax_Jism and others encouraged me 
until it was written in its sordid entirety. 
ADDITIONAL WARNING: Though this fic is not precisely rapefic, there are 
issues of coerced consent. 




The Ring had a voice, Aragorn decided, and it also knew his name. It sang to 
him, when his watch came in the depths of starless night, and it seemed to gleam 
where it had fallen out of Frodo's collar to lie against the pale flesh of his throat. 
He wondered if Frodo knew it would leave him, given half a chance, for a 
stronger wielder. 

He suspected so; Frodo's eyes were luminous with knowledge and hurt and they 
watched the Company without ceasing, weighing and judging each in turn with 
wisdom beyond the halfling's years, and with a pain deeper than thought. They 
weighed Aragorn just as they weighed the others, for Frodo knew of Isildur. 
At times Aragorn wondered at the secrets Frodo perceived among them all. The 
halfling had almost the air of an elf about him; he was far-seeing, watchful and 
silent, with a radiance hidden inside him that was muddied and cast about with 
shadow. When he saw, he saw truly. And yet, there were many things other than 
the blood of the elves which had come to him from his fathers which could be 
blamed for his perception. 

Aragorn had seen the Morgul knife that cut him, and watched its blade burn to 
smoke, as only a blade that has pierced a wraith will do. What Frodo was now he 
did not know. He was no longer fully halfling, he was not elf, and he was not 
wraith. He was other, and of them all only Gandalf had seemed to know, but 
Gandalf was gone. 

Aragorn turned away from the flicker of the Ring, rising and falling with Frodo's 
breath. The whisper in the night might have been the leaves, or the river over 
stone, or the discontent of long unsated memory and desire-- but he knew it was 
the hateful Ring, singing of the salvation of Minas Tirith and of Men, and of the 
damnation of Aragorn son of Arathorn. It sang a hateful melody, weaving 
promises of what it had seen deep inside Aragorn's heart, the better to snare him. 

And it had seen much within his soul; more than Aragorn himself had ever 
thought he might contain. It tormented him to think of the evil that lay within 
himself, awaiting a chance for birth. He shuddered, wrapping his cloak close 
around himself; the Ring would not be silent even when his watch ended. He 
wondered, at times, how Frodo bore it. 

His eyes turned back to the halfling, like iron drawn to a lodestone. Frodo slept 
restlessly, his blankets open. Sam lay sleeping next to Frodo, and his arm lay 
across Frodo's belly, but as Aragorn watched Frodo shrugged it away. He could 
have sworn that Frodo's narrow chest gleamed with sweat; Frodo's shirt was 
open and the Ring shone with a dull red hue on his naked skin. 

Frodo sat up, his eyes glittering under his brows at Aragorn, and Aragorn looked 
away from the sharp gaze, suddenly unsure which was judging him-- the halfling, 
or the Ring about his neck. Its after-image glowed behind his closed lids, and he 
heard a rustling that was more than the Ring's haunting call-- Frodo was moving. 

He opened his eyes again, and found Frodo studying him, his head tilted, the 
Ring still shining on his chest. Aragorn blinked with alarm; Frodo's eyes were 
glazed and his lips were parted; he had a wanton look about him that Aragorn 
recognized, though he had never expected to see it upon Frodo. His lips were 
open and his limbs were poised with studied grace; even as Aragorn watched he 
turned, but his head stayed still, his eyes heavy and fixed on Aragorn's even as his 
body turned. 

Sullen heat throbbed low in Aragorn's belly, and he wrenched his eyes away; 
sweat filmed his brow and he wiped at it with the back of one shaking hand. 
Frodo walked toward the river's edge, away from camp, and Aragorn hesitated, 
torn-- he could not let Frodo leave the camp alone, not acting as strangely as he 
was. 
He roused Legolas, shaking his shoulder, and pointed at Frodo; Legolas sat up to 
watch, freeing Aragorn to follow after the halfling, watching him make his way 
across outcrops of stone at the river's edge, sure-footed and graceful, until he 
found a tiny cove where water pattered down from the lip of a broken boulder, 
leaning out over the water. Its musical voice was hushed by fingers of ice that 
hung over the edge, lit as though from within by pearly starlight, but Frodo 
walked and stood beneath it, tilting back his head, and the water flowed over 
him. 

Aragorn found himself expecting to hear the water hiss as it touched the Ring, or 
perhaps just Frodo's skin, which was very white and completely bare now, 
though Aragorn had fallen far enough behind not to see him as he removed his 
clothing to bathe. 

He moved slowly, his small hands cupping water and spreading it over his flesh 
until he shone in the faint light, luminous in Aragorn's eyes. Aragorn swallowed 
through his dry throat, transfixed at the sight of the ring swaying on Frodo's 
chest. He was so small, so terribly delicate-- none of the other halflings had his 
fragility... or his strength, his perception, his... strange, ethereal beauty. 

Aragorn closed his eyes, but Frodo seemed graven on the inner surface of his 
eyelids, moving with the milk-smooth seductiveness of a courtesan, his body 
mirroring the sultry temptation of the Ring. Aragorn's head swam, and he could 
scarce believe that it was winter; a tide of heat flooded him, and all he could see 
was Frodo's pale slender body framing the bright circle of gold. 

He stepped forward, unthinking, and Frodo's eyes were waiting for him, dark 
and fathomless, rimmed by the thinnest ring of blue-- and yet they were not 
Frodo's; the pupils were slitted like a cat's, and Aragorn stepped forward, 
agonized, and caught the halfling's slender shoulders in his hands, shaking Frodo 
as though to wake him. 

Water flew from Frodo's hair, flaring to diamonds in the light; it spattered 
Aragorn with icy spray, and yet it did not quench the flames building in him. 
Frodo's bones shifted, fragile under his palms, like a bird's. Frodo's eyes were 
glossy and confused, but they were his, for an instant-- and then his head tipped 
back and Aragorn was aware of the Ring swinging on his chest, like a pendulum 
tracing an arc between his nipples-- dark circles on his chest, the rose of blood 
that filled them visible even under starlight. 

*Aragorn.* The voice that he had come to understand belonged to the Ring was 
louder now, surrounding him, and Frodo seemed unaware of it, a slave to the 
Ring's will, part of its terrible beckon. 

"Frodo!" Aragorn's harsh voice ripped at his throat; his hand was moving toward 
the Ring even as Frodo fell against him, bent backwards so that the Ring lay 
directly under his gaze; Frodo was hard low against Aragorn's thigh, and Aragorn 
reached to cradle the curve of his body, supporting him with one arm even as the 
other reached to take the Ring. His palm curved over it, touching the flesh all 
about it, and he could feel fever flushing the skin beneath his touch, the Ring 
pulsing with unwholesome heat that spread along Frodo's veins. 

"Take me, Aragorn..." Frodo's lips moved in tandem with the low urging of the 
Ring; the voice that issued from his throat was not his own, and it tore at 
Aragorn's heart, for Frodo was more than dear to him-- the Ring had read much 
of his desire, more than simple shame would suffice to atone for, and had made 
of his feelings a thing that should never have been. 

"Frodo." Aragorn's very skin itched with the need to close his hand, but he did 
not, crushing Frodo tightly against him. "Wake, Frodo, and make an end to this 
madness!" 

But Frodo's eyes were glazed and empty, and his breath caught fast in his chest as 
the water fell about them, soaking Aragorn's cloak. Aragorn closed his eyes and 
groaned, feeling the heat that gathered at his loins to match the ache of heat 
under his hand; the overwhelming desires matched equally, balancing him 
between their point to writhe in agony. He must fall, in one direction or the 
other. 

"Forgive me this, Frodo, but I will not take the Ring!" His nails scraped across 
Frodo's smooth skin, drawing dark weals, as he clawed at the chain until the Ring 
fell behind Frodo's neck, untouched. Frodo's eyes clouded over with white for a 
moment, as they had when the nazgul stabbed him; his lips drew back from his 
teeth, and for a moment Aragorn held a wild thing, scratching and clawing in his 
arms, but then Frodo gentled, his eyes lost, and his head tipped to the side, his 
body growing limp. 

Aragorn groaned; one desire denied, the other overwhelmed him with blind lust, 
as though the Ring lashed out twice as savagely against his weakness, insane with 
rage at being thwarted. He pushed Frodo against the cold rock, heedless of the 
icy water spattering them both, and his hand half-covered Frodo's face as he 
steadied it. Not pausing to change their position, he dove in, and felt Frodo's lips 
crush under his-- small and sweet, the halfling's perfect mouth fell open and let 
Aragorn's rough tongue stab inside. 

A low whimper-- Frodo's voice, not the Ring's blandishments-- only served to 
inflame him further. He kissed Frodo's mouth frantically, then drew back to kiss 
the halfling's face, clumsily licking at the cold white skin between his fingers, and 
there was awareness in Frodo's eyes now, though there was still confusion. Then 
Frodo's arm rose and curled around Aragorn's neck. 

Aragorn nearly sobbed as the worst of the madness left him unexpectedly, and he 
lifted Frodo and carried him from the river, feeling the cold of the night and the 
water now that the Ring's heat had gone out of them. Frodo clung to him, 
shivering; Aragorn stumbled away from the tiny waterfall and into the woods, 
where leaves lay drifted in the lee of a fallen oak. He laid Frodo down there, 
kneeling at his side, for Frodo would not let him go. They were both cruelly 
aroused, and Frodo's breath rasped in his thin chest; his eyes pleading with 
Aragorn. 

"Should I go for Sam--" Aragorn mumbled, distraught. 

"No!" Frodo's voice halted him instantly, as few commands had ever done. "I 
will not have him poisoned by this!" He was shivering violently, and his thin arms 
peeled away from Aragorn and wrapped around himself. 

"Frodo," Aragorn breathed, torn between sorrow and love, and he threw off his 
sodden cloak, lying down at Frodo's side and awkwardly gathering him into his 
arms. Frodo nestled against him, trembling, still wet, and Aragorn quickly drew 
back to remove his tunic. He dried Frodo with it, aware of the dangers of being 
wet in such chill weather, and then tossed it away, taking Frodo into his arms 
again. Fog started to gather about them, thin tendrils creeping up from the 
riverside, drawing a clammy shroud between them and the world. 
Frodo lay quiet against his bare chest, and though Aragorn had dried him, his 
cheeks were no longer dry. "I heard what it promised you. I saw what it read in 
your mind." 

Aragorn went hot with shame, and he closed his eyes, for he could not meet 
Frodo's gaze. But Frodo's lips touched his eyelids, one after the other. "You 
chose the path I would have you choose." 

Aragorn bowed his head until his forehead touched Frodo's. "The Ring makes a 
mockery of all it finds. It... twists what is good, and makes it evil." 

"I know," Frodo whispered. "You are not to blame." His lips were cold, but the 
inside of his mouth was hot as he lifted it to brand small open kisses over 
Aragorn's mouth. The chain shifted, the Ring rattling against its prison of silver 
links. Aragorn groaned, his hands clenching into fists against Frodo's back. 

"Please," Frodo whispered, his voice broken. His eyes were hazed again, misting 
over with the Ring's call. 

"It won't let go." Aragorn sensed he was right; it would not. The spell that it had 
woven was not broken, only delayed-- and in the rapid beat of Frodo's heart, 
Aragorn suddenly perceived his struggle; his will was great, but it was failing. 
The night came alive about them as he faltered, and shifting limbs brushed fell 
whispers over the sky, as though struggling to escape from the clinging fog. The 
Ring was waking. 

"I would do this while I may still choose it," Frodo gasped. His trembling fingers 
pressed bruises into Aragorn's shoulders, and shudders wracked his slender 
frame. Aragorn understood, then, what was required to conquer the Ring's spell, 
and his heart ached with pity for Frodo even as lust and guilt warred within him. 

"Trust me, then, Frodo!" He whispered, feeling himself kindle with the Ring's 
desire. "I will not betray you." He lowered his mouth to Frodo's again, 
struggling for gentleness against the overwhelming command of the Ring. The 
slide of his tongue into Frodo's mouth was voluptuous, like the thrust of his 
finger into a welcoming circle of smooth hot gold, only Frodo was pliant and 
sleek, squirming and alive, as hot as forge-fire. 

The Ring sang promises between their mouths, wearing away at Aragorn's 
restraint. It wanted him; it wanted them both. He set his hands on Frodo's body, 
avoiding the chain, and clasped him close. Frodo was very small, his fair skin as 
smooth as a woman's or a child's. Holding his naked body close made Aragorn's 
belly burn with fire even as his filled heart with a sickness of guilt. Frodo was as a 
child in his arms, but no child could make Aragorn burn with such lust-- and no 
child's tongue would have the skill of Frodo's as it darted into his mouth like a 
flickering flame. 

Aragorn faltered and fell before his desire, and his fingers drifted astray across 
Frodo's chest to tangle in the Ring's chain, though he did not wish it. When he 
felt the hard metal chain under his hand, dull and lifeless compared to Frodo's 
skin, he realized what he had done and drew away from Frodo's kiss, calming 
himself by sheer force of will. 

He forced his hand to open, making it wander elsewhere instead. His hand passed 
over the scar where Frodo had been stabbed by the Morgul blade; it was a 
narrow ribbon of icy chill on his otherwise unmarred body, an unpleasant 
reminder to Aragorn that Frodo's hurts were beyond his skill to heal. His hands 
closed easily around Frodo's slender arms, and he felt hard muscle beneath the 
deceptively soft, yielding skin as he moved down Frodo's body, mouthing at his 
narrow chest. 

Frodo never ceased to move urgently beneath him, though when Aragorn looked 
up, the halfling's gaze was his own-- the Ring seemed satisfied, at least in part, 
that the two of them had succumbed to its lesser call. Aragorn's stomach 
clenched as he wondered what this moment of surrender would cost Frodo. He 
could only pray that it would buy time for him rather than weakening his resolve. 
He hesitated, wanting to give Frodo pleasure, but knowing that what the Ring 
wanted would hurt him. 

"Aragorn, please!" Frodo's voice was all but choked. "Do not make it wait!" 

Remorse filled him as he perceived his folly; the longer Frodo must struggle, the 
more the Ring devoured him. It burned between them, falling to lie upon 
Aragorn's chest as he rolled onto his back and settled Frodo on him. Its call 
waxed fiercely along with the touch, firing the ache in his loins. Its song was no 
longer in the air; it was inside them now-- deep in his mind and in Frodo's, 
echoed in the shift and play of their limbs moving together. 

The Ring yearned for his finger to pass within its circle; Aragorn could feel it in 
the way Frodo shifted against him, pressing down against him, a victim and voice 
of its desire. Aragorn groaned and thrust up against the slight weight of Frodo's 
body, and Frodo clung to him, moving with an intent that Aragorn recognized 
even as Frodo's hands went to the clasp of his belt. 

"Frodo!" He held the halfling with one arm to still him, groping with the other 
hand for the pouch that held his small supply of healing herbs. There was a salve 
for burns which would serve to ease their way, but Frodo fought him with a 
strength that Aragorn would not have believed he possessed, refusing to be 
deterred. Aragorn himself held to reason by only the slenderest of margins; he 
would not harm Frodo unless he must. 

He dipped his fingers into the salve, but Frodo would not wait; he tore his arms 
away from Aragorn and bared him. Aragorn had hardly time to slicken himself 
before Frodo grasped him and moved to take him inside. Succeeding, he forced 
his body down. Frodo's head fell back and his mouth opened on a thin scream like 
a wraith's, and yet he would not stop, but impaled himself until there was no 
more space left between them. 

Aragorn felt cold sweat break out all over him; Frodo's small body was tight 
beyond the point of pain, clutching Aragorn like a vise. The Ring flashed on 
Frodo's chest as he rose and dropped savagely for a second time; Aragorn cried 
out and bucked up roughly to meet him. He could no longer resist the Ring's 
call; it had made Frodo an extension of itself and Aragorn was sunk deep within 
its power. 

The Ring spun like a wheel of fire suspended between them, eclipsing Aragorn's 
vision, its fell voice deafening his ears to all else. He shoved himself into Frodo 
brutally; it was all his desire to be joined with Ring and Bearer, but setting his 
flesh inside Frodo's was not enough. Dimly he knew his fingers were bruising 
Frodo's body where they clutched him to steady him; Frodo's cries made a shrill 
counterpoint to the thunder of his blood-- more felt than heard, they raked his 
bones with horror, lest they should summon the company to witness his shame. 

He groped to cover Frodo's mouth with his hand, and Frodo's white teeth sank 
viciously into the flesh below his thumb, but he was silenced. Then Aragorn took 
his hand away and turned them, crushing Frodo beneath his weight, and thrust 
fiercely, struggling to sate himself as quickly as he might. 

Frodo's hand crept between them and pried at Aragorn's fingers; Aragorn 
realized only then that the Ring burned inside his closed fist like a live coal. He 
could not release it, not even as Frodo began to struggle in earnest, shrieking 
with the fury of betrayal as the Ring loosed his mind from its hold to bring all its 
will to bear upon Aragorn's. 

Aragorn drove his mouth against Frodo's to silence him once more, swallowing 
the furious sounds he made. His hand felt heavy on the Ring, too heavy to lift, 
and his fingers curled around its heat. Frodo's hands fell on his wrist; the halfling 
pried at him in vain. The Ring sang to him with cold triumph. He did not know 
how long he lay atop Frodo, crushing him to compliance even while struggling 
with himself, feeling the Ring beating against his hand like a living heart of flame, 
waiting for him to claim it. 

And then far above them a shrill cry rent the air, and a shadow of fear dimmed 
the starlight; Aragorn's hand tore away from Frodo's grasp and darted 
instinctively toward his sword hilt, which was not where it should be. The cry 
trailed away toward the East, fading, and it seemed that blackness closed in about 
them in its wake. All Aragorn could hear was Frodo's breath-- it came in harsh, 
panting gasps, a whimper of panic curled tight about each one. 

"The Pale King!" Frodo whispered, and though he understood the words in that 
moment, Aragorn could not be certain what tongue they had been spoken in, but 
later he thought that it was that of Mordor. 
Hearing the words, he remembered the fiery circle of the Ring, and his chest 
grew tight even as desire for it flared, searing the skin at the palm of his hand, 
which remembered its touch. They must make an end to this swiftly, before its 
power overcame them both. 

He reached out in the dark, and his guilty hand closed low on Frodo's body. 
Frodo's whimpers changed, growing frantic in his throat. Aragorn thrust deeply 
into him, his head swimming with lust and fear and shame even as he stroked 
Frodo. He did not allow his urgent purpose to stray from his mind: to finish them 
both before the Ring's power waxed again, and to let pleasure break the hold it 
had upon his lust. 

He knew without seeing that Frodo's hand clasped tightly about the Ring now, to 
protect it from him. He tried not to let his thoughts dwell upon it, instead 
savouring the shameful clasp of Frodo's body, so painfully tight about him. 
Aragorn speeded his hand upon the halfling, and Frodo moaned softly, a broken 
and desperate sound, every muscle in his body growing taut. Without further 
warning he gave up his lust and went limp beneath Aragorn, his breath coming 
fast and shallow. 

The fierce clench of Frodo's body tore release from Aragorn, but he took no 
pleasure in it-- there was nothing left but guilt as the Ring's hateful spell 
dispersed, and its voice faded along with the mist that had shrouded them in a 
cocoon of night. As though a curtain had been lifted, sight returned to him; 
Dawn silvered the eastern sky, lightening the cloud-wrack. The river was hidden 
beneath a dull grey fog. They had been long about this ugly business, and soon 
the others would seek them out. 

Frodo trembled in his arms, crushed cold and shivering against the stony ground; 
Aragorn felt the wetness of tears against his chest, and he turned them over 
hastily, cradling the halfling. He loathed himself in that moment, purely and 
without measure, and yet the Ring was safe, and who was to say what might have 
happened had he not done as Frodo asked? Perhaps the Ring would have called to 
another... as it still might do. 

"Let us bathe, and then I will tend your hurts." Aragorn heard the gruff 
tenderness and the shame in his own voice, and he spared a moment to touch 
Frodo's face with trembling fingers before he set him aside and rose. His cloak 
was still damp from the drenching he had taken beneath the falls, and his tunic 
was stained with rich forest loam where they had rolled upon it and pressed it 
into the soil beneath them. 

Frodo also rose as Aragorn gathered his things, and together they went to the 
river, where Frodo's clothing still lay, undisturbed. There was no speech 
between them as Frodo bathed, but Aragorn could see his stiffness and lingering 
pain in the way he moved. The growing light revealed no blood upon the white 
skin of his thighs, and Aragorn blessed the salve he had carried for so long, not 
guessing at the purpose for which he would need it. Frodo kept one hand always 
on the Ring even as he bathed, hiding it from Aragorn's sight. 

Aragorn sorted through his meager stock of herbs and salves of healing, then 
opened his arms to Frodo at last to summon him out of the icy water. Frodo 
glanced at him once, weighing his intent, and then came to him, trusting. 
Aragorn gathered him in and kissed his brow, then tended him, turning his eyes 
aside as his hand moved to tend the worst hurts Frodo's body had taken from 
their coupling. Frodo seemed whole and he did not flinch from Aragorn's touch, 
enduring it patiently. 

They did not speak even as Frodo dressed; Aragorn had no words that would heal 
what had happened between them. "We must go back to the others," he spoke at 
last, and Frodo nodded, buttoning his shirt up over the Ring. 

Frodo walked at Aragorn's side as they sought the camp. They soon heard voices, 
and Frodo's small hand sought Aragorn's larger one, squeezing it tightly and then 
releasing him just as they neared the last few boulders that shielded them from 
the camp. Aragorn's heart filled and broke as Frodo released him and stepped 
forward. 

The Fellowship were awake, finishing breakfast and packing their gear and 
stowing it in the grey elven boats; Legolas met Aragorn's eyes for a long 
moment, thoughtful, and then he looked away. 
Sam cried out with gladness, jumping up to greet them, but when Frodo did not 
meet his eyes he fell still, looking at them for a long moment with puzzlement. 
Aragorn's heart ached as he watched Sam's jaw clench, and then Sam stepped 
forward with determined cheer to welcome Frodo, whose pack he had made 
ready. His single quick glance at Aragorn held uncertainty-- and warning. 

Aragorn met the look soberly. Samwise was a simple hobbit, knowing little of 
corruption, but he was not a fool, not when his thinking involved his master. He 
would guess the right of it soon enough, even if Frodo did not tell him. 

"You were long away," Boromir spoke, his voice wry with an undertone of 
malice and Aragorn turned a level gaze on him, with enough danger in it that he 
fell silent. In that moment Aragorn's shame was eased and he was glad; he knew 
not what might have befallen Frodo had the Ring tempted Boromir in his stead. 

"Strider, you're bleeding!" Pippin piped up, and Aragorn remembered his bitten 
hand too late. 

"It is nothing." He tore away the hem of his shirt and bound the wound swiftly, 
drawing the knot tight with his teeth. "To the boats. The river flows swiftly; we 
will reach Amon Hen by afternoon." 



END