Title: The King's Halfling
Author: Claudia (claudia603 at gmail dot com)
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: PG13
Summary: After ROTK, Frodo and Aragorn live together in Minas Tirith. Frodo suffers with
an increasingly inattentive Aragorn and accidentally gets involved in activity that is
illegal.
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.

Thanks to trianne and baranduin for beta-ing help!


Chapter 1

Frodo shifted on the stone edge to the fountain. The sun had begun its descent, which
meant that it was much later than three. In fact, according to the vine-covered clock in
the courtyard, it was half past five. Frodo shivered. He had not brought a cloak.

Aragorn had bid him to wait for him at three. He had winked, implying a pleasant
surprise. Frodo hated the condescending smile that had played over the king's face. He
had neglected Frodo for weeks on end, and then expected him to jump for joy like a child
when he deigned to give him some of his precious time.

Frodo dug his nails into his palms. And what had he done? When Aragorn asked him to meet
him, he had jumped up with a joyful shout. Aragorn had finally turned his attention back
to him, and he had not hesitated in his agreement. That was the way it had been lately.

Frodo dipped his hand into the fountain. The water was icy. September had been unusually
cool in Gondor that year. Now a brisk breeze rattled the trees. Frodo clutched himself
and shivered. He would wait only a few minutes more.

Frodo should not have expected that it would be any different on his birthday. Men did
not put as much stock in birthdays as hobbits did. Aragorn probably hadn't even
remembered. Frodo had not reminded him because Aragorn would smile in the patronizing
way he did whenever Frodo did something or acted typical of hobbits.

Sam had warned him. On the day Sam, Merry, and Pippin had left for the Shire, Sam's face
had been twisted in grief. He had been dismayed by Frodo's decision not to come back to
the Shire with him.

"Mr. Frodo, I love you and I will support you whatever you do, but I think you're making
a big mistake. This Mr. Strider--or the King of Gondor as he is now--I'm mighty fond of
him. He came through for us on many occasions. Nobody deserves this kingship more than
him. But you mark my words. You stay with him and he'll tire of you."

"No," Frodo had said. His cheeks had bloomed with new love. Aragorn could not keep his
hands from him. Every night had been a new adventure. "No, he will not tire of me. He
loves me. And I love him more than..." He had wanted to say more than anything, but he
could not bear to hurt Sam. He had always suspected that Sam harbored more feeling for
him than as a dear friend and servant. After his loyalty, Sam did not deserve Frodo's
casual disregard of him.

Sam had shaken his head.

"Mr. Frodo, please come back to the Shire. Don't you miss your home?"

"I do, Sam," Frodo said. "But it's like this. You have your Rosie lass waiting for you
when you return. I have nothing. Don't look at me like that, Sam. You know I love you.
You've been the best friend a hobbit could have. But I've never had somebody love me
like Aragorn does."

"He is a man," Sam said with some resentment. "You will never be equal with him, Mr.
Frodo."

Now Sam's words haunted him. How many times in recent weeks had Frodo felt like a
petulant child begging for a moment of Aragorn's time? He cringed at how pathetic he
must seem. He had to accept that he had become a mathom to Aragorn. Aragorn had taken
everything he needed and yet he did not have the courage or inclination to send Frodo
home to the Shire in shame.

Frodo's cheeks burned. He should not have agreed to meet Aragorn. He should have told
him he had other matters to attend to. A lump filled his throat. He had to face the fact
that it wouldn't have mattered if he had refused to meet Aragorn. Aragorn simply would
have shrugged and said, "Perhaps another time." And then that other time would never
come.

Frodo stood, stretching out his stiff legs. He was cold, and he had not even brought a
book to read. He would not wait a moment more.

***

Frodo lay in bed. The candle still burned on his night stand. He wondered if Aragorn
would come tonight. He had not come to bed in nearly a week. Frodo felt the ache of
lonely despair grow in his throat. He had been alone all evening. He had eaten leftover
soup with stale bread, hardly typical fare for one so high in the king's favor. He had
no friends in the palace. Nobody spoke to him. They whispered about him, that he was the
king's pet halfling. He was off limits and very lonely.

He had to admit that without Aragorn's companionship, he was quite bored. He had read
all the books in the library. He had explored the city. He wrote to his dear friends in
the Shire at least once a week. He tried to make conversation with the various servants.
They indulged him for short periods of time, but they always seemed uncomfortable, as if
they didn't want to be caught talking to him.

The door clicked open. Frodo quickly debated to himself whether he should pretend to be
asleep or confront him. The later won because his rapid breaths of fury would counteract
any attempt to feign sleep.

"Aragorn!" he said. His voice sounded throaty and desperate, and that angered him
further.

"Hello, Frodo," Aragorn said with a dismissive smile. "I am sorry. I cannot stay. I am
still meeting with Prince Faramir. I just stopped by to pick up a map I had left here."

"Where were you?" Frodo asked, his throat aching. He would not cry.

Aragorn smiled thinly. "I just told you, Frodo. I was with the Prince Faramir."

"Yes, I know." Frodo knew his blue eyes blazed with anger. "Where were you this
afternoon--when you were to meet me?"

"Meet you?" Aragorn looked genuinely puzzled.

"Yes!" Frodo hated how his voice cracked. "You told me three. I waited until nearly
six."

"Oh, Frodo. I am sorry. I have no recollection of promising you this. I don't know why I
would have. I've been in conference with Faramir all day."

Frodo bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from bursting with uncontrollable rage.
Aragorn had forgotten. The one time he had deigned to give Frodo his time, he had
forgotten. Heat filled his chest. Aragorn seemed not at all to care that he had barely
seen Frodo in over a month. They had not pleasured each other in nearly two months. Even
when Aragorn was with him in bed, he was distant. Aragorn's eyes softened with pity.
Frodo clenched his hands into small fists.

"I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, Frodo. I'm sorry you waited so long for me."
Aragorn knelt in front of him. "Let us plan to meet again when I have a little more
time."

Frodo's rage burst over at that moment. His right hand flew up and struck Aragorn across
the face. He pulled back immediately in shame. He had never struck anybody before--
certainly not someone he loved. Aragorn's face changed to shock as his hand covered the
cheek that Frodo had struck. His grey eyes hardened. He grabbed Frodo's wrists and
pulled the hobbit to him.

"Why did you do that?"

"I'm very sorry, Aragorn," Frodo said, tears spilling out of his eyes at last. First he
had lost control and struck his lover, the King of Gondor. Then he could not control his
tears. It was no wonder Aragorn had dismissed him. He was behaving like a child who
didn't get his way. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. I don't know what came over
me."

Aragorn released Frodo's wrists. His face softened as he drew the hobbit into an
embrace. He rubbed Frodo's back in a soothing manner. "Frodo, it is I who am sorry. You
are lonely. I can see that now. I've been selfish and thoughtless. Tomorrow I will talk
to the warden in the house of healing. I think I will have him train you in aspects of
healing. What say you to that?"

Frodo lay his head on Aragorn's shoulder. "All right." At least it would give him
something to do. And he would have regular interaction with other people.

"Please be patient," Aragorn said. "I am very busy right now, but I have not forgotten
you. I'm sorry if I've neglected you as of late."

"I'm so sorry I hit you," Frodo said. "It was inexcusable."

Aragorn chuckled a little. "It will be amusing to explain to Faramir."

Frodo hugged Aragorn more fiercely. Aragorn kissed Frodo tenderly over the mouth.
"Tomorrow, Frodo. I promise I will give you time tomorrow."

Frodo woke alone. Only his side of the bed appeared to have been used. A lump of bitter
disappointment filled his chest. What had he expected? Still, he continued to harbor a
faint hope that Aragorn was sitting in the next room, sipping tea and waiting for the
lazy hobbit to wake up. Frodo smelled fresh bread. He smiled a little. The Shire never
made bread like Aragorn’s cook! Frodo’s smile faded. He didn’t hear any indication that
Aragorn was in the next room or even that he had come back at all in the night. Aragorn
had promised him time today, but when?

Frodo padded into the other room. It was silent and empty, as though Aragorn had never
come home. He must have imagined the bread, too, because there was no food in sight. A
faint memory tugged at Frodo—or perhaps it was only a wishful dream—that Aragorn had
snuggled close to him for a short time in the night and kissed his forehead.

He saw a note taped to the door. His heart leaped. Aragorn hadn’t forgotten. Surely
there Aragorn had indicated where they would meet. Frodo grabbed it, his heart thumping
in anticipation.

Frodo,

Please go to the House of Healing and meet with the healer Aven at noon today. He will
explain your duties. I am sorry, but I will not be able to see you for the next two
weeks. I have agreed to accompany Faramir to Emyn Arnen to resolve some issues he is
having with border control.

Aragorn

Frodo’s throat filled with a strangling lump. Aragorn had not even signed his name with
“love,” nor had he put “Dearest” before Frodo like he always had in the past. He was not
sure why that struck him more than being separated from him for two weeks. Perhaps
Aragorn had been furious that Frodo had hit him. But Frodo suspected that was not the
case. Aragorn didn’t deal with his anger in sneaky ways. He confronted it. If he had
been upset about it, he would have canceled his meeting with Faramir and discussed it
with him long into the night.

Frodo bowed his head. He would have preferred it if Aragorn had struck him back. At
least that would have had emotion behind it. Frodo’s eyes felt dry, but a pain spread
over his chest. He had no urge to work with the healer. He didn’t want to see anyone. He
wanted to bury himself under the covers and cry until his chest didn’t ache anymore.

Sam had been right. He should have gone back to the Shire with his friends. He lifted
his head, thinking with longing of his cozy hobbit hole, everything his size. Hobbits
were never indifferent or cold with one another. He missed the easy laughter of his
friends, the constant joking, and the sweet understanding.

The idea of seeing his friends and kin again sent a surge of joy through him. He could
go to the Shire alone. He did not know the way, but it would be easy enough to follow a
map. He knew that the closest route would be through the pass of Rohan. In order to plan
for the trip, he would have to gather help from the servants. He would need help packing
for such a long journey. He would need supplies. The servants would question him, though
they did not have the right. When Aragorn came back, he would find him gone.

Aragorn had considered passing an edict banning men from the Shire. If that was the
case, Frodo might never see him again. His chin quivered at the thought. Perhaps Aragorn
would not care. No, Frodo couldn’t leave without a blunt conversation with Aragorn. When
Aragorn returned, Frodo would force a conversation, even if he had to follow him into
his council chamber and kick out emissaries.

Frodo clenched his breeches. Tears rolled from his eyes then. How had it come to this
point? When Aragorn had begged him to stay, to not go home with his friends, his eyes
had been full of love. He had promised Frodo that they would be happy.

***

Frodo washed his face and put on clean clothes. He felt cried out, but his chest still
felt so heavy. He was still not in the mood to visit with Aven. He walked down the long
corridors, feeling as if a heavy weight rested on his shoulders.

The captain of the guard approached him. Frodo’s heart leaped in anticipation of being
spoken to. The man bowed slightly. Frodo cringed with self-disgust. He was like an eager
dog, leaping with excitement if anyone paid him a little attention.

“Mr. Baggins,” the guard said. Frodo tried to stand as tall as possible, but he felt
very small next to the guard. The man, whom Frodo could never remember his name, was
exceptionally large. Aragorn had once told Frodo that the man was over six and a half
feet.

“Yes?” Frodo said.

“I wanted to warn you that because of the rat problem, we have put traps in various
corners, even in the royal suite area of the castle.”

“Rats?” Frodo said in disgust. “I did not know it was a problem!”

“Mostly deep in the dungeons, where the inhabitants deserve the problem in my opinion,
but the cook has seen a few in the past weeks.”

“Oh, that’s vile,” Frodo said, shuddering. He hated rats. They did not have a problem
with them in the Shire, but he had seen a few in Bree.

“Anyway, I especially thought to remind you because you do not wear shoes. Mind that you
don’t step on one of the traps. They have poison on it, and you being so small and all,
it may have an especially harmful effect.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said with a smile. He felt warm inside. Aragorn had been thinking
about him. “It was kind of the king to consider that before he left.”

“The king didn’t say anything to me,” the guard looked puzzled. “I’m warning you
myself.”

“Oh,” Frodo felt himself cringe with embarrassment and disappointment. He forced a
smile. “Well, I thank you for the warning.”

“Good day, Master Halfling.”

Frodo continued down the corridor, and the heaviness in his shoulders grew worse. He
didn’t know why it should disappoint him so much that the warning message hadn’t come
from Aragorn. He just craved any hint that Aragorn cared for him, even a small amount.

Frodo reached the House of Healing just after noon. A wave of heat had come on Gondor
just that day after several days of cool weather. Frodo wiped the sweaty dust from his
face on his sleeve, smudging it.

“Ah, good day, Frodo,” Aven said. He appeared to be in his late forties. He still looked
hale, like he could wield a sword. His hair was starting to gray.

“Good day,” Frodo said with a smile. “The king says you’re to train me.”

“I hope I can do that,” Aven said. “The King Elessar spoke so highly of you that I am
positive it will be a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Frodo said, blushing. That Aragorn had said kind words of him made him feel
a little better.

“Shall I give you a tour first?”

“Yes. That would be a good start.”

Frodo put forth the most cheerful front he could. He already felt better with human
contact. Perhaps this was a good idea. If he immersed himself in this activity, he could
not think too much about Aragorn. He didn’t need to depend on Aragorn for happiness.

Aven took him through the rooms, showed him where the dried herbs were stored, where the
towels and bandages were.

“Last I will take you into the garden where we grow the herbs. I’m afraid that is where
we are having a shortage.”

“Oh,” Frodo said. “How so?”

He followed Aven into the garden. It was a charming circular garden, surrounded by a
tall wall. Several guards with bows guarded it.

“Why the armed guards?” Frodo whispered in awe.

“Like I said, the war caused a terrible drought of healing herbs. This is the only
garden in the city. Despite the war being over, there are plenty of unscrupulous people
who would steal herbs. Those guards shot a man dead last week. Can you believe it?”

Frodo’s eyes widened with horror. Somehow, he had been naïve enough to believe that once
the new order had come to Middle Earth with the fall of Sauron that it had cleaned out
all evil. It was a silly notion. More sickening was that even with Sauron gone that men
would kill each other. It seemed a terrible waste.

“What do you think?” Aven finally asked, squeezing Frodo’s shoulder.

“I think I’ll like working here,” Frodo said with genuine feeling. He would keep his
head high and his pride intact. Maybe once he wasn’t so available to Aragorn, Aragorn
would begin to seek him out.


Frodo trekked up the dusty street for the third time, confused and lost. He was certain
that Aven had bid him walk down the main thoroughfare for a count of ten minor streets,
then turn left, then walk for a count of five alleyways, then turn into a tiny alley
called Tower Point. Now Frodo was on a street called Ithilien, but he had wandered up
and down the street and could not find an alley by the name of Tower Point.

Strangely, within a forty-minute walk or so, he had entered an area where the people did
not seem as noble and well-dressed as they did in the heart of the White City. He had
never realized that people in the rich fortress city, even after the fall of Sauron and
Aragorn’s benign rule, suffered from poor conditions. He wondered if Aragorn was aware.
The people on this street did not look at Frodo in awe and reverence as they did in the
main part of the city. They stared at him, and especially his feet, in blatant
curiosity, but mostly, it seemed, because they had never seen a hobbit. Frodo was
uncomfortable under their leers and chuckles. His velvet breeches and light Elven cloak
seemed too fancy for this area of town.

He stopped and wiped the sweaty dust from his face. His feet ached fiercely. He had
grown soft in the castle, unused to excessive walking. He sighed in frustration. Aven
had sent him for supplies nearly an hour ago and he was expected back soon. He was going
to have to retrace his steps and admit that he was lost. Perhaps if he could just get
back to the main thoroughfare, he would not be so turned around. Why hadn’t Aven given
him the name of the street he was to have turned onto in the first place? He should have
demanded more specific instructions!

“’Cuse me,” A rough voice said just above him. “Are you lost?”

Frodo looked up to see a man wearing a bright red cloak and a lot of gold jewelry around
his neck. There was something unstable and frightening about his piercing blue eyes,
though his voice sounded kind enough.

“Ah…yes, actually I am lost. I’m looking for the alleyway Tower Point. I’m to get
supplies for the healing house.”

“Tower Point.” The man frowned. “You must be really turned around. There’s no Tower
Point anywhere near here.”

Frodo’s heart sank, and his frustration must have been evident.

“Hey,” the man said, a look of wonder on his face. “I thought you were a boy when I
first saw you. But.” He stared at Frodo’s feet. “What sort of creature are you?”

Frodo looked at him in disbelief. Surely this man had been present when he and his
companions had been praised by Aragorn right after the Ring had been destroyed. At the
very least, this man should have had second-hand knowledge of the event.

“I’m a hobbit, a halfling,” Frodo said. He felt miffed at being referred to as a
creature.

“A halfling?” The man laughed and then spit. The slime from his mouth landed only a few
inches from one of Frodo’s furry feet. “I thought the king kept one as a pet, so it’s
been told, but you can’t be it. The King wouldn’t let such an exotic pet roam this part
of the city alone.”

Frodo’s throat closed. He was not certain which emotion was more predominant—repulsion
by the man’s lack of class, annoyance by the man’s ignorance of hobbits, grief at yet
another reminder of how little Aragorn seemed to care for him lately, a nagging fear
that this man might do him harm.

“Come,” the man said, clapping a heavy hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “Why not come into the
tavern with me and my companions? I’ll buy you a drink and then maybe one of them can
help you get where you’re going? They’d all be thrilled to meet a halfling!”

Frodo knew he shouldn’t. Aven was waiting for him back at the healing house. He had sent
him for a specific list of supplies. But now he was thirsty and his feet ached. He was
also too warm in the cloak. Getting out of the sun with a cold drink would be good. And
if one of the men knew how to get out of his mess, all the better.

Inside the tavern, the man led him to a small crowd of men squeezed in a circular booth.
He put his arm around Frodo’s shoulder.

“Hey, Triston,” his friends greeted him. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve got a new friend here. This is—what’s your name, halfling?”

“Frodo,” Frodo said. He felt uncomfortable under the curious eyes of the man’s friends.
There was a quality about them that seemed sly, as if they had much evil in their pasts.

“Hey, ain’t you the king’s special friend?” one of them demanded Frodo.

“Yeah,” another man with no tooth added. “I heard the king was keeping some halfling
against his will. That he keeps him chained to his bed like a dog and pleasures himself
with him.”

“’Twas one of them little fellows as ended the war, so says the king,” another man said
with a barely perceptible sneer.

“Naw,” the man with no tooth answered. “The king wants an excuse to pillage the land of
the halflings. They have the best pipe weed, and the king smokes it. So, he makes a big
fuss over some made-up deeds of the little fools—sorry, halfling, probably shouldn’t say
that to you, should I?—“ He laughed and continued. “Then keeps one for his own pleasure
and then has all the excuse in the world to make sure no one else gets a taste of that
rich little land. I have a cousin in Bree that says those halflings have it pretty damn
good there—good soil, good farming, ideal climate…”

Frodo’s face twisted into revulsion. These men had no respect for their new king! He
could not conceive of it since everyone he had so far had contact with had either fought
in the war or worked directly for Aragorn. He had seen only reverence and love for
Aragorn. He thought about Aragorn’s compassionate gray eyes and for a moment forgot
about Aragorn’s coldness toward him as of late. He missed Aragorn with a sudden fierce
longing. He yearned to go home and curl up against his hard chest, to feel Aragorn’s
muscled but gentle arms around him. His throat filled. He bit his cheeks, willing
himself not to weep.

“Naw, this isn’t the king’s halfling,” Triston said. “I found this fellow outside lost.
He works in the healing house. He’s trying to get to Tower Point. Anyone know where that
is?”

“Yeah,” one of them chuckled. “Didn’t Rimey here just rob that store last week? Stole a
bunch of knives.”

Frodo’s heart sped. He seemed to have met up with criminals and cut-throats—inside the
very gates of the city! The money that Aven had given him to buy the supplies was in his
vest pocket, and he hoped the men didn’t discover it.

“Don’t look so worried, halfling,” Rimey said, pinching his cheek hard. “We’re only bad
some of the time.” The whole table roared with laughter at that. Frodo forced a smile.
His cheek smarted from Rimey’s pinch.

“I…I should probably go,” he said. He wanted to get away from these rough men.

“Nonsense,” Triston said, squeezing his shoulders. “I promised you a drink, and I don’t
go back on my word.”

“Ya don’t want to disappoint Triston,” Rimey said. “He’s killed for less.”

“Shut up!” Triston shoved Rimey against the wall. “You’re scaring Frodo. Besides.” He
dropped his voice and leaned into Rimey, thinking Frodo couldn’t hear him, but Frodo
caught part of what he said. “…Kill such a…those eyes…tight…good lay, ya think?”

Frodo’s heart plummeted. He didn’t like this at all. He would have a drink with the men,
but he would escape as soon as he could. He regretted telling Triston that he worked in
the healing house. The less information the men had about him, the better.

Triston helped Frodo onto the seat and slid in beside him. Frodo was squeezed between
Triston and Rimey. His eyes were at eye level with the table’s edge. He couldn’t seem to
will his heart to stop pounding.

“What’s ya poison?” Triston asked Frodo.

“Pardon?” Frodo said.

“What will you have? What do you drink?”

“An ale, please,” Frodo said. He hoped Aven wouldn’t be too angry that he was going to
be so late getting back.

“Ah, we’ll get something stronger than that in you,” Triston said, winking.

“All right,” Frodo said uncertainly. He would just drink a little. It would never do to
return to the healing house tipsy. He pictured the quiet look of disappointment on
Aragorn’s face if he heard about Frodo acting in such a disgraceful manner. He had never
longed for Aragorn more than he did right now.

A cold hand like a snake crept under Frodo’s shirt and began massaging his skin. Frodo
let out a small gasp. “You’re so tense, little one,” Rimey whispered in his ear. “I’d
like to get to know you better. What do you say we break away for a bit?”

“Please stop,” Frodo said, pulling away. He was ashamed of his fear. He was the
Ringbearer, after all. He had a place of great honor among all the free peoples. These
men neither knew nor cared. Here the only thing that mattered was that he was small and
unarmed and they were so much stronger.

Triston backhanded Rimey, and Rimey cursed. Blood trickled from his nose. Triston was
obviously the leader of this bunch. “You keep your crawling hands off him. I won’t tell
you again.” Frodo cringed at the hard gleam in his eyes. His eyes softened when he
looked down at Frodo.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “Apes are more civilized than my friends sometimes, I’m
afraid.”

“Please, Triston,” Frodo said. “I appreciate you wanting to buy me a drink, but I really
must be going. Aven will worry and I will get into trouble.”

“All right,” Triston said with a thin smile. He turned to his friends. “We wouldn’t want
you to get into trouble. Which of you—besides Rimey, that is--wants to show Frodo to
Tower Point?”

“It’s all right,” Frodo said hastily. “I can find my way. You’re very kind. I just need
to retrace--”

“Nonsense!” Triston squeezed Frodo’s shoulder. “Just relax. I won’t send you with
anyone’s gonna do you harm.”

Frodo climbed out of the booth after Triston. He had no choice but to follow the man who
called himself Tarn. Frodo wasn’t sure what to make of him. He had not said anything the
whole time Frodo had sat with them.

“Thank you,” Frodo said, flushing. “I appreciate your help.”

“My pleasure,” Triston said, squeezing Frodo’s hand. “I’m sorry you didn’t have time to
drink with us. Maybe another time? You’re welcome to come any time and gnaw bones with
us. I hope you will. It was my pleasure to meet my first halfling.” He shot a warning
glance at Rimey, who had started to salaciously chuckle.

Frodo followed Tarn out of the tavern, feeling the eyes of all the men on him. He
couldn’t wait to get back to Aven. He would never go on another errand without specific
directions. At least another hour had passed since Aven had sent him on his errand.



Three and half hours after he had left, Frodo returned to the Healing House empty-
handed. Sweat ran down his back and his legs ached so badly that he could barely stand.
His face was smudged with dirt, and a strangling ball filled his throat. He felt ashamed
by his desire to fall into tears. Less than a year ago, he and Sam had stumbled across
Mordor with less in their stomachs and infinitely more pain. He had encountered much
worse than Triston and his friends.

“Frodo!” Aven exclaimed in surprise when he saw Frodo’s dusty clothing and pained
expression.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” Frodo said in a dull voice, leaning against a chair and
desperately trying to hold back tears. He was a hobbit, and hobbits had not been raised
to hold back their emotions as many children of men had. Still, he would control himself
in front of Aven and the other workers for the next several hours. When he got back to
his lonely chamber, then he could let out his fear and repulsion. If he lost control in
front of Aven, it would reflect badly on his status as the Ringbearer and dear friend of
the king. Why that seemed so important to him right now, he did not know.

“We’ve been quite busy,” Aven said in an irritated voice. “We could have used your
hands. Did you get the supplies?” He glanced at Frodo’s trembling hands and peered at
Frodo’s face in concern.

“Has something happened?” he asked, his thick eyebrows furrowed. He kneeled and took
Frodo’s chin in his large hands. Frodo saw the kind concern in Aven’s eyes and the pain
in his chest collapsed. He clutched Aven in a fierce embrace, as if he thought Aven
would push him away. Choked sobs burst from him—full of delayed fear, relief that he had
made it back alive and in one piece, and grief that Aragorn wasn’t here to comfort him.
He had only known Aven for a week. He was afraid to pull back and observe Aven’s
reaction to his outburst.

“Frodo, Frodo,” Aven said in a soft voice which contradicted his normally gruff manner.
He took Frodo’s cheeks in his hands and examined his face. “Did something happen to you?
Are you hurt?”

Frodo could not answer. His throat was so tight that he felt strangled. He choked over
tears that he did not want to shed in front of this man and the other workers, who
stared in sympathetic curiosity.

“Come, lie down on a bed,” Aven said quietly. “Tell me what happened. If someone
attacked you, I want to know who and where to find him—and certainly the king will want
to know.”

“No,” Frodo said, wiping his face with his dirty sleeve. “I’m all right. I shouldn’t be
such a coward. I’m safe. I’m very sorry, Aven. I’m ready to get back to work. I just got
lost. I didn’t know—there were some men—they didn’t hurt me, but I didn’t know there was
such a rough edge to this city.”

“Oh,” Aven groaned as he led Frodo to a bed and helped him to lie down. “The king will
have my head for putting you in such a position.” He kissed Frodo’s head. His casual
affection for the hobbit he had only known a week made Frodo’s throat fill with
gratitude. It was so good to hear a kind voice. “Let me get you some tea. You relax. If
you wish to tell me what happened, I am happy to listen. We’ve got everything under
control for now.”

Frodo nodded. It was wonderful to rest his aching feet. Aven’s face was so caring, a
contrast to his usual stern efficiency. Frodo tried to calm his breathing as Aven left
to boil water for tea. When Aven returned, Frodo still could not stop the trembling in
his hands long enough to hold the mug. Aven watched him with a frown of concern and then
helped him take a few sips of the tea.

“I got lost,” Frodo said. He told Aven about meeting Triston and his rough friends. His
voice began to shake as he told about what happened after he had left the tavern with
Tarn.

Once they had left Triston’s sight, Tarn had turned around, his eyes bright with
opportunity. They had been in a dirty, empty alley, and nobody else had been in sight.

“Got money, halfling?”

“No…no, none,” Frodo gasped. He was ashamed of his fear. He had faced worse. He had been
a prisoner in Mordor, whipped by orcs, stung by a giant spider. A common ruffian should
not evoke any fear in comparison. Yet he was so frightened that his skin felt cold.

Tarn whipped out a sharp, dirty knife. He shoved Frodo against the wall and held the
knife to his throat. “Then how you going to buy supplies at the store? Now you have two
choices as I see it. You can hand me the money nice and easy or I will pull down your
fancy breeches and bang you like a common whore. You got it—king’s pet?”

Frodo felt faint and a roaring filled his ears. Somehow his numb fingers found the
money. Tarn grabbed the coins from Frodo’s trembling hand.

“Yep, I knew you was him as the king’s been pleasuring himself with. What’re you doing
so far from your cushy castle?” He traced the knife along Frodo’s jaw, and Frodo
couldn’t hide a gasp. “What would happen if I just cut your throat and left you to die
right here? Who would ever know? The king wouldn’t care. He’d just find another little
rat. A little rat for a rat king. Aw, the pretty little rat is crying. Your fancy
clothes are all dirty, I see. Well, don’t worry, rat. I ain’t gonna kill you. Triston
has a far better use for ya, I’d warrant. I’m smart enough not to really touch ya if
Triston wants ya.”

Tarn pulled back with a sly smile, holding Aven’s coins in his hands. “Thanks, little
ratling.”

He had strode down the alley, jingling the coins in his hand. Frodo had forced himself
to run in the opposite direction.

Aven rubbed Frodo’s hand. He shut his eyes, deeply disturbed. “It can’t be tolerated.
I’ll inform the captain of the guard. They’ll clear that area out by nightfall. Frodo,
I’m so sorry. I should never have sent you alone. You of all people should not have had
to go through that.”

“No,” Frodo said. “No, please don’t tell the guard!”

“You could have been hurt or worse today. Someone needs to clean that part of the city.
Too many filthy stragglers from the war.”

Frodo looked down at his hands in shame. “I don’t want Ara—the king to know.”

He looked into Aven’s kind eyes. In this moment, the sympathetic healer was so dear to
him. Frodo couldn’t predict how Aragorn would react to the situation. He did not want
Aven getting blamed. It had not been his fault. Frodo had gotten lost. Another far more
selfish fear was the opposite--that Aragorn would find out and would barely get upset.
Frodo couldn’t bear to have such evidence of the king’s indifference to him.

Aven squeezed his hand. “The king would not stand for you to be treated such by his
subjects. You did a deed for Middle Earth that can never be matched. We are all in your
debt until the end of our lives. It burns my heart to think of anyone treating the
Ringbearer such.”

“Anyone,” Frodo said, clutching himself miserably. “It doesn’t matter that I was the
Ringbearer. Nobody should be treated in such a manner. But please, Aven, do not tell the
king!”

Aven stared at him a long time. Then he rubbed Frodo’s shoulder. “All right then. I’ll
not—“

They were interrupted by a strangled shout from the main compartment of the Healing
House. “Hey! Can someone help me? I’m in a lot of pain!”

Frodo jumped from the bed, wiping his eyes of the tears.

“No, I will take care of it,” Aven said, pushing Frodo back down on the bed. “You rest.”

“I’m all right,” Frodo said. “I’d rather help.”

“Wash yourself first then,” Aven said.

Frodo and Aven went into the main room. The injured man was a guard by his uniform,
though Frodo had never met him. He leaned heavily against two other guards, gasping in
pain. He had taken one of his boots off and he was holding his foot up as if it caused
him great pain to put weight on it.

“What has happened?” Aven asked. “How are you injured?”

“I was bit by a rat!” The man gasped. “I’m a guard in the dungeons. They’re all over the
place down there.”

“It happened a few days ago,” his friend said. “Now it appears to be infected.”

“Come, help me get him lying down on a bed,” Aven said to the other guards. “Frodo, boil
some water and put a pinch of kingsfoil in it.”

Frodo nodded and did as he was told. He watched the guard gasp in pain. Watching his
agony made Frodo forget about his own misery.

After the water was prepared, Aven dipped a cloth in the water and cleansed the man’s
foot. Frodo watched helplessly as the guard cringed and tried not to cry out. Frodo
could not bear to watch him in so much pain. He put another cloth in the kingsfoil water
and wrung it out. He wiped the cloth over the guard’s brow.

The guard twisted suddenly and gripped Frodo’s arm. His face was drenched with sweat.
“It hurts, can you stop the pain?”

“What’s your favorite place?” Frodo asked, using a tactic that had often worked on his
younger cousins when they had been ill or hurt. He felt a little ridiculous using it on
a hardened guard in so much pain. This was not a mere scraped knee, after all. He wiped
the man’s forehead again. He could tell that the kingsfoil was already having a calming
effect.

“Not down in the dungeon. It’s horrible down there.”

“I know,” Frodo said, wincing. “Think of a place where you like to go.”

“Library. I love to read.”

Frodo smiled. “Wonderful. Let’s go there together. You walk in. Where do you go first?”

The guard managed a small smile. He gasped a little as Aven dabbed at the infected bite
wound. “I like history. I read about the history of our city. The books are dusty and
old, but I love the smell.”

“Yes, there’s nothing like an old but loved book,” Frodo said. He smiled wistfully,
remembering Bilbo’s library in Bag End.

“Yes,” the guard said. He gripped Frodo’s arm harder as Aven cut into the bite, trying
to drain the pus from it. Frodo tried not to wince, though the man’s fingers would
surely leave bruises later. He did not want to distress the guard further. “I love
reading maps. Old history maps, especially. I’m fascinated with what lies to the
South—the region of Umbar and the cities by the sea.”

“You and I have something in common,” Frodo said with a smile. “I grew up reading maps
of the world long before I left the Shire. I was considered odd.”

“Ah, even I found a map of the Shire,” the guard laughed. “Hole dwellers you are, aren’t
you?”

“Yes,” Frodo said.

“You’re finished,” Aven said, stepping back. The guard’s foot was fully bandaged.

“That wasn’t so bad,” the guard said, laughing with some relief. His companions chuckled
nervously. He leaned into Frodo and whispered. “Thank you for distracting me. I did not
want to scream like a woman in front of my friends.”

“My pleasure,” Frodo said. He waited until the guard looked away before he rubbed his
sore arm.

“Frodo, come, I want to speak with you,” Aven said, beckoning.

Frodo followed Aven into the next room.

“I liked what you did,” Aven said. “I was very impressed by your manner. Often it is
difficult to keep them calm. A rat bite gone bad is very painful and brings a high risk
of disease.”

“Thank you. It helps to come from a large family with many younger cousins.”

Aven squeezed Frodo’s shoulder. “Go on now. You’ve had a long day and you look
exhausted. Get some sleep and come back tomorrow. I promise you I won’t send you on any
errands.”

“All right then,” Frodo said. “Thank you, Aven.”

He walked back to his suite in the castle. He looked forward to taking a bath and
climbing right into bed. Already the horrible encounter with Triston and his friends was
beginning to fade. He was safe inside the castle. The rough men would never dare come to
this part of the city. He wished more than anything that Aragorn would be waiting for
him. He longed to fall into his arms, to be held and kissed.



Chapter 2




Aragorn woke up gasping. He trembled despite the heat, and his eyes were wet from
weeping. The breeze through the open window was too warm but it soothed his sweaty brow.
A nearly debilitating relief that what he had experienced had just been a dream rendered
him breathless.

He had never in all his life had such a horrible nightmare. In it, he had returned to
Minas Tirith. He had gone directly to his chamber, looking forward to resting in his own
bed. Frodo had been sitting cross-legged on the bed, and when he saw Aragorn, he jumped
from the bed and ran to greet him with a shout of joy. Aragorn’s heart swelled when he
saw Frodo, but he was tired and only wanted to rest. He sat on the edge of the bed,
wishing for peace, but Frodo kept trying to talk to him, touching him, laughing and
pulling at him. A buzzing rage filled Aragorn’s head. He wanted silence—a moment to
think after the difficult work in Emyn Arnen. He felt an irrational surge of fury at
Frodo.

His rational side didn’t know why he was so angry. Frodo had missed him, which was
understandable. He had missed Frodo, too, and yearned to hold him. But somehow the sight
of Frodo’s overly eager face—his sparkling eyes implied that he had clearly not been
working around the clock as Aragorn had--sent him into an irrational fury. Frodo started
to speak again, and Aragorn slapped him hard, watching as the hobbit’s eyes—initially
filled with trust and love—darkened with confusion and pain. Aragorn’s hand tingled with
the desire to strike him again. He told himself to leave the room, but instead he stood
up and backhanded Frodo again. Frodo stumbled backward, away from the bed. Blood
streamed from his nose. He whimpered in shock, backing away, clearly not knowing what to
make of Aragorn’s unprecedented violence. He tripped and landed on his back. Aragorn
stared down at him, breathing hard. His groin was heavy, though he had no desire to bed
Frodo, only a desire to keep hurting him. His whole body tingled with the urge to hit
and kick. Frodo had begun to weep in loud shuddering gasps.

Aragorn kicked the hobbit in the ribs, taking foggy satisfaction in his squeal of pain.
He smashed his booted foot into Frodo’s back and his soft abdomen area. Again and again
his boot slammed into him. After awhile, Frodo stopped crying out. His breath came out
in ragged whistles.

The fog cleared from Aragorn’s brain, leaving him cold and frightened. He stared down at
the broken body under his boot. Frodo’s huge blue eyes, filled with pain and
bewilderment, were focused on him. He coughed, and blood trickled out of the corner of
his mouth.

“Oh, no,” Aragorn gasped. He staggered back in horror. A cold heavy ball sank in his
stomach. He fell to his knees beside Frodo. He felt nauseated as he gazed upon the
damage he had done. What had come over him? He had once pledged to die for this hobbit,
who had saved Middle Earth. And now he had brutalized him. In a matter of minutes, he
had rendered the one he loved most into this broken, wheezing figure.

“Frodo, oh, my Frodo, what have I done? Oh, no. I’m so sorry.” He broke into tears,
clutching Frodo’s cold hands for dear life.

Frodo struggled for every breath. His lips were white, and Aragorn realized that he was
going to die. Aragorn had hurt him so badly that even with the best care, he would not
recover. The only merciful thing he could do was to kill him so that he would not
suffer. Shaking with agonized sobs, Aragorn pulled out his sword. As he brought its edge
to Frodo’s throat, a tear trickled down the hobbit’s cheek. He did not protest. He
merely closed his eyes in resignation.

Aragorn had awakened then. He continued to shake. He could still see Frodo’s blue eyes
bright with pain and could hear his wheezing.

“Never,” Aragorn whispered into the dark. It was understandable that he would have an
anxiety dream about Frodo. Frodo had been upset with him before he left. While on the
road to Emyn Arnen, Aragorn had realized that it had been Frodo’s birthday. For a hobbit
to have his birthday go unrecognized--that was a sore trial indeed, even a hobbit who
had gone through as much as Frodo. And Frodo was lonely. His hobbit friends had gone
home and there was nobody else in the castle to interact with. Aragorn was glad he had
arranged for him to help in the Healing House. He had a feeling Frodo would thrive on
it. And he would love Aven.

When Aragorn returned to Minas Tirith, he would make it up to Frodo. He would take time
off from his duties. In fact, he would take Frodo on a trip away from the city where
they could be alone together. And it had been far too long since they had made love.
Thinking about Frodo’s tight heat made Aragorn’s member stiffen. He sighed and drifted
off to sleep, somewhat calmer.


***


“Your mind is not on our business,” Faramir said. They sat hunched at his great dining
table, bent over crudely drawn maps of the region. “No disrespect intended.”

“No matter,” Aragorn said. “You are right. I am thinking about Frodo. I wish I had
spoken to him before I left.”

“Frodo?” Faramir said with some concern. “He is all right, isn’t he?”

“Yes, yes,” Aragorn said. “He is not ill. But since I must stay here longer than
expected, I only wish that I had sent the messenger directly to Frodo—and not the
Captain of the guard.”

“Your absence grieves him?” Faramir asked.

“I believe so,” Aragorn said. “I miss him, too. But it’s harder for him. Sometimes I’ve
wondered if it was not selfish on my part to ask him to stay with me, keeping him away
from his people and his country. And I am so busy that he is often alone.”

Faramir smiled as if in far away memory. “I remember when I first came across him and
Samwise. They looked like trapped rabbits. At the time I remember thinking that
halflings must be stupid little creatures to get lost in the dark land. I was commanded
to slay anyone not there without leave of the Steward. I couldn’t. To slay such innocent
creatures would have been a direct triumph for Sauron, though at the time, I did not
know exactly how truthful that was. Then Frodo spoke and I was in awe. His voice was
like music; his words put me to shame. His willingness to walk into death…I’ve never
known any warriors of our kind to go so bravely. He’s a rare gem, Aragorn.”

Aragorn’s throat filled as he nodded. The dream had left him shaky and easily emotional
all day. He wished Frodo was beside him. He wanted to hold him and whisper words of
appreciation and love. He knew Frodo stayed in Minas Tirith of his free will. He stayed
out of love for Aragorn. Aragorn had no right to take that gift as lightly as he had as
of late.

The next three weeks would not go fast enough. When he got back to the city, he would
make certain Frodo was as happy as he deserved.

***


“Go on, take it!” Frodo grinned and climbed on the stool beside the bed. The guard who
had been bit by the rat cautiously opened the crisp map that Frodo had handed him. His
foot was still bandaged. He was to be allowed out of bed the next day after two weeks of
being bedridden.

Frodo’s smile lit up his face, though not only because of the guard’s obvious pleasure
of the map. Aragorn was expected back any day. Surely now that Aragorn was finished with
his business in Emyn Arnen, he would not be so busy. Frodo couldn’t wait to tell him
about his experiences in the Healing House. A shadow passed over him at the memory of
being robbed the day he had gotten lost. It seemed like a long time ago. He hoped Aven
would truly keep his word and not tell Aragorn. So far the guards had not found out
about it. Frodo turned a fond smile to Aven, who was cleaning the nearly healed wound on
the guard’s foot.

“Are you certain?” the guard, who was called Damin, said. He seemed afraid to touch a
map so nice.

Frodo nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes! As long as I bring it back before the king returns.
This is not an archive, mind you. It’s a map in use!”

“Oh, I don’t want you to face trouble,” Damin said. “Not when you’ve been so kind to
me.”

“Nonsense,” Frodo said with a laugh. The guard did not seem to know of the relationship
between himself and Aragorn. “The king is a very dear friend.”

Aven chuckled knowingly at that last. “Yes, it is good to befriend Frodo. He has a
direct line to the king’s ear.”

“Ah,” The guard said, taking the map from Frodo. “Well good then. I will look at it
without fear.”

“And,” Frodo added, reaching behind him. “I brought tarts.” He lifted a cloth off a
wooden bowl. The tarts were fresh and bulging with apple chunks, just as Bilbo had
taught him so many years before. Apples were so tasty and ripe this time of the year.
The cook had helped him by directing him to the ingredients, but he had allowed Frodo
free reign of the kitchen.

“Frodo!” Aven said with the first joyful smile Frodo had seen on him. “You didn’t have
to do that!”

“I though I smelled baking,” Damin said. “Thank you. They smell delicious.”

“It was my pleasure.”

As Frodo turned to put the cloth back on the bowl, the Captain of the guard came in.

“Hello!” Frodo greeted with a hobbity enthusiasm that brought a new smile to Aven’s
lips. “Have a tart? I made them myself.”

“Oh,” the Captain said. “Then I must try one, of course.” He reached for a tart. He took
a bite and raised his eyebrows. “Tasty. I won’t tell the cook. He may get jealous.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Frodo said, blushing. “What brings you here?”

“I just thought you should know that the King Elessar has been delayed. He has sent me
word that he will remain in Emyn Arnen another few weeks.”

“Oh.” Frodo’s smile faded. His stomach sank. “Few weeks? What does that mean?”

“This is the message.” The Captain handed the note to Frodo.

Frodo read: Please be aware that I will be remaining in Emyn Arnen an additional two or
three weeks. Continue your duties as appropriate for an absent king.

Frodo felt his chest fill with cold disappointment. Not a single word of the message was
directed toward him. Aragorn had not found it important to let Frodo know that he was
delayed. The Captain had come to Frodo on his own.

“Thank you,” Frodo said, handing him back the message. His lips felt numb. “Thank you.”

“May I take another tart with me?” The Captain asked, smiling encouragingly at Frodo.
Frodo tried to smile back. The Captain was so sweet. He had gone out of his way to tell
Frodo about the delay.

“Take as many as you like.”

The Captain squeezed Frodo’s shoulder and walked out of the Healing House.

Frodo leaned against the table, keeping his back turned to Damin and Aven. He didn’t
want them to see how upset he was. His throat filled with a strangling urge to cry. More
than that, he felt suddenly ill--like a swimmer in a lake who swam into a cold pocket. A
veil of darkness passed over his eyes. The screech of a Ringwraith filled his ears. His
shoulder wound throbbed. All too clearly he remembered the cold night on Weathertop, how
the black figures had advanced on him, icy swords drawn.

“…are you all right?”

Aven’s warm hands on his shoulders pulled him out of the vision. His vision was still
cloudy. He was so weak he was not sure if his legs would hold him much longer.

“I’m cold,” Frodo said. Through the haze, he saw that Damin had sat up on his bed with a
concerned expression on his face.

“What’s wrong with him?” he asked Aven.

“Let’s go lie down,” Aven said. ”Here’s a bed next to Damin. My, you’re shaking. This
was awfully sudden.”

“It’s my shoulder,” Frodo murmured. “My old wound.”

Then he realized that it was October sixth, exactly a year after Weathertop. Gandalf had
told him that this wound might never fully heal. Frodo had been sure that he had proven
the wizard wrong. Aven covered Frodo’s lower body with blankets. He unbuttoned Frodo’s
vest and linen shirt. He pulled Frodo’s shirt off the shoulder and touched the wound.

“It’s a little pink. And very cold to the touch. I will bring you a towel soaked in warm
water.”

Frodo nodded gratefully, and Aven scurried out of the room. Frodo turned to Damin, who
still looked worried.

“I am all right,” Frodo said. “It is an old wound.”

“That came on suddenly,” Damin said. “At least you were here and not off alone
somewhere.”

“Yes,” Frodo said. He managed a smile as Aven returned with the warm towel. “I’m lucky
to work with Aven.”

Aven pressed the towel soaked in warm water over the shoulder wound. Frodo felt the
chill lessen. Some of the haze in front of his eyes dissipated. He longed for Aragorn’s
arms around him, but he would have to be patient. He would not see him for another few
weeks.


Frodo lay in a half doze. Fierce claws dug into his shoulder, spreading the pain down
his arm and to his stomach until he was nauseated. He did not dare move for fear he
would vomit. He was too weak to call out for Strider. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

He was lying on the hard ground at a hastily constructed campsite, far from care.
Strider had gone for firewood. The wraiths were still in the area, and they called to
each other in piercing wails that made Frodo frantic to cut his own throat, jump off a
cliff, anything to block them out. Sam—loyal, sweet Sam—was holding his hand, rubbing
it, trying to get warmth into it. They were so far from Rivendell and the night was so
cold. His muscles ached with weariness when he thought about how much farther he had to
go. Even if he ever reached Rivendell and recovered, there was still so much yet to
endure--the long cold march across Hollin, the snowstorm on Caradhras, Moria, where he
would be stabbed again. He would watch Gandalf fall into the chasm again, though at
least this time he knew he would see him again. How his muscles ached! He would never
have the strength to go through it all a second time. Even in Lorien there would be
little rest, because this time, he knew the worst was still to come.

“When did he take ill?” A kind, familiar voice broke through the shadows. Frodo clawed
his way up to consciousness. He was not in the wild outside of Rivendell. He was in
Minas Tirith. Though he ached everywhere, he was in a soft bed under Aven’s care. The
Ring had been destroyed. He did not have to find a way into Mordor.

“It came on very suddenly. Right after you left, he collapsed.”

The Captain of the Guard. Of course. He was a kind man, but why had he come back? No
doubt to remind Frodo that Aragorn was going to be even further delayed.

A warm hand felt his forehead. “He’s so cold, Aven. Can you not do anything?”

“The king should be notified,” Aven said with a sigh. “This one is very dear to him.”
Frodo’s heart pounded, but he was too weak to shake his head. Aragorn would be
aggravated if he was torn away from his work because of one sick hobbit. “He’s grown
worse. I know nothing of this type of illness. I cannot even ease his pain because we
have almost no kingsfoil left.”

“Damn those thieves!” the Captain said, his voice harsh with fury. “They should have all
been slain! The king should be here. Even if he can do nothing else, Frodo will gain
comfort from his presence.” The Captain’s voice dropped. “Aven, you’re a good friend.
Can I trust that anything I say will not leave this room?”

“You have my word.”

“Then I shall say something possibly treasonous. I love my liege lord and I would die
for him. But I do not approve of the way he treats Frodo. More often than not, I see him
wandering alone, looking bewildered. It’s such a shame. He saved us all. If not for him,
we would all be dead. Or slaves to the shadow that once was in the east. Very few people
seem to recall that.” The Captain’s voice grew softer. “And he’s so sweet and loving and
he deserves the full attention of his lover.”

“You are on very perilous ground,” Aven said in a tight voice. “Speak no more of it! I
shall be right back. I’m going to warm another towel to put on his wound. It’s all I can
do to ease his pain.”

The Captain’s hand fell back on Frodo’s forehead and ran through his curls. “Sweet
Frodo, recover soon,” he whispered. “I need to see your shining eyes.” Then Frodo heard
heavy footsteps as he left.

Before Frodo could allow the Captain’s words to sink in, he slipped into a dark dream.

He was again in the dark wild outside of Rivendell; his friends had disappeared. He was
alone. Five dark figures advanced on him, all with icy swords drawn. Frodo tried to draw
his own sword, but his hand was numb. It would not respond to anything he wished it to
do. He fell on his back, gazing up at the cold, silver stars. The five wraiths blocked
the dim celestial light. They breathed on him until he was so cold that he could no
longer move. When he craned his neck away from them, something sharp and frozen, like a
shard of glass left in the snow, pierced his soft skin. Warm blood ran from his neck and
over the thin layer of ice on his body that had rendered him motionless.

“…I am not sure what to do next.”

“This is grievous news,” another voice said. “Is he going to die?”

“I do not know. He’s had a relapse of some kind, but only the king knows about this
illness. He treated several people who suffered from wounds of the Enemy, including
another halfling, a friend of this one.”

“It seems they are very brave, these halflings.” Frodo recognized his voice as being
that of Damin the guard with the rat bite. Frodo couldn’t understand why he wasn’t in
bed. Damin had been in so much pain. The rat bite had turned him cold and sick. He
needed Frodo’s care. “It is a pity to see him suffer so. Would not the king want to be
informed that he is ill?”

“We’ve sent for him. I fear he will die before the king returns home. It burns my heart
that I can do nothing else for him. I’ve become so fond of him.”

When Frodo managed to force his eyes open, Damin was sitting beside him though it was as
if he viewed the soldier through a dim black curtain. Though Damin adjusted the blankets
over Frodo, pulling them tight around his shoulders, Frodo could not stop shaking.

“Damin,” he whispered. “Your foot is better?”

“Never mind me,” Damin said. “My foot is fine. It is my turn to fuss over you.”

Aven leaned over him, his kind brow creased with worry. “Frodo, can you tell me—what
sort of wound was this?”

“Poison,” Frodo said, his voice trembling with effort. “Blade of the Enemy. A piece of
it was inside me for 17 days. Lord Elrond in Rivendell got it out but Gandalf said…he
said it would never heal completely.”

Aven took Frodo’s hand. “I have very little kingsfoil left but what little I have, I
will give you.”

“Please do not waste it on me,” Frodo said. “It barely affects the pain and…save it for
someone who will benefit from it.”

Aven still looked worried. “I have sent for the king.”

“No, no,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I do not want his work disturbed for this.”

The chill lessened somewhat at the prospect of seeing Aragorn’s dear face above him.
Aragorn would crawl into bed with him. Frodo was certain he would not feel so cold with
Aragorn’s arms enclosed tightly around him.

But what if he did not come? The idea nearly took Frodo’s breath away. He could not
think about that. Aragorn would come. If he cared, even a little, he would return home
if he knew how desperately Frodo needed him.

***


Aragorn stared out the window. He had finally retired to the guest room after another
long day of negotiating; all his efforts bent on preventing another war so soon after
the defeat of Sauron! Faramir was the most pleasant of hosts, but Aragorn longed to
return to Minas Tirith. He wanted to see Frodo, to have the opportunity to make up for
the neglectful way he had treated him. He had wanted to write him a note, but he had not
found the time. A pang of guilt twisted his stomach. Frodo had looked so unhappy when
Aragorn had left him to meet with Faramir. Aragorn shook his head and sighed. There
would be plenty of time to talk to Frodo when he got back. Right now, he did not have
the time to think about it. He sighed again, this time in irritation. He had to get a
night of sound sleep. Then another full day of negotiation with Umbar.

The situation in Emyn Arnen was much worse than Faramir had indicated. Several soldiers
in the White Company had been attacked by bands of men from Umbar, and one of them had
died. The emissary from Umbar denied that any of his men were involved, but the soldiers
who had survived all described their attackers as speaking the language of Umbar. The
emissary took great offense that the king was accusing his people of the attacks when
the people of Umbar did not need or want a king meddling in their affairs.

A sharp knock on his chamber door startled him.

“Yes?”

“A message for you, my lord.”

Aragorn opened the door. A nervous-looking soldier handed him an envelope.

“Thank you.” Aragorn gazed at the soldier, waiting for him to exit. He finally bowed and
scurried down the corridor.

Aragorn ripped open the letter. He stared down at it in confusion. It was from Aven:
“Orlion, Please be prepared. I will be sending one of my workers to your store for more
supplies. We will need bandages and cloths.”

Aragorn creased his brow in irritation. The messenger had mixed up his messages again.
This was a habit that could one day be costly. When he returned to Minas Tirith, he
would speak to his soldiers. His stomach sank. If he had received a wrong message, then
Orlion the storekeeper had received the message meant for him. He prayed it was not a
private matter. Or one that needed his critical attention. He tried to push the worry
from his mind. Orlion would discover the error and he would send the message back.

No. That was not enough. He called for his guard, who was sleeping in the suite next to
his. Aragorn heard a thump as the guard stumbled out of bed. Normally the young guard’s
sometimes clumsy attempts to please made Aragorn smile, but this time he was too
worried. The guard stood at attention, bleary-eyed but ready to do as he was bid.

“The soldier from Minas Tirith has sent me a message meant for a storekeeper named
Orlion. I need you to return to Minas Tirith, find Orlion the storekeeper, and make
certain that he has not received a message meant for me. And you may give him the
message meant for him.”

The guard bowed and returned to his room to get ready to depart.

***


“Aragorn!” Frodo called. Why wasn’t Aragorn here? He had sensed the sun rising and
falling several times. Surely enough time had passed for Aragorn to reach him.
“Aragorn.” His throat was so dry.

He opened his eyes. For the first time, he did not feel so cold. His shoulder ached, but
it was much less than the piercing coldness from before. The Captain of the Guard had
returned. He and Aven smiled at him. Frodo tried to return the smile, but he felt so
weak.

“How are you?” the Captain asked. As always, his voice was kind. Frodo had a nagging
feeling that he had learned something about the Captain, about his regard for him. But
he could not remember details. Everything about his illness was so hazy.

“I feel much better,” Frodo said in a soft voice. “How long…how long have I been ill?”

“It’s been nearly ten days.”

“Ten…ten days?” His stomach sank with dread. “Have I been unconscious all that time?”

“You’ve been delirious,” Aven said. “We’ve managed to get some water and broth in you,
but that’s about it.”

“Is…Did the…Is the king back?” Frodo’s heart thudded so hard that black dots smattered
in front of his eyes. The answer could determine crushing disappointment or giddy
happiness. Surely Aragorn had returned after they sent for him. He just would have been
too delirious to remember.

He watched as Aven and the Captain glanced at each other. His heart sank. They both knew
about Aragorn’s neglect and pitied him. Their pity made him want to flee the Healing
House and lock himself in his own chamber. He would lock the door and never face them
again. If he had more resolve, he would head home to the Shire.

“No.” Frodo recognized suppressed anger in the Captain’s voice. “I sent word, though.”

“I’m so sorry, Aven,” Frodo said, his eyes filling with tears. The pain in his heart
swelled in his chest until he could barely breathe. He had not really expected Aragorn
to drop everyt
Middle-earth under his care. Frodo was just one hobbit. But had Aragorn cared at all?
There was no evidence. “I’ve left you all the work. I was sent to help you—and I’ve only
been a burden.”

Not even a note. Aragorn had not even sent a simple note, voicing his concern or his
care or well wishes.

“Nonsense,” Aven said. “You’ve not been a burden at all. The only problem is that our
supplies are very low and I sent a message to Orlion and never heard back from him. The
messenger left the note there, though he said the place was dark and closed. I wonder if
he has closed shop for some reason? This would be a burden to us. And I would not have
sent you back to that place--” Aven broke off as he suddenly realized that he had
revealed the incident he had promised to keep secret from Aragorn and his guards.

“Why? What happened?” The Captain asked.

“Nothing,” Frodo said. He did not blame Aven. It had been a slip of the tongue and
nothing more.

“Did something happen?” The Captain’s voice grew tense, and for the first time, Frodo
realized how dangerous this man could be to his enemies. “Aven, you must be honest with
me.”

Aven glanced at Frodo with a worried frown.

Frodo looked at the Captain. “A few weeks ago, I got lost running an errand for Aven,
and I was robbed. I…I didn’t want to trouble the king, so I asked Aven not to mention it
to anyone. It is not Aven’s fault. I am the one who got lost.”

“Robbed.” The Captain’s face looked grim. “Was your life threatened?”

“Please, I do not wish to talk about this right now. I am weary and my heart is heavy.
I’m sorry. Please do not mention this to the king. I beg of you.”

“Very well,” the Captain said with a bitter smile.

Frodo did not answer. He bit his lower lip, willing himself not to break into tears in
front of the two men. Really, he had not thought that Aragorn should drop what he was
doing in Emyn Arnen to come home to him. But he could have sent a message, a personal
note to him. But nothing. Frodo could not stay under such circumstances. As soon as he
was well enough to travel, he would return to the Shire.



“Careful, Frodo,” Aven said. “Do not overexert yourself.”

“I am all right,” Frodo said from the top of the stepping stool as he jammed clean
towels into the cabinet in the storage nook with a grunt of frustration. There were too
many to fit in the small space. His left arm still stiff and sore to the touch, he
climbed down and leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. Perhaps he had
overexerted himself…just a little.

Two weeks had passed since the Captain of the Guard had brought the message of Aragorn’s
delay. Aragorn could return any day, but this time, Frodo refused to get his hopes up.

Aven’s hand fell on Frodo’s shoulder. “You’re not still thinking foolish thoughts about
traveling to the Shire, are you?” He smiled and his voice became less serious. “The king
would have my head.”

Frodo flushed with annoyance. “I’m not your responsibility,” he said in a sharper voice
than he intended.

“Yes, I know. Do not take offense by my concern. But the roads are not safe, even in
this new and peaceful age. Even Holis would not travel to the North alone…And he
certainly would not be happy about you doing so.”

“Who is Holis?” Frodo asked, his frown replaced by a curious smile.

Aven looked at Frodo in surprise. “Holis -- your friend -- the Captain of the Guard.”

Though Frodo saw the Captain almost daily, it had never occurred to him to address him
as anything other than “Captain.” Frodo burst into laughter. “No wonder you looked at me
so oddly. I cannot believe I’ve never learned his name.” His laughter faded when he saw
the continued quiet concern in Aven’s eyes. “You need not worry. I will not go to the
Shire…not yet.”

Frodo had been certain he would leave for the Shire as soon as he recovered, but now he
found that he could not do it. If he left Minas Tirith, he would never see Aragorn
again, and though the king’s neglect during his illness still hurt terribly, he was not
ready for a complete break from him. He wanted to study Aragorn’s face, to hear the tone
of his voice, to know for certain that Aragorn no longer loved him. Only then could he
gather the courage to leave forever.

Besides, Frodo thought with a fond smile, he now had friends in Minas Tirith. Even just
a few weeks earlier, he had not foreseen that. Nearly every day he saw either Damin or
Holis. And he adored his job in the Healing House, working with Aven, who was always
kind to him.

After Frodo helped Aven clean for a short while, the healer squeezed his shoulder. “Go
home and rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Frodo almost went straight to his chamber to rest, as Aven had commanded, but he decided
instead that he would try to find Damin where he was on duty in the dungeons. Frodo had
never visited him on duty, but now that he was well again, he intended to do so
regularly. Damin expressed so much unhappiness with his environment. The dungeons were
dark and full of rats, and Damin spent hours down in the deep underground without seeing
daylight. Frodo planned to talk to Aragorn about getting Damin transferred to more a
more pleasant guard station.

Frodo climbed down a roughly hewn spiral staircase until he was far underground. He
shivered as the air became dank and chilly, and he covered his nose to block a foul
smell. His heart squeezed in sympathy for Damin, who had to face this as his daily duty.

He felt somewhat queasy, suddenly nervous at being in the dungeons. While he knew
Aragorn kept prisoners, seeing them with his own eyes was jarring. He padded down a
narrow, slimy corridor that led past sullen men pacing in their cells like wild animals.
Frodo shuddered and drew his cloak around him as if that would divert the predatory
stares directed toward him. He let out a large sigh of relief when he saw Damin sitting
at a table at the end of the corridor.

“Damin!” Frodo called out.

Damin startled. “What are you doing here, Frodo?“ He jumped up and walked to meet him.

“Such a pretty little thing,” a raspy voice breathed from one of the cells. “Think the
guard will let ya in to give me a little treat?”

“Shut your mouth!” Damin shouted. “Or you will pay for it later! Come, Frodo.”

Damin shuttled Frodo down the corridor and to the flight of steps that he had just
descended. Kneeling, he gripped Frodo by the shoulders and spoke more calmly. “You
shouldn’t have come here.”

“I’m sorry if I bothered you—“ Frodo flushed, embarrassed that Damin did not seem
pleased to see him.

“No, never that.” Damin shook his head and stood again. “But this is not a place for
nice folk. And you’re barefoot, which makes me worry that you’ll step on any number of
foul things in here. Remember what happened to me! Go on back to the Healing House, and
I will meet you there in an hour!”

Though Frodo was disappointed that his visit had not only failed to please Damin but had
upset him, he was more than a little relieved to be out of the dungeons. He gulped in
the fresh air, reveling in the sunlight.

Frodo did not see the strong hand that grabbed him until he was against the wall in a
tiny alley off the main road. He gasped, looking up; when he saw who it was, his heart
pattered in nervous dread.

“Triston,” he said quietly. The man still wore his bright red cloak.

The man kneeled beside him. “Hello, halfling. I’m sorry, but your name has escaped me.”

“Frodo,” Frodo said, frowning. He failed to see the necessity of dragging him into an
alley. “What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” Triston said, still not releasing Frodo’s arm.

“What…What can I do for you?” Frodo asked, trying to keep his voice confident. “Why are
we hiding?”

“I got the impression from our last visit that you have a heart…and I remembered that
you work with Aven…” Triston sighed and looked down, his blue eyes clouded with sadness.
“My son, a little lad of six summers, is in terrible pain. I do not know what ails him,
but--”

“Bring him to us,” Frodo interrupted. “We will have a look at him.”

Triston let out a scornful laugh and spit on the ground, still not releasing Frodo’s
arm. “Your Aven, the one you work for, is very tightfisted with the kingsfoil.”

“There is a shortage,” Frodo said stiffly, uncomfortable with the obvious scorn in
Triston’s voice regarding Aven. “He saves it for the extreme cases.”

Triston’s grip on Frodo’s arm tightened, and Frodo struggled not to react. He somehow
suspected that might be dangerous with this man. “I warrant you received some when you
were ill.”

Frodo looked at him in suspicion, longing more than ever to break out of his grip and
wish him a good day. This conversation was making him more uncomfortable with each
passing moment. He wasn’t sure anyone would hear him if he cried out for help, and it
would only serve to worsen Triston’s agitation. “How did you know I was ill?”

“Word gets around. Now will you help me? You surely do not wish a child to suffer.”

“No,” Frodo said faintly. “But you must bring him to--”

“Meet me at midnight tonight, right here in this alley, with a handful of kingsfoil.”

Frodo’s heart sped, and he could not get in enough breath. “I do not have leave to go
into the garden…It is not part of my duty!”

“You will find a way.” Triston’s smile was cold. “You cannot tell me it is that
difficult.”

“I will not do it. It is not mine to take.”

Triston shoved Frodo against the wall, and the hobbit stifled a cry as the back of his
head was nicked by an uneven stone. “You would let a child die because you’re too pure
and moral to take what the king is hoarding for himself? Do you understand? A child will
die if you do not do this for me!”

Frodo looked up in misery. “If you bring him in, I will make certain he is looked at. If
he is in need of the kingsfoil, he shall have it.”

“Frodo, I’m surprised.” Triston shook his head, and his voice was deadly quiet. “I
expected more cooperation from you. You leave me no choice but to tell you this next
part. If you do not do this for me, I will tell my men to lie in wait for your dear
friend Aven. They will beat him to death and it will look like a common robbery. And I
have men at my command that will have no qualms about doing this. Is that what you
want?” Triston shoved Frodo against the wall again. “I know you are very fond of him.”

Above the jangling ringing in his ears, caused by his head hitting the wall the two
times Triston had shoved him, Frodo heard heavy footsteps, and a harsh voice cried,
“Release him!”

Frodo nearly wept in relief when he saw Holis striding toward them, eyes flashing with
anger, sword in hand. Triston grunted and released Frodo, and Frodo stumbled away,
holding the back of his head.

“I did not mean any harm,” Triston said, spreading his arms in surrender. “It’s just
that my son is ill and—“

“I am not interested in your excuses.” Holis strode to Triston, blocking him against the
wall, and held his sword at his throat. “I think the king will not object to seeing you
rot in the dungeons.”

“No!” Frodo clutched Holis’ arm, pulling at the man to draw his sword away from the
wretched Tristan’s exposed throat…Holis turned to him with an expression so dark and
cold that Frodo nearly backed away with trembling legs. He forced himself to remain
still, and in fact he spoke in as brave a voice as possible. “Holis, it is all right.
Let him go. He didn’t hurt me.”

Very reluctantly, Holis drew back his sword, continuing to stare at the man in black
hatred. “By Frodo’s grace, you go free. If I see you again, I will not be so merciful.”

Triston cast Frodo a final threatening look. “Remember.” He fled down the alley, his red
cloak flapping behind him.

Holis immediately kneeled beside Frodo. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Frodo said, swaying on his trembling legs. “He did not hurt me.”

“What happened?” Holis asked, drawing his powerful arms around Frodo to steady him.

“He…he was angry…” Frodo looked down, unable to meet Holis’ sympathetic gaze.
“Because…because his son is ill and he thinks Aven will not treat him.”

“But why has he approached you?” Holis asked, but before Frodo could answer, the man
grunted in disgust. “Oh, I know why. You’re an easy target for him to bully. Why did you
not allow me to lock him up?”

“His son is ill,” Frodo said. He closed his eyes, trying to block out Triston’s final
threat against Aven’s life. “If he is locked up, his son will have nobody to care for
him.”

“If he indeed has a son,” Holis said with a cynical grimace. “Come, Frodo, I will walk
you to your quarters.”

Frodo straightened up, finally feeling strong enough to stand without support. “I’m to
meet Damin at the Healing House…” He felt suddenly so weary that he longed to collapse
into bed and sleep for days on end. That, of course, would not be possible since he had
to meet Triston at midnight. “Though I do not much feel like it now.”

“Do you wish me to give him a message instead?”

“Oh, would you?” Frodo said in relief. “Tell him…tell him to meet me tomorrow when he is
off duty.”

“I will do that.” Holis squeezed Frodo’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Holis.” Frodo said. “You are a good friend.”

Holis grimaced slightly. “It is really no matter. Damin is not far out of my way.”

“No,” Frodo said, looking up at him. “I meant for arriving when you did.”

Holis’ mouth was set in a grim line. “It is my duty to protect you.”

“Why don’t you come back to my chamber after you deliver the message to Damin?” Frodo
asked, grabbing his hand. “You can--”

Holis looked down at him, his face still harsh. “I…No, Frodo. I do not think that would
be a good idea.”

Frodo flushed, a sudden memory washing over him, where he had heard through the fog of
his illness Holis’ quiet, desperate voice whispering to Aven of his feelings for Frodo.
Though that had the potential to cause an awkward situation, Frodo felt safe, knowing
that Holis would never risk his position to articulate his feelings. Frodo had
occasionally caught expressions of stark pain and bitter longing on the man’s face, but
Holis had never otherwise betrayed his feelings. If in the agony of illness Frodo had
not overheard him say “…he’s so sweet and loving and he deserves the full attention of
his lover” and Aven’s response, “You are on very perilous ground,” he would never have
suspected anything.

“I am sorry,” Frodo said, pulling his hand away miserably. If his mere presence was
making Holis unhappy, then perhaps he should stop seeking out his company, though the
idea made his heart sink in cold dismay.

“Do not apologize,” Holis said in a faintly bitter voice. “Come, I do wish to make
certain you reach your quarters safely.”

Frodo followed Holis out of the alleyway. He walked beside the tall man in gloomy
silence, feeling the awkward weight of Holis’ unrequited feelings between them. More
than that, he could not imagine how he was going to find a way into Aven’s herb garden
that night. He knew he would have to sneak in – he would never justify to Aven a reason
to go to the herbs. Because of the shortage and the problem with thieves, only Aven
picked the herbs. The only time Frodo had been in the garden was the first day when Aven
had led him around the grounds. Frodo’s heart thudded at the idea of doing something so
unlawful. He’d likely be shot for a thief before they realized who he was…but worse than
that, he could not bear to lose Aven’s favor, to see the expression of betrayal on his
face when he realized who the thief was.


Frodo paced in his chamber, barely able to keep his eyes open. He was afraid to sit on
any of the plush settees in the room or his hobbit-sized chair, much less lie in bed.
The clock ticked with agonizing slowness, and his shoulder had begun to ache again. He
paced back and forth, holding a book on the history of Minas Tirith, reading it aloud
with exaggerated expression, striving especially to pronounce the Elvish words
correctly.

Finally, he put on his cloak and slipped out of his chamber, hoping he had allowed for
plenty of time…to sneak into Aven’s herb garden, get what he needed, and make his way to
the alley where he would meet Triston. He hoped nobody would see him leave the
castle…especially Holis, who would certainly protest his going out alone so late.

Frodo passed several guards, but they barely acknowledged him. And there was no reason
for them to. Frodo was free to roam the city at will.

Outside, the air was crisp, and the stones under his tough feet felt cold and
unyielding. In the upper level of the city, the only people out so late were the
patrolling guards. Everyone else was either asleep or in taverns in the lower levels of
the city.

When he reached the Healing House, his legs began to tremble so violently that he
worried whether they would continue to support him. What excuse would he make to the
night apprentices, who may not know him? Aven was on duty only during the day unless
there was a sickness or injury that his night apprentices could not handle alone. He saw
the tall guards who kept watch over the herb garden, their bows clutched in their hands,
ready for use.

Frodo stopped, feeling cold all over. He could not do this. Triston’s threats were
probably unfounded.

But vividly before his eyes, he could all too clearly see Aven’s kind face brutalized by
the blows that Triston’s men would deliver. If anything happened to him…Frodo would much
rather risk being caught stealing the herbs. If he was sent to prison, then so be it.
Triston at least could not bother him in the rat-infested dungeons below the castle.

Frodo slipped inside the Healing House, but instead of greeting the men who worked
there, he crept soundlessly down the corridor, prepared to dash and hide if he heard or
saw anyone. His stomach turned, and he heard his breath, harsh and raspy, echoing
through his ears as he made his way through the small rooms until he reached the door to
the garden. He stood there, momentarily paralyzed, his heart battering against his
chest. It was odd that the guards protected the garden so ruthlessly from the outside,
but it was so easy to reach the garden from the inside. Any thief could walk through the
front door and slip unseen into the garden.

Of course, not every thief had Frodo’s knowledge of the inside of the Healing House.
Frodo’s stomach rolled again. The Ringbearer was a common thief. He was no better a
person than the man Aven had claimed had been slain for sneaking into the garden.

Frodo crept into the garden, clutching his cloak around him, as if it could give him the
power of invisibility. He smiled grimly, craving the Ring. Bilbo had used it for
burglary purposes…with no ill effect.

Frodo gasped when he noticed that one of the tall guards stood right above him on the
high wall that surrounded the garden. If Frodo moved, even slightly, he would see his
movement and shoot. His face heated and then immediately turned cold, and his heart sped
until he felt faint.

Slowly Frodo bent to his knees, trying to still the banging of his heart. If he could
make it behind the thick brush to his left, he could at least try to plan what to do
next. He quickly scuttled behind the bush, but as he did so, his cloak got caught on the
branches, causing them to shake and rustle.

“Who goes there?” a sharp voice called.

Frodo froze, suddenly nauseated as a cold pit filled his stomach. He knew that voice. He
barely suppressed a whimper as he at last wriggled his cloak free from the thorny
branches and desperately closed his eyes, as if that would prevent Holis from seeing
him.

Frodo had faced horrors in Mordor that would always haunt him in the empty hours of the
night. But even in the darkest moments, he had been spurred on by the knowledge that he
was saving the Shire, working for good against the greatest evil. But now he was the
*cause* of evil, the enemy, and that knowledge sent a chill from his poisoned shoulder
down his arm until he felt sick to his stomach. If Holis caught him, – no matter what
his personal feelings for Frodo were -- he would be obliged to lock him in the
dungeons…and he would have the perfect right to do so. Aragorn would likely be relieved,
as it would be the perfect solution to rid himself of the hobbit who clung to an
unreturned love.

Through a break in the bush’s leaves, Frodo spied a clump of kingsfoil. Slowly, his hand
trembling so badly he could not hold it steady, he reached through the break in the
leaves.

“There’s somebody here,” Holis said, his voice cold and stern. “You men keep your posts
and I will flush him out and slay him.”

Frodo stuffed the kingsfoil in his pocket and curled into a terrified ball, trembling
wildly. How was he going to get out without Holis seeing him? His heart battered so hard
that he could not breathe.

Something slammed hard into his side, but he clenched his teeth, determined not to make
a sound.

“I’ll have you, thief. Make no mistake of that.”

The object slammed into Frodo’s back, and the pain drew tears to his eyes. He shut his
eyes with regret. He could not handle another blow. “Wait!” he squeaked. “It’s only me!”

A shocked silence followed. “Frodo?”

Frodo crawled out, swallowing the bile that threatened. He could not face the disdain on
Holis’ face.

Holis was on his knees, and as Frodo crawled out from the brush, the man grabbed his
shoulders, squeezing tightly. “What are you doing here? Are you hurt?”

Frodo’s side throbbed where Holis had hit him, but he did not want to admit it. Not now.
“I…I’m sorry, Holis --”

“Aven should never have sent you out here! What was he thinking?” Holis’ voice trembled.
“He should have warned you…the guards have eager fingers on their bows, and they have
direct orders to slay anyone in the garden after dark.” He shook his head, letting out a
shaky sigh. “I struck you with the hilt of my sword…felt the impact…Are you certain you
are not hurt?”

“I’m all right…Aven’s not here,” Frodo said, squeezing back tears. “I…”

“Come, let’s discuss this elsewhere,” Holis said, his lips set in a grim line. Climbing
to his feet, he waved the other guards away. “It’s all right. He is no thief.”

Still gripping Frodo’s shoulder, he led the hobbit firmly through the Healing House and
back into the shadowy street.

Frodo felt low and frightened. Judging by Holis’ grim silence, Frodo guessed that he was
about to lose one of the few friends he had made in Minas Tirith. Holis may have told
the guards that he was not a thief, but he knew…had to know.

When Holis finally spoke, Frodo was surprised by the gentle tone of his voice. “I do not
usually patrol this way and not generally this late at night, but this evening, I
stopped to talk to the guards at the herb garden.”

Holis found a stone hewn stairway and he sat, pulling Frodo beside him.

“I’m sorry, Holis,” Frodo said, wrapping himself tightly in his cloak, unable to stop
shaking. “I did not intend to cause you trouble.”

“I’ll speak to Aven,” Holis said in a choked voice. “How would we have felt if we had
slain you?”

“I will speak with him,” Frodo said, casting his eyes down. “I don’t want…I would rather
speak to him myself.”

Holis gripped Frodo’s chin, forcing him to look into eyes that were piercing and grim.
“Aven did not give you permission to be in the garden.”

Frodo met the man’s gaze, his eyes wet. “Please, Holis…”

Holis shook him lightly. “Do not tell me you are one of the thieves, Frodo.” He
swallowed and winced, as if the thought made him want to vomit. “The king has given us
complete authority to slay on sight any thief in the herb garden…and from what I
understand, he doesn’t care whether it’s his own kin. Do you think I can bear the
thought of you in that kind of danger?”

Frodo breathed quickly, wincing under Holis’ unyielding grip. Finally, he spoke in a
faltering voice. “It is Triston…the man you chased away earlier today.” His lips shook.
“If I don’t…if I do not give him the kingsfoil, he will kill Aven.”

Frodo watched Holis’ face reflect a myriad of emotions – murderous hatred, fury at Frodo
for allowing himself to get into such a predicament, fear for the one he loved and for
his position as Captain of the Guard.

“You have the kingsfoil now?” Holis asked quietly, releasing Frodo’s chin. Frodo nodded,
and a surge of weariness filled his limbs.

“By allowing you…by saying nothing…” Holis swallowed. “…if you were anyone else…” He
wiped his brow, relaxing his grip on Frodo’s arm. “Frodo, I cannot bear to see you
hurt…you must know my feelings for you…my admiration for you…for your deeds…I know of
nobody braver.”

“That no longer matters,” Frodo said, bowing his head in grief. He, the Ringbearer, had
stolen healing herbs from a garden sadly lacking…to give them to a thief. He leaned
against Holis, barely aware of the man putting his arm around him and squeezing him
close.

“Yes it does,” Holis said. “Nothing can take that away.”

“You must think so poorly of me now,” Frodo said dully. “That is the worst thing about
all this.”

“It is not your fault.” Holis straightened, and his voice hardened. “I will accompany
you to meet this thief and this time I will show no mercy. I will not allow him to
threaten *you* or Aven.”

“No!” Frodo said, clutching the man’s hand and looking up at him, his eyes wide and
frightened. “You must not do this! He has loyal friends.”

“What would you have me do?” Holis asked, his voice shaking with rage. “Allow you to go
into danger? Allow you to continue to thieve for them against your will until you are
slain by the guards?”

“I do not wish to do this again. I will…I will tell Aragorn when he comes home. I will
tell him everything and he will help.”

“Will you?” Holis asked bitterly. “Will he listen?”

Frodo jumped to his feet, his face hot with shame. “If you wish to punish me, do not do
it by twisting my state of affairs with Aragorn!”

Holis sighed, his mouth turning down, and Frodo immediately felt pity for the man. He
had put his life on the line by speaking so frankly.

“I am sorry, Frodo,” Holis said. “It is only that I cannot accept that the Ringbearer,
the one who should be most honored in all of Middle earth, is in such a predicament. I
apologize for what I said about Aragorn, but allow me to be frank. I am frightened for
you. How dear are you to him?”

Frodo’s chest ached as he sat beside Holis again. He tried to picture Aragorn’s face
gentle with love for him, but he could only conjure an image of the king looking at him
in utmost disgust.

“What—why do you ask?”

“I risk treason by speaking such to you, and my life is forfeit if what I say angers
you.”

“Speak,” Frodo said, his face feeling numb.

Holis released a sigh. “It seems to me that the king little appreciates the treasure
that he has. You love him, Frodo. I see it in the way your eyes shine when you speak
about him, the wretched disappointment in your face the day I informed you he was
delayed. It broke my heart, Frodo, seeing you in pain.”

“What does this have to do with…” Frodo said stiffly.

“Only this. The king holds you in such little regard that he did not return when you
were deathly ill—“

“He is a king,” Frodo said, his eyes flashing. “He has many duties that expand beyond
one sick hobbit!”

“Nothing would have kept me from you!” Holis said, gripping both of Frodo’s arms, his
face filled with pain. “Do you know how close you came to death?”

“You are making me very uncomfortable.”

Holis shook his head, a bitter smile curving his lips. “I love you, Frodo. You’d have to
be a village idiot not to guess that by now. My life is in your hands to do with as you
will. I will never speak of it again because it makes you uncomfortable and it can never
be.”

“Why…?” Frodo said, his throat dry.

“How can I not love you, Frodo? You are the size of a child of eight or nine summers
here…yet…you battled the Dark Lord and his servants and survived. You walked into
Mordor, the place no man wishes to speak of, much less enter, not even with an army of
ten thousand men. You faced horrors I cannot even begin to imagine. Yet you sit here
before me…your face is pure and innocent, as if that evil could not touch you at all.”

“I am not innocent,” Frodo said with a weary sigh. “Look at what I am about to do. And I
must go now. Triston will not wish to be kept waiting.”

“Frodo,” Holis said. “You know I cannot allow you to go into danger alone.”

“You cannot go with me!” Frodo cried. “Do you wish to put Aven into danger?”

“No,” Holis said, letting out an angry sigh. “You go forth and give that foul man what
he wants. I will hide nearby, out of sight. If you get into trouble, you call out.
Understand?”

Frodo nodded, finally relieved to have someone that knew about everything.

“Yes.” Frodo hugged Holis, squeezing tight, and kissed his cheek. Holis’ face turned
swiftly, and before Frodo was aware of what was happening, he and Holis were locked in a
furious kiss. Frodo was too weak from shock and trepidation to push him away, and he
found he did not wish to. His lips melted into the kiss, and tears welled in his eyes,
as it had been too long since he had felt a kiss so tender and searching.

Holis broke the embrace, and his face was pale, his eyes full of fear. “I am sorry.”

As they gazed at each other, Frodo noticed Holis’ hands trembling. The man closed his
eyes.

“It is as much my fault,” Frodo said dully. “I’m afraid I needed it. You were right,
Holis. Things are…” He looked down the street warily, but he did not see anyone. “Things
are not ideal between Aragorn and myself.”

“Yes,” Holis said.

“I fear he no longer…” Frodo’s throat caught. “I fear he does not love me as he once
did.”

Holis’ jaw stiffened but he said nothing.

Frodo shook himself from his daze and jumped to his feet. “I must go now! I’m afraid I
am already late meeting Triston.”

Holis forced his face into an impervious mask. “I’ll be behind you.”

Frodo’s stomach heaved as he got closer to the dark alley. As he approached it, he saw a
long dark shadow, and he cringed inside, remembering Triston’s temper and hoping that he
wouldn’t do anything to attract Holis’ protective rage.

“There you are,” Triston said, staggering. He reeked of ale. “I was beginning to wonder
if you cared enough about old Aven to bring me what I needed.”

“It was not free of risk,” Frodo said stiffly, handing him the kingsfoil. “I was nearly
caught.”

“You don’t impress me,” Triston said scornfully. “You can’t tell me they would kill the
king’s special little…what did Holis call you? Treasure?” He laughed and leaned against
the wall, hovering above Frodo.

Frodo’s stomach turned cold. Had Triston overheard his latest conversation with Holis?
Had he seen…?

“Now how about a reward from old Triston for doing as you’re told?”

“What do you mean?” Frodo asked sharply. Triston dropped to his knees, clearly drunk. He
roughly grasped Frodo around the waist and leaned his chin on Frodo’s shoulder, nearly
causing Frodo to fall with his weight.

“See?” Triston whispered in his ear. “I know about your big shadow. I didn’t say nothing
because it doesn’t matter. You and I both know that whether Aven lives or not depends on
how well you work with me. Now, do you feel something big and hard pressing into your
leg?”

Frodo nodded, squeezing his eyes shut in terror and feeling so cold and numb that he
couldn’t speak or move.

“Oh, it’s not so much that you’d be a good lay that’s making me hard, though I imagine
you would, given that the king keeps you and all. What’s making me hard is how easily I
can hurt the king with one of several actions. I can inform him of a kiss I witnessed
between you and the good Captain.” Frodo’s heart battered painfully, and his stomach
turned. He *had* seen. “Or perhaps the king could receive word that his little Shire
friend’s been pilfering the kingsfoil. Or at some point I might just do this.” Triston
removed his arms from Frodo’s waist and gripped Frodo’s neck. “I could easily snap your
neck. Any one of those things, perhaps all three of them would hurt the king, and
therefore would make me very happy. So you see, halfling, it’s really nothing personal
against you.”

Frodo’s chest heated with rage. “You have no right to do this!” His throat filled, and
he felt battered and broken, dismayed to find that tears had filled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t weep. That may work with the others, but I still have more I require from
you.”

“Leave me in peace,” Frodo said. “I will not do anything more for you.”

“Oh, yes you will. For now I want only a kiss, just like you gave the Captain not too
long ago.”

Frodo’s lips parted in disgust, and Triston took full advantage. His lips crushed the
hobbit’s until he could barely breathe. He pushed at Triston’s chest, but it was hard
and unyielding like a stone wall.

“That is all,” Triston said, shoving Frodo away. “Go on, now. I’m finished with you for
tonight. I will find you when I need you again.”

Frodo staggered into the main street, and it was not too long before Holis met him.

“Are you all right?”

Frodo nodded. They had no time for further conversation before three guards ran to them.

“Captain, we have been searching everywhere for you,” the first guard said. “The king is
arriving now into the city.”

Frodo clutched his chest, barely able to breathe. Aragorn had come back! Frodo took in
deep breaths, trying to gain the strength to face Aragorn, his brain whirling with so
many thoughts that it made him dizzy. He was desperate to lie in his arms again, yet
furious at him for neglecting him during his illness. But if he swallowed his anger, he
could bask in Aragorn’s gentle smile…could beg for Aragorn’s protection against Triston,
both for Aven and for himself.

As his heart soared with a happiness and hope he hadn’t felt in weeks, he watched
Holis’ face crumple. He wanted to offer him some parting words of comfort, but he could
say nothing in front of the other guards.

And even Holis’ pain could not block the joy Frodo felt that on this night he would
finally lie in the warmth and safety of Aragorn’s arms.



Chapter 3

Aragorn was so weary that the idea of listening to the Captain’s report filled him with
dread. His muscles ached as though he had a fever, and his mind was foggy. He wished he
could sneak past his guards unnoticed until he reached his chamber. He would crawl into
bed, cradle his dear Frodo in his arms, and sleep for at least three days.

Frodo’s anger at him before he had left seemed distant, and he hoped that the time apart
had allowed Frodo to forgive him. Yes, he was bone weary, but he would not sleep until
he saw Frodo’s eyes tender with forgiveness. A chill ran down his back as he remembered
his nightmare in which he had beaten Frodo to his death. Aragorn vowed from this day
forward that he would never again batter Frodo’s heart with neglect or harsh words.

“Welcome, my liege,” Holis said, bowing.

“I am weary, Holis, so I will ask you to hold the reports until tomorrow. If they have
waited thus far, they can wait until morning. I need to sleep.”

Holis nodded. “As you wish, my liege.”

Aragorn was not certain whether his fatigue was causing him to perceive that which was
not real, but it seemed a shadow passed over the guard’s face at Aragorn’s mention of
sleep.

Aragorn continued. “I do have concerns about a message I received while in Emyn Arnen,
but I shall not worry about it just now.”

He was surprised by a sudden angry flush on Holis’ face.

“What is it?” Aragorn asked, suddenly fully alert. “Do you know more about this?”

“My liege, it is not my place to question your decisions…” Holis swallowed several times
as if trying to control his emotions.

“Speak.”

“He was heartbroken you did not come.” Aragorn doubted that Holis was aware of how much
angry accusation was in his eyes.

“I am too weary to play riddling games, Holis.”

“He was near death.” Holis swallowed again, hard and deliberately, clearly trying to
contain a rage he did not dare show. “And you did not come. I merely wonder at it.”

“Near death…” Cold pressure filled Aragorn’s chest and he grabbed Holis’ shoulder. “Is
it Frodo?”

“Frodo was very ill.” Holis suddenly looked uncertain. “Did you not receive the message,
my liege?”

“Ill?” Aragorn’s heart battered painfully against his chest. “Ill? How? Is he
recovered?”

Holis nodded. “He has recovered, but it was close. The message --”

“You told him you sent a message to me…” Aragorn said, his stomach rolling. That Frodo
had been so ill -- near death -- and Aragorn had not known, shook him deep inside. He
had to see him at once. “And then I did not come. What must he think?”

Aragorn urged his horse up the levels of the city, heedless of whether his guards kept
up, wishing he could ride as fast as in the open country. Holis held back, did not
follow him, but Aragorn had no time to marvel at how deeply Frodo’s illness seemed to
have affected the Captain. Aragorn only felt sick inside, imagining how it would be if
he had come home to the news of Frodo’s death.


***


Aragorn found Frodo pacing near the window in their chamber. The hobbit turned, cried
out in joy, and ran to his lover. Aragorn fell to his knees, enveloping Frodo in his
arms, holding him close, desperately relieved to hear the hobbit’s strong heartbeat.

Aragorn kissed Frodo hungrily on the lips. “I’m so sorry. I did not know you were ill. I
never received the message, else I would have come immediately. Please believe I would
have come.”

“I know,” Frodo said, his voice cracking. He nuzzled his soft cheek against Aragorn’s
neck, sagging into the Man’s embrace as if his limbs had given out. “I knew there had to
be a reason.”

“I missed you so much,” Aragorn said as Frodo pressed frantic kisses all over his neck,
cheeks, and lips. “I made you unhappy...I just want to lie with you, hold you close.”

“Yes, now,” Frodo said, his wide blue eyes filling with tears of open joy that shamed
Aragorn. Time and time again, Aragorn had hurt the one he loved more than anyone else,
the one who loved him back unconditionally. “Come to bed.”

Once under the covers, Aragorn held Frodo close, rubbing the hobbit’s arms as if trying
to warm them. “Tell me about your illness.”

“It was my shoulder,” Frodo said softly. “The wound Gandalf said would never heal. I’m
all right now.”

Aragorn kissed Frodo’s head. “I will never…I will be with you from now on when your
illnesses come on.”

Frodo squirmed in the Man’s arms, turning until he was facing Aragorn. He slid his arms
around Aragorn’s neck, pressing his body against him. His thigh rubbed playfully against
Aragorn’s groin.

“No, Frodo,” Aragorn whispered, though his breath caught somewhat. “Not tonight. I want
to… love you so much…but I am weary beyond reckoning. Let me just hold you tonight.”


***


Frodo’s cheeks glowed the next day as he helped Aven wrap clean bandages.

“I’ve not seen you look so happy in a long time, Frodo,” Aven said, smiling slightly,
despite a worried pucker in his brow. “It cheers my heart.”

“What is the matter, Aven?” he asked. “You seem upset.”

“Aye.” Aven nodded, but before he could speak, Aragorn entered. Aven bowed. Frodo’s
heart soared, as Aragorn had not sought him outside their chamber in such a long time.

“I have come to take Frodo with me, to join me for lunch.” He chuckled slightly. “I have
rid myself of all my advisors for the time.”

“Oh, yes!” Frodo jumped to his feet. Then he paused, glancing at Aven. “That is, if that
is all right with you.”

“Far be it from me to try to go against the king’s wishes,” Aven said, forcing a smile.
“My liege, may I have a word with you before you leave?”

“Certainly.”

Aven sighed deeply. “I was just about to inform Frodo as well, but…Last night, more
kingsfoil was stolen. Now all that remains is a single clump, barely enough to help one
person.”

“Are you certain?” Aragorn asked sharply. When his gray eyes became hard and stern,
Frodo’s heart thudded against his chest. In the excitement of Aragorn’s arrival, he had
nearly forgotten the horrid events of the night before. Now his stomach sank, and a sour
strangling filled his throat.

“Yes, my lord. We are in serious trouble.”

Aragorn flushed, balling his hands into fists. “Aven, that thief…or thieves… must be
caught. I will show no mercy. When he is caught, I want him brought before me and I will
slay him myself.” Aragorn slammed his fist into the wall, causing both Frodo and Aven to
flinch. Frodo had never seen him lose control, and it sickened him. “I am sorry.” The
king drew his lips into a thin, grim line. “As a healer myself, this angers me beyond
anything I’ve felt before. I will double the guards in the herb garden tonight.”

“That is well,” Aven said. “For if you slay the thief, I should like to be there to spit
in his eye.”

Aragorn nodded. He turned to Frodo. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Frodo came to Aragorn, who took his small hand and squeezed it, absentmindedly
rubbing it while staring forward in anger. “You’re cold and shaky, Frodo.” He looked
down and smiled softly at the hobbit. “Do not worry -- we will catch him. And he will
pay.”

***

“Holis, I’m very concerned about Frodo.”

“My liege?”

Aragorn noticed the guard visibly tense. “He’s so quiet and withdrawn, but when I ask
him what bothers him, he only says he’s tired. He has taken to feigning sleep when I
come to bed, and often, he is already dressed and gone before I wake up. I barely see
him as of late, and when I do, he is nervous and flustered. Worst of all, he recoils
from my touch, and I do not understand it. I know you were kind enough to keep him
company while I was gone, and that you two became good friends. Tell me, have you
noticed this behavior in him? Has he confided anything in you?”

“That is certainly odd,” Holis said, and Aragorn was quite sure he caught a tremble in
the guard’s voice. “It’s not like him, is it? I wish that I could help, but in truth, I
have not seen him since you arrived home last week.”


***


When Frodo heard the chamber door open, he began to concentrate on his breathing. In and
out, deep and relaxed. That was the only way that Aragorn would believe he was asleep.

Just four days earlier, he had been sent to the herb garden for the second time and
stolen the final clump of kingsfoil. Since then, he had been unable to meet Aragorn’s
eyes. Triston had not been satisfied by the puny clump Frodo had presented to him, and
he had struck the hobbit hard several times in the stomach, leaving him to gasp
painfully for breath, before he had threatened him with worse if he did not manage to
find more kingsfoil by the next time. The bruises from Triston’s rough treatment had
ached for days.

Each time he had taken a breath to tell Aragorn everything, he pictured Aragorn’s stern
countenance as he vowed to find and punish the thief. He thought about Holis and how
precarious his position was. He thought about how vulnerable Aven was, should Triston
carry out his threat.

He couldn’t do it…couldn’t tell Aragorn. Surely Triston would soon understand that there
truly was no more kingsfoil to be had, and then he would leave Frodo alone.

“Frodo.”

Frodo feigned a light groan and turned a little. Most of all, he did not want Aragorn to
touch him, because if he did, he might want to make love. The bruises on his tender
abdomen skin and on his upper arms were far too dark to pass Aragorn’s notice.

“Frodo.” Aragorn’s voice was insistent, and now he shook Frodo’s shoulder. “Frodo, wake
up.”

Frodo opened his eyes a crack, but he bolted up, fully awake, when he saw the grim
expression on Aragorn’s face. “What is it?”

“Holis has been badly injured, and he is calling for you.”

Frodo clutched his chest, which had turned icy as his heart galloped out of control. A
roaring filled his ears. “What has happened?”

Aragorn shook his head, throwing Frodo’s shirt and breeches on the bed. “I do not know
what he thought he was doing, without aid, but he rode into the lower levels of the city
to try to clean up some of the problems. He killed a man…one of the thieves we have been
tracking, a man by the name of Triston.”

Frodo gasped as he pulled his nightshirt over his head, turning away so that Aragorn
could not see the bruises on his belly. “What happened?…” Frodo asked as if Aragorn had
not said anything. “Is Holis…?”

As he dressed, his thoughts whirled. Holis had foolishly killed Triston, but Triston had
many friends and he had probably made them all aware that Holis was protecting Frodo.

Holis, you must pull through this, Frodo thought as tears sprang to his eyes.

“He is grievously injured,” Aragorn continued. “He has been sliced over his abdomen, and
we have…there is no kingsfoil left to ease his pain. Aven is doing his best to close and
clean the wound.”

Frodo’s burning cheeks were relieved only by the tracks of tears that now freely
streamed from his eyes. He jumped out of bed and fetched his cloak. Everything was his
fault. Holis was badly hurt, and because of the kingsfoil Frodo had stolen, there was no
way to ease his pain. Holis had fought for him from the beginning, had been willing to
sacrifice everything – his position, his very life, to ease Frodo’s pain. And now he lay
badly injured, possibly dying, and Frodo could do nothing to ease his pain in return.

Aragorn squeezed his shoulder in brief reassurance as they left the chamber, but instead
of feeling better, Frodo’s stomach rolled. Aragorn had behaved in a kind and loving
manner toward him since coming home from Emyn Arnen, but if he knew…if he had any idea
what Frodo had done, that kindness would disintegrate – and he would deserve it. Frodo
pictured Holis suffering and bleeding in bed, with no relief for pain, and he closed his
eyes, vowing that if the Captain survived, he would endure anything. Now that Triston
was dead, he could tell Aragorn all that had happened, whatever the price.



Frodo wiped his eyes with his sleeve, struggling to keep pace with the king’s long
strides, and by the time they reached the Healing House, Frodo was weeping freely again.
If Aragorn was so worried, had bothered to wake him out of sleep, then Holis’ injuries
must be grave indeed.

*Holis, you cannot die.*

Throughout the past weeks of wretched tension, during which time Frodo had been sure
Aragorn no longer loved him…he had been so terribly ill…he had encountered Triston three
horrible times…he had stolen the healing herbs, Holis had been the only stable force, a
protector who loved him despite what he had become.

Frodo rushed to the bed as Holis let loose a gut-wrenching groan. Frodo clutched Holis’
huge hand, now cold and clammy, and Holis opened his eyes. His pallid face relaxed into
a faint smile when he saw Frodo.

“Frodo…” he whispered. “He’s dead…He…he can’t harm you anymore…” He clutched Frodo’s
sleeve. “Listen…”

“Don’t speak,” Frodo said, his jaw trembling. “Hush…you must rest.”

“Oh, don’t…” Holis reached up to wipe the tears from Frodo’s cheek, but his hand fell
limply back on the coverlet. “…doesn’t hurt too badly.”

“It’s my fault you’re hurt,” Frodo said, trying to swallow away the strangling hold on
his throat. He wanted more than anything to be able to speak words that would make Holis
understand how much Frodo appreciated his kindness and selfless devotion.

“No,” Holis said, wincing again. “…couldn’t bear him hurting you…worth it.”

“Rest, Holis. We have nothing to ease your pain.” Frodo’s voice cracked at that last.
“But I am here…and I shall stay…”

Suddenly Holis’ hand clamped around on Frodo’s wrist, and he writhed and bucked, moaning
desperately, his eyes squeezed shut. Frodo gasped, trying to endure the unbearable
pressure on his wrist as Holis’ grip continued to tighten. Finally it became too much,
and Frodo cried out. Holis was unaware of anything but his pain, and he could not let
go.

Aven rushed into the room and pried Holis’ hand from Frodo’s wrist. “There now, let go
of Frodo, Holis. Let go. Easy does it.”

Once free, Frodo collapsed to his knees, nursing his throbbing wrist. The agony Holis
had to be feeling…it was unfair that such a good man should suffer. Frodo should not
have cried for help. He deserved any pain that Holis would inflict on him, even if it
was unintentional.

“Are you injured?” Aven asked, grasping Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo shook his head.

“I’m all right,” he said, climbing back to his feet. “Just bruised.”

“Holis needs to be kept still. He will reopen the wound if he thrashes like that. We
need someone who is friendly with Holis but strong enough to hold him down while the
king treats him. Holis is a big man, and I have no doubt he’d send even me flying
against the wall if I tried to hold him down. I’ve sent for your friend Damin.”

“He’s in so much pain,” Frodo said, looking at Holis.

“I know,” Aven said shortly. “But what can I do about it? Nothing.” He paused, clearly
sorry for being so brusque, and squeezed Frodo’s shoulder. “Just have a care, letting
him hold your hand like that. The next wave of pain, he’s likely to crush your wrist.”

“Where’s Aragorn?” Frodo asked. If Holis crushed his wrist, he, too, would endure
terrible pain with no relief. It was the price he should pay.

He had never felt so low. Even in the months following the destruction of the Ring when
he had lain crushed under the guilt of claiming it, something inside him had understood
that he had simply not been strong enough. Nobody would have been strong enough.

In this situation, he had been full of cowardice. He should confided in Aragorn as soon
as he returned, but he had feared the outcome. But that had been foolish, because
Aragorn would have made certain that both Frodo and Aven were protected from Triston’s
rage. Holis need never have encountered him alone.

“I am here.” Aragorn entered the room. “I conducted another search in the garden to see
if perhaps we had overlooked some kingsfoil. The filthy thief left nothing.” Aragorn
sighed. “I want Aven to get some rest, and Frodo, you must leave for a time. Where is
Damin?”

“I wish to stay,” Frodo said. “Holis needs me.”

“I’m going to have to do something that will cause Holis a great deal of pain. He is
dear to you, and I don’t want you to see it.” The sternness in Aragorn’s voice left no
room for argument.

Frodo tugged at Aven’s sleeve. “Aven, you need rest, but first let us go out and get
breath of fresh air.”

Aven nodded and followed Frodo until they were outside, sitting on the stone steps. The
stone felt cold under Frodo’s bottom, and he shivered. The vision of Holis writhing and
moaning like a dying animal burned in his mind.

“Dear Frodo,” Aven said, putting his arm around the hobbit’s shoulder. “I know how you
care for him. He is in pain, but he will not die.”

“Are you certain?” Frodo asked, his throat tightening. He wished more than ever that he
could unburden himself to this kind man, to tell him everything about Triston and the
stolen herbs. He would leave Holis’ part of the story out.

“Not unless his wound gets infected, and between King Elessar and myself, that will be
unlikely to happen.”

“The kingsfoil,” Frodo said faintly, his heart spurting, causing his ears to fill with
roaring. “I must tell you--”

“I hope the thieves have made good use of it,” Aven said, his mouth forming a grim line
again. “For it does us no good.”

“The kingsfoil…”

“Alas, Frodo, Minas Tirith is still in ruin if we are surrounded by thieves even in a
most sacred place of healing.” He stood. “And now I will catch some rest for a few
hours. You must get some rest, too, for I will need your help tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Frodo said, his heart still battering his chest. He pressed his palms
together, trying to stop their trembling.

Heavy boots and the jangling of chain mail startled Frodo out of his misery, but he
jumped to his feet with joy when he saw it was Damin.

Damin grasped Frodo’s shoulders. “What has happened to Holis?”

“He is badly hurt. The king needs your assistance to hold him steady. Go on in, Aragorn
will explain.”

Damin nodded, releasing Frodo as he rushed into the Healing House.

Frodo fell back on the steps again. He had to do something, had to tell someone,
whatever the price. Nothing could make up for causing Holis such agony. For a moment he
paused, breathless, seeing himself on the brink of flames, a band of fiery malice around
his finger. Had he not sacrificed enough? When would there be rest? He leaned against a
stone pillar and shut his eyes.

“Frodo.” Aragorn’s heavy hand was suddenly on Frodo’s shoulder. “Holis is sleeping.”

“How is he?” Frodo asked, climbing to his feet. He had slept, though he could not tell
whether it had been a few minutes or a few hours.

“I have healed the wound. Holis will live, though he will be bound to his bed for
weeks.” Aragorn grimaced. “It burns my heart not to be able to give him something for
the pain. He called out to you, Frodo, but I do not wish to wake him now. You may go to
him in the morning. Come, let us try to get some sleep.”


***

Once in their chamber, Aragorn crawled on the bed beside Frodo and began to fumble at
the hobbit’s clothing. Frodo recoiled, pushing at Aragorn’s hard chest. He did not
deserve the attention of his lover, not after the harm he had caused.

“No, no, Aragorn. Holis…”

“Frodo, please.” Aragorn unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt, sucking on the hobbit’s neck
ravenously. “We’ve had such a night. We need this. I need this.”

“Blow out the lamps,” Frodo said, pulling away, holding his shirt together with
trembling hands.

Aragorn ripped his hands away in sudden anger. “Why will you not let me touch you? Not
once since I’ve returned. Are you punishing me for the way I treated you before I left?
I have apologized on several occasions. What more do you want?”

Frodo shook his head. “No, it’s not…it’s all right, Aragorn.” He crawled toward Aragorn,
unable to bear the anger in the king’s face, an anger that could easily turn into stony
indifference.

Aragorn slid Frodo’s shirt from his shoulders and gasped. Frodo’s heart sank as the Man
gripped his shoulders, meeting his gaze fully.

“From whence did these bruises come?”

Frodo’s lips parted in dismay. Was this the time to tell him, half dressed in bed? He
found he could not speak.

“Did somebody hurt you?”

Frodo swallowed. He shut his eyes, hating himself more for lying. “Holis. He thrashed
out in pain.”

“I will look more closely at it in the full light of morning,” Aragorn said more softly,
running his hand over the wounds. Frodo shuddered under his touch, grateful that he had
not had to speak his heart just yet. He would make sure that he was out of bed before
Aragorn awoke.

“I am all right. Truly.” Frodo leaned his head up, capturing Aragorn’s lips in his,
pulling the man to lie on top of him. Aragorn easily surrendered, kissing Frodo
frantically. His hands were strong and insistent as they roamed Frodo’s back and sides,
slid into his breeches over his hips, and over his buttocks, kneading them roughly.
Frodo slipped his hands under Aragorn’s tunic and shirt, filled with a sudden fierce
possessiveness as his fingers skimmed over the silky hair on the Man’s muscular chest.
*Mine, he’s all mine, and I intend to keep it that way.* Aragorn grunted with desperate
need as he ripped Frodo’s breeches down, and suddenly Frodo was filled with searing
heat, pumping first pain then shuddering pleasure through him. Frodo’s gasps of delight
turned to loud cries as his burdens slid from his shoulders in waves.

“I love you so much, Frodo” Aragorn said hoarsely as sticky warm fluid seeped between
Frodo’s thighs. “…so much.”

Tomorrow, Frodo thought, clutching Aragorn’s hair as he bucked his hips upward. I’ll
tell him tomorrow.

***

“What is it, Frodo?” Aven sounded irritated. The dark circles under his eyes were a
fierce contrast to his fair skin. He did not look as though he had gotten much rest.

“I must talk to you.” Frodo swallowed in determination.

“Can you not see the work we must do? Holis has survived the night but he is still in
terrible amount of pain. I need you to boil some water right away.”

“Aven, it will be short. In private.”

Aven nodded shortly and led Frodo into a small room, no bigger than a storage closet.

“This is where I take my rest when there’s no time to go home,” Aven said with a wry
smile. “There’s nowhere to sit but on my bed. Now what is it?”

“This is all right,” Frodo said, barely able to keep his voice stable. He wrung a
section of his cloak with his sweaty palms. Now that the time had come, he wondered if
he had the courage.

“What is it?” Aven asked, his eyes kindly.

“I know…” Frodo swallowed again. His stomach rolled and a discordant ringing filled his
ears. “I know who took the kingsfoil.”

Aven’s concern turned to deadly calm. Frodo suddenly saw him as the warrior he had once
been, and it sent cold, scattered pinpricks of fear over his chest. It was best not to
draw this out, whatever the consequences.

“How can you know this?” Aven finally asked.

“Because…because it was me,” Frodo said, willing his chin not to tremble. His hands
clutching his cloak shook wildly, but he forced himself to meet Aven’s gaze.

“Do not jest over such matters,” Aven said. “This is not the time.”

“Do you remember the day I got lost while seeking out supplies, when I was robbed?”

Aven’s half smile faded and his eyes became cold stones.

Still, Frodo continued. “The man I told you about, who bothered me, he—“

“You do not jest?” Aven asked again, his voice like granite. “You betrayed my trust?”

“Yes…” Frodo swallowed again. It was useless to explain how it had come to be, as Aven
did not care. Frodo had thought nothing would be worse than seeing Holis in such
terrible pain, but this, the utter loss of Aven’s good opinion, rivaled it.

“Does the king know?” Aven asked. Long gone was the fatherly sympathy that had been on
his face only a few moments earlier. Frodo was not sure what he had expected from Aven.
Perhaps only understanding from the Man who had treated him with such kindness. And if
this was Aven’s reaction, what could he expect from Aragorn?

“No, not yet.”

“Get out.” Aven’s voice was deadly. “Get out now, lest I do something irrevocable.”

Through blurred vision, Frodo stumbled out of the tiny room. He met Aragorn in the
entrance to the Healing House.

“Where are you going?” Aragorn asked, grasping Frodo’s shoulder.

Frodo wrenched himself out of his grip and pushed past him into the street. He had to go
somewhere, disappear into the crowd, had to do something. He would get the herbs back.
He would find the tavern where he had sat with Triston and his friends the regretful day
he had gotten lost. He would likely die trying, but as far as he was concerned, his life
was forfeit now, and he could not face Aragorn, could not bear to watch his face change
to stone as Aven’s had.



Aragorn strode into the Healing House, his sharp eyes searching for the cause of Frodo’s
distress. Frodo had pushed past him in anguish, and now Aven was approaching him with a
pale grimace. He longed to follow Frodo, to give him comfort, but he would not until he
discovered what had happened. The most obvious possibility made his stomach feel heavy
and icy.

“Aven, has something gone amiss with Holis?”

Aven took several jagged breaths. “My king.” He swallowed, and Aragorn’s chest tightened
until he found it difficult to breathe. His vision narrowed to only include Aven. What
else, other than Holis’ death, could have upset both Frodo and Aven so badly? Aven
lifted his chin, his eyes deeply troubled. “What I am about to tell you might cost me my
life, but it is my duty. I must.”

“What is it?” Aragorn asked sharply. Could Aven have made a mistake while treating
Holis? Aragorn found that difficult to believe. Aven was only slightly less
knowledgeable about herbs and the treatment of battle wounds than himself. “Speak.”

“Frodo professed something to me just now.” Aven clenched his fists, and Aragorn
suddenly realized that the healer was not struggling to control grief at all. He was
trying to harness a wild rage.

“Speak plainly.” Aragorn tensed, and he stifled an urge to shake the healer.

“Frodo is the kingsfoil thief.” Aven massaged his pale brow with trembling fingers,
shaking his head in disbelief. “Frodo.”

Aragorn’s chest filled with ice, and he found he could not speak.

“I’ve sent him away, my liege, and whether you banish me or throw me in the dungeons is
your decision, but I want nothing more to do with that halfling.”

Aragorn shook his numb head, still unable to speak. He had to say something. He should
split this healer in two for uttering such appalling lies about Frodo. He grasped
desperately for anything to say that would counter Aven’s statement, but he could think
of nothing.

“You speak in riddles.” Aragorn clutched the hilt of his sword and forced his voice into
stern command. “If you are to slander the name of the Ringbearer and one dearest to my
heart, you must speak more plainly.”

“He told me just now.” Aven shook his head again, looking miserable. “You cannot
understand just how much his deception wounds me. In the short time I’ve known him, I
grew to love him, my liege…And Holis…” Aven’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he turned toward
the room where Holis lay in painful recovery. “I would guess that Holis knows something
of this.”

“Holis…?” Aragorn barely had the strength to utter the Captain’s name as a newly
disturbing thought came to him. The bruising…Aragorn had intended to examine Frodo’s
bruising again, because something the hobbit had said had not made sense, though now
Aragorn’s swarming senses could not discern what. “Did Holis attack Frodo yesterday in a
fit of pain?”

Aven nodded curtly. “Holis twisted Frodo’s wrist, but naught more.” A brief flash in
Aven’s eyes spoke of what he barely was able to conceal, that he no doubt wished Holis
had done more damage. Aragorn would deal with that later, after he understood
everything. Whatever Frodo had done, he was still the Ringbearer and still deserved the
respect of all the people of Middle earth.

*And I still love him*

He could still see the hobbit as he had been in bed the night before, squirming with
pleasure, his cheeks rosy with wanting. His skin had been pale silk – except it had been
marred by the bruising.

Frodo had lied about the bruising on his stomach, though Aragorn should have been able
to call him on it. Even in the dim light of their chamber, the bruising had looked old
and yellow.

“I will speak with Holis.”

Aragorn’s legs trembled as he approached Holis’ bedside. How could Frodo be a common
thief when it was not within his gentle nature? Only something unimaginably horrible
would have driven him to it.

“Holis.” Aragorn’s voice came out sharper than he intended, and Holis’ eyes flew open in
surprise.

“My liege.”

“I am sorry I have no time to inquire about your health as I should. I’ve had some
distressing news.”

“What is it?” Holis’ brow creased in worry.

“Frodo.” Aragorn swallowed, barely able to speak. He felt a moment of invertigo, and he
clutched his knees until it passed.

Holis gripped Aragorn’s arm with a strength that surprised Aragorn, given his injuries.
“Is he well?”

Aragorn nodded. “Aven claims you may know something of Frodo…being the kingsfoil thief.”

“My liege…” Holis breathed, turning pale.

“You do know.” Aragorn stood and began pacing beside Holis’ bed. He had not hurt like
this in a long time. Angry hornets stung him all over, and hurtful questions nagged at
him. How could Frodo have confided in Holis and not in himself? How could Holis have not
informed him? How could this have happened?

Holis closed his eyes. “He needed my protection. While you were gone, that man -- orc
would be more appropriate for

The bruises had nearly covered Frodo’s entire abdomen area. Aragorn was breathless with
rage. His love, the Ringbearer, being threatened and beaten by common criminals in his
own city…and then confiding not in his lover, but in the captain of the Guard!

“Why did he not tell me?” Aragorn asked, clenching his hands into fists. “He told me
nothing! Nothing!”

Aven had joined them, and he leaned against the entrance to Holis’ room.

Holis watched them both through bleary eyes. “He was so frightened.” He glanced toward
Aven. “Triston threatened your life…said that if Frodo didn’t steal the herbs that he’d
arrange for your death.” Aven blanched but said nothing. “I wanted to protect him. You
were gone, my liege, and Frodo would not allow me to kill Triston because he was certain
that others would carry out Triston’s threat.”

“How could this happen?” Aragorn asked fiercely. “I have thousands of soldiers and none
of them were able to protect one halfling from harm within my own city?”

“They may have been able to help if the halfling in question had sought help,” Aven
said, though his eyes did not look as hate-filled as they had earlier.

Aragorn leaned heavily against the wall. “I have already publicly proclaimed the fate of
the thief…already claimed the penalty of death.” What was he to do when he confronted
Frodo? He could not pretend it hadn’t happened. The very idea of putting Frodo to death
as a common thief sent a stabbing grief through him, and his stomach rolled with nausea.
It brought to mind the nightmare he had had in Emyn Arnen in which he had beaten Frodo
and had sliced his throat to end his pain.

He could never do that. Aside from not being able to imagine life without Frodo, Frodo’s
deeds had saved them all from falling under the sway of the Dark Lord. Carrying out his
law would be absurd. He did not want to punish Frodo; he wanted only to hold him close,
to kiss his soft lips and to protect him from further harm.

“Please no,” Holis said, voice shaking. “Please have mercy on him.”

Aragorn’s voice was dull. “By merit of being the Ringbearer he is exonerated from such
fate, but you know I cannot let it go completely. I have a kingdom looking to me as a
model for justice.”

“And shall I share Frodo’s fate?” Holis asked quietly. “Whatever that may be?”

“I will have to consider it.” Aragorn put his head in his hands.

“Please,” Holis said. “Allow me to bear his punishment, my liege. You can proclaim I am
the thief, as I should have protected him better. It is only…I cannot bear for him to
hurt more than he already has. He loves you so, my lord, and it will tear him apart if
you are not kind--” Holis’ voice broke off and he looked suddenly worried. “Where is
he?”

Aven swallowed. “I sent him away. This is…I did not know he was trying to protect me.
But he should not have stayed silent. He should have sought help.”

“You sent him away?” Holis asked, breathing rapidly..

“Where would he go?” Aragorn asked.

“He’ll do something foolish,” Holis said. “He’ll want to right this wrong.” He looked
down at his bandaging in disgust. “Damn my injuries. Damn them.” The captain’s eyes were
wet. “I am useless to him.”

Aragorn did not hear Holis’ last utterance, as he was already out the door, gathering
every soldier in sight for the largest search party ever to have been commissioned in
Minas Tirith.


Frodo’s legs trembled and nearly buckled under his weight as he paused in the alley
called Tower Point and gazed upon the rotting boards that blocked the windows of what
had once been the supply shop. He breathed in rapid gasps of frustration and stinging
hurt and grief.

Triston had been storing the stolen kingsfoil right here in this shop.

As Frodo had run in blind grief down the winding streets of Minas Tirith, desperate to
turn his wrongs to right or die trying, it had clicked for him. While in Emyn Arnen,
Aragorn had received a message meant for Orlion, the owner of the shop, and had not
received the message meant for him detailing Frodo