Title: Trapped in Bree -- Work in Progress 
Author: Claudia (claudia603 at gmail dot com) 
Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: Frodo arrives in Bree alone.  Trouble escalates when a warrior 
lures Frodo into an abusive relationship, preventing him from continuing 
on his quest. 
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.  
Story notes: Somewhat AU. Dark and violent—until Aragorn comes to 
save the day :-) Many, many liberties will be taken.  Movie verse versions 
of Bree and Frodo.
 
WARNING: Rape and violence	
 
 
Frodo entered the Prancing Pony, soaked to the bone and cold.  More than 
that, he was frightened to his core.  He had barely made it.  The 
Ringwraiths had pursued him nearly to the gate of Bree.  He was so 
relieved his merry friends had not been with him. He had sneaked away 
from them, leaving them behind in Crickhollow.  They had been 
determined to come with him, but he had refused to allow them to come 
with him into danger. He imagined they had been furious when they woke 
up and found him gone—especially Sam.  He smiled briefly, thinking 
about them safe in the Shire.
 
He straightened his shoulders.  He was so glad he was about to see 
Gandalf.  He could lay down his burden at last.  He smiled. Gandalf would 
surely be impressed by the danger he had escaped to arrive here in Bree. 
 
“Excuse me,” He tried to peek over the counter.
 
A large man with a round, cheerful face peeked over the side.
 
“Good evening, little master.  What can I do for you?”
 
“I’m…I’m here to meet Gandalf the Gray.”
 
He peered into the common room and his heart sank. The room was filled 
with rough, crude men, and no Gandalf in sight.
 
The man with the round face shook his head.
 
“Gandalf…I’ve not seen him in six months.  Can I be of help to you? Do 
you need a place to stay for the night?”
 
“Yes, please,” Frodo said in a small voice. He felt close to tears. He was 
tired and cold, and he had expected to lay his burden on Gandalf.  And he 
was worried. He couldn’t imagine anything keeping Gandalf from meeting 
him at the Prancing Pony.  An unbidden tear ran down his cheek.  
Barliman Butterbur looked at him in pity.
 
“There now, little one, if he said he’d meet you, I’m sure he’ll show!  Let 
me show you to your room.  I’ll bring you something to eat and drink 
there if you like. The common room may be a little overwhelming for you. 
We don’t get too many hobbits out this way these days.”
 
Frodo looked up at him, his blue eyes wide with gratitude.
 
“Thank you.”
 
He noticed many of the men eyeing him. He had never been in contact 
with men before, and his first experience was frightening. He wanted to 
hide in his room, out of their view.  What had Gandalf been thinking, 
having him meet him here—in this hostile environment?  Barliman gave 
him the key to his room and directed him to go through the back doors and 
down a corridor.
 
Frodo took the key and squared his shoulders, preparing to push through 
the crowd in the common room to get to the corridor.  A strong hand 
gripped his shoulder, and he let out a gasp.
 
“Hey, little halfling.  You from the Shire?”
 
Frodo looked up.  The man staring down at him had a beard and cold, dark 
eyes.
 
“Yes,” Frodo answered him.
 
“You’re a sweet little thing, aren’t you?”
 
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Frodo tried to keep his voice steady. He 
was growing more and more frightened.  Barliman didn’t seem to be 
paying attention.
 
The man laughed crudely.  He pulled Frodo in front of a second man. This 
man had shaggy blond hair and muscular arms.
 
“Look what I found,” the first man said. “A little halfling from the Shire. 
Don’t see too many of them around here.  Even the Bree hobbits don’t 
come down here too often.  Frightened them away, haven’t we, Vik?  We 
could have fun with this one, couldn’t we?”
 
“Please,” Frodo managed. He trembled wildly.  “Just leave me be.”
 
“You’ve frightened him half to death, Jankit.”
 
“Aw…” The man gripping Frodo’s arm stroked his cheek with a callused 
finger.  “Are you frightened, halfling?”
 
Frodo looked up at him.  Gandalf should have been here. At this moment, 
he regretted having left his friends behind. He was utterly alone. The Ring 
was his responsibility.  He was defenseless against the crude ruffians of 
this village.  He willed himself not to weep, but he was so exhausted and 
stressed.  His eyes filled with tears.
 
“Please,” he managed again.  He tried to wrench out of his grip, but Jankit 
grabbed both of his arms.  His fingers pushed down with so much force 
that Frodo knew he’d have bruises later.
 
“You just settle down, little one.  This is what we’re going to do. We’re 
going to find your room and you’re not going to let out one peep. 
Understand?”
 
“No,” Frodo said. “I won’t go with you.” He shook his head violently, 
hoping desperately that the other patrons in the tavern would see that he 
was being held against his will.
 
Without further warning, Jankit thrust Frodo in front of him and yanked 
him into the corridor. He shoved him against the wall.  Frodo let out an 
involuntary squeak as Jankit held a dagger at his throat.
 
“You yell, and I’ll slit your throat—understand, you little rat?”  Jankit 
looked at his friend Vik.  “Isn’t that right?”
 
“That’s right,” Vik agreed, picking his teeth with a second dagger.
 
Everything was lost. The quest. The Ring.  They would find the Ring and 
think it was just a trinket, but they would steal it from him all the same.  It 
would fall into the hands of the Enemy.  New tears oozed out of Frodo’s 
eyes. Jankit pushed Frodo forward again. The man with the shaggy blond 
hair followed them.  Frodo didn’t know the details of the horrible things 
men did to each other, but he had heard unspeakable rumors about hobbits 
of the Shire that had been assaulted while traveling Outside.   At the 
thought of being violated in such a manner, Frodo shuddered.
 
“Give me your keys, halfling.”
 
Frodo held the key in his trembling hand, but it fell to the ground with a 
loud clunk.  He started to reach down for it, but Jankit shoved him hard 
against the wall again. He grabbed the key and unlocked the door. He 
pushed Frodo in front of him into the room.  The men pushed the door 
shut.
 
“He is a sweet-looking little thing,” Vik said, nodding approvingly.
 
“How much you think we could get for him, Vik?”
 
“Quite a lot, if we leave him untouched.”
 
Frodo’s knees gave out and he sat very hard on a stool.  He held his arms 
together, unable to stop the shaking that rippled over his body.  They were 
talking about selling him. What could that possibly mean?
 
“I’m not sure I can leave him untouched,” Jankit said, stooping down to 
brush his hand through Frodo’s soft dark curls.
 
“Then you’ll get less, though still a pretty bundle, I’d imagine for this one. 
I’d say he’s the prettiest halfling I’ve ever encountered.  Look at those big 
blue eyes and pure skin.”
 
Jankit forced Frodo to stand.
 
“I say we take the risk and make his worth a little less. He’s making me 
hard, just looking at him.”
 
Frodo looked up in terror. He had to get out. He could not let them violate 
him.  He struggled suddenly, throwing Jankit off balance.  Jankit fell 
backwards, cursing.  Frodo almost made it to the door when Vik grabbed 
him by the hair and yanked him back.  He threw him violently to the 
ground and kicked him viciously in the side.  Blinding pain ripped through 
his ribcage.  He cried out, and Vik kicked him again.
 
“Bad, bad idea, halfling,” Jankit growled, crawling to him.
 
The door burst open at that moment, startling all three in the room.
 
“What the hell is going on here?” A voice yelled.
 
Frodo dared to peek up. A man with blond hair and gray eyes stood 
holding a sword.  Frodo whimpered in terror and crawled backwards into a 
far corner.  He clutched his knees, too terrified even to breathe.  He felt for 
the Ring. Perhaps if he put it on, he could disappear and sneak past the 
man at the door.  He did not dare try.
 
“None of your business,” Jankit said.
 
The warrior slammed the door shut and moved his sword to Jankit’s neck.
 
“I’m making it my business. I saw you nab this halfling and I don’t think 
he wants to be here with you.  Now you two miserable excuses for human 
life will leave right now or I will cut both of your throats.”
 
“He’s not worth it,” Vik said.  “Let’s move on.”
 
Jankit spit on the ground before shoving past the warrior.  Frodo squeezed 
his eyes shut. The pain in his side made it difficult to breathe.  He looked 
up in terror as the warrior inched closer to him.
 
“Hey, halfling,” he said in a soft voice. “I’m not going to hurt you. My 
name’s Oron.”
 
Frodo looked up at him, his eyes wide and terrified.
 
“Thank…thank you,” he finally gasped.
 
“What’s your name?” Oron asked.
 
“Frodo Ba—Underhill.”
 
“Frodo. That’s a lovely name.  I’ve known a few of your kind from the 
Shire. What are you doing traveling alone?”
 
Frodo gasped for breath, cringing as he held his side.
 
“I’m sorry,” Oron said. “You’re hurt. I should have Butterbur send for a 
healer.”
 
“You’re very kind,” Frodo said. He shivered. He didn’t know what would 
have happened if Oron had not saved him.
 
“Why don’t we see if those slimy men stole anything from you.”
 
Frodo reached for his bag with trembling hands.  He dropped it several 
times, glancing up at the warrior as if he feared he would turn hostile.  He 
saw only softness in the gray eyes.
 
His money had been stolen.  He had had very little to begin with, but now 
he had none. 
 
“They took everything,” he said.  “I have nothing now.  I can’t even pay 
for this room.”
 
Oron put a strong hand on Frodo’s back and rubbed him soothingly. 
 
“Then it is good you met me.  Butterbur is a kindly soul, but he is a force 
to be reckoned with if he thinks you tried to cheat him out of payment.  I 
wouldn’t want you to be thrown in prison after what you’ve been through 
already. I will pay for your room for the night and then you could stay in 
my cottage. I live only ten minutes from here.  I could take you there now 
and then send for a healer. It looks like those bastards may have broken 
some of your ribs.”
 
Frodo looked at Oron in gratitude. He should use more caution, but he was 
in a helpless position. He had no choice but to trust him.
 
“Thank you,” he said softly.  “I will come with you.”
 
 
 
***
 
 
Oron smiled and patted Frodo's shoulder.
 
"All right then.  Is this bag all you had with you?"
 
Frodo nodded.  He wanted to believe that he could trust this man. He had 
saved him from a terrible fate. The least he could do was to relax and let 
the man care for him. But he would keep his eyes open. The first sign that 
something was not right, he would flee.
 
"You can't walk," Oron said. "I'll carry you."
 
"Oh, no," Frodo said, flushing. "It's too much trouble."
 
"Trouble?" Oron laughed as he gently lifted Frodo from the ground. "You 
don't weigh anything at all, halfling."
 
Frodo winced in pain. Oron pulled Frodo's cloak tightly around him, so 
that it acted as a splint to his injured ribs.  He slung Frodo's bag over his 
shoulder.  
 
"I'll take you out the back way so you don't need to be exposed to those 
brutes again."
 
Frodo shuddered. It felt good to settle into the strong arms that held him. 
Again, he tried to coax himself to relax. If Oron had wanted to harm or rob 
him, he would have done so already.  Oron walked confidently down the 
dimly lit corridor and down a flight of wooden stairs until they were below 
street level.  Oron fumbled in the dark room until he found a badly warped 
door leading to the outside.  Once in the chilly autumn air, Oron strode up 
a flight of stone steps until he was back on street level.
 
The houses passed in a blur. Frodo struggled to keep his eyes open.  He 
did not want to be disoriented.  He wanted to know where he was in 
relation to the inn. Oron held him tightly enough that his ribs did not pain 
him too much, but once in awhile he gasped in pain when Oron took a 
particularly hard step.
 
"I'm sorry, Frodo. We're almost there."
 
They entered a small cottage. It was not homey and warm as Frodo had 
hoped.  A cold draft blew in through a carelessly left open window.  The 
sheets on the large bed looked like they had not been washed in months.  
There was a smell of rotting food from garbage that had not been taken out 
in a long time.
 
Oron lay Frodo gently on the bed and propped his head up with a pillow.
 
"There now, Frodo," Oron said. "I'll make you some tea that will help you 
sleep. May ease your breath as well."
 
Frodo nodded gratefully. He didn't think he would need help sleeping.  He 
had been pursued by Ringwraiths, nearly kidnapped in Bree, his ribs 
throbbed, he was exhausted from days of traveling in the wild, and he was 
cold and wet.  He had no will to decide what to do next. He knew he 
should ask the kind man to leave a message for Gandalf at the inn.  Where 
was Gandalf? Frodo's throat closed in panic. He could not reach Rivendell 
alone.  He pictured the Ringwraiths on their black steeds, screeching in 
triumph.  He was just one lone hobbit.  How could he fight the minions of 
the Dark Lord? 
 
Oron returned with the tea. 
 
"There now, let me take a look at what those brutes did to you.  We should 
get some of these clothes off of you anyway--you shouldn't sleep in damp, 
wet clothes."  Oron  breathed hard as he unbuttoned Frodo's cloak. Frodo 
couldn't figure out why he was out of breath. Oron peeled off Frodo's 
worn brown jacket. Frodo cried out in pain.  He bit his lip, ashamed by his 
outburst.
 
"Hold on," Oron said. "Almost done."
 
Oron unbuttoned the vest and finally his white linen shirt.  He gazed down 
at Frodo's milky skin, marred by deep purple and black bruises on his right 
side.
 
"They did a number on you, all right." He put his hand on Frodo's chest. 
Frodo looked at him, puzzled. Oron's hand seemed to linger for longer 
than needed.  He let it slide to where the bruising was.
 
"Does this hurt?"  Oron poked and prodded at Frodo.  Frodo cried out a 
few times in response.
 
"Yep, it looks like you have a few cracked ribs, but none of them appear to 
be seriously broken. You should be able to move around in a couple days.  
There's no need to send for a healer at this point. If you start coughing up 
blood or something, be sure to tell me."
 
Frodo tried not to whimper, though all the poking and prodding had left 
him feeling raw and sore. Oron knelt beside the bed. He gazed down at 
Frodo with an intense expression Frodo couldn't interpret.  Then he 
climbed over Frodo so that he was lying in the bed beside him. He was 
still fully clothed.  He wrapped his arms around Frodo's slight form. He 
kissed Frodo's head several times and let his rough hands slide down 
Frodo's bare arms.
 
"Oh, you smell so sweet, little one. Very sweet."
 
Frodo tensed. The pain in his ribs felt far away.  A buzzing filled his ears. 
He didn't know what this man intended, but he suddenly regretted leaving 
the inn with him. Nobody knew where he had gone.  Oron had not gone to 
talk to Butterbur as far as he knew--not yet anyway, and so in the morning, 
Butterbur would think he had fled without paying for his room.  He would 
not suspect that he may be in trouble.  Gandalf had not arrived and there 
was nobody else that he could trust.
 
 
 
***
 
 
"What are you doing?" Frodo finally managed. His heart was beating so 
fast that his voice came out in a squeak. Oron did not answer. His hands 
crept around Frodo's bare waist, stroking his belly in small circles.
 
"Shh," Oron said, kissing his head again.
 
Frodo struggled to turn in the bed so that he was on his back. He looked at 
Oron, his blue eyes wide with trepidation.
 
"Oron, I...I don't know if...I've never--"
 
"Frodo, I'm not going to hurt you," Oron said gruffly. "Think real hard 
about where you could be right now if I hadn't come at the right moment. 
You would be in a brothel being forced to submit to much scarier people 
than me."
 
Frodo started to tremble all over.  He had never even kissed anybody, 
male or female.  He had no experience in such matters, though he knew 
enough that he was not attracted to this man about whom he was having an 
increasingly bad feeling.
 
Oron kissed his forehead. "Don't you think I deserve some sort of reward 
for helping you?"
 
Frodo bit his lip, trying to will the tears from coming out of his eyes.  This 
had turned into a big mess. He had to leave the cottage as soon as he was 
able.
 
"Come now, Frodo." Oron kissed Frodo's lips softly. "Why are you 
weeping?"
 
Frodo took a shuddering breath. "I..I don't want..I don't want to do this, 
Oron. Please...I don't want to."
 
Oron pressed down on Frodo's lips with bruising cruelty, clutching Frodo's 
cheeks in two strong hands.  Frodo arched his back, trying to break away 
and gasping for breath. Oron released him.
 
"There now," he said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
 
Tears oozed freely out of Frodo's eyes now. His ribs ached fiercely and he 
felt helpless. He was alone. Even if Gandalf showed up, he would not 
know where to find him.
 
"Damnit, stop your weeping, you ungrateful little runt!" Oron's voice grew 
harsh and nasty. He shook Frodo before backhanding him across the face. 
The impact made a nasty cracking sound.  Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, 
waiting for the next blow. 
 
 
***
 
 
Aragorn entered the Prancing Pony.  His gray eyes took in the scene of 
rough men drinking ale and he sighed in disappointment. He had hoped 
that Gandalf or the hobbit that was supposed to be carrying the Ring was 
there. Preferably both. He needed to warn them. The Nine were abroad 
and were asking about a hobbit by the name of Baggins wherever they 
went. 
 
Butterbur greeted him with a suspicious nod.
 
"Butterbur, come, I need to talk to you."
 
Butterbur reluctantly joined him. "Yes?"
 
"Have you seen Gandalf the Gray? Has he been here?"
 
Butterbur gave him a quizzical look.
 
"No, he's not been here.  But there was a hobbit a couple days ago asking 
about him." He shook his head. "Like to get my hands on him. Little thief 
bolted without paying."
 
Aragorn's breath caught.  "A hobbit was asking about Gandalf? Did he 
mention his name?"
 
"I don't remember. He was a sweet-looking thing--dark curly hair and blue 
eyes, seemed very upset that Gandalf wasn't there. Came from the Shire, I 
think. I felt bad for him at the time. I showed him to his room. Next 
morning I came to check on him, to ask if he wanted any breakfast, and he 
was gone. Didn't expect that out of him. I thought most of the Shire 
hobbits were pretty honest. You let me know if you find him, though. I'd 
like to be paid."
 
Aragorn was disturbed. He couldn't believe Frodo, Bilbo's favorite nephew 
and Gandalf's dearest hobbit friend, would leave an inn without paying 
unless he was in bad trouble.
 
"Listen, Butterbur. I need to find the hobbit. He may be in a lot of 
trouble."
 
"Darn straight he's in a lot of trouble. He could go to jail for a year. They 
may not have the same rules in the Shire, but here, we prosecute to the 
fullest--"
 
"Butterbur, I mean that he may be in danger. I know of this hobbit and I 
don't believe he'd rob anyone any more than you would. I think he's in 
trouble. Now did you see him interact with anyone? Anyone at all?"
 
Butterbur paused.
 
"Now, Strider, you bring up a good point. We've not had much hobbit 
business lately, which is why I was surprised to see your friend. There's 
been a couple of no-gooders around and a couple weeks back, a few 
hobbits were assaulted in the back area. One was so badly beaten and ... 
and raped...that he is still lying unconscious. The other managed to get 
away.  They've been avoiding this part of town, which is right tragic."
 
Aragorn felt cold inside. He was now convinced that the little hobbit was 
in some terrible trouble. Why had he brought nobody with him, no trusted 
companions?  Gandalf had begged Aragorn to look after him, stating that 
Frodo was the best hobbit in the Shire, but that he had never been outside 
the Shire and had no real concept of the world outside its borders. He may 
have blindly trusted somebody and gotten into trouble.
 
"I feel bad now," Butterbur continued. "I should have pursued it. I hope no 
harm's come to him.  I'll ask around in my crowds."
 
"Thank you," Aragorn said. He sat back against the wall, closing his eyes. 
He didn't have a clue as to where to look next. And what would he tell 
Gandalf should he show up--that the hobbit who carried the fate of all of 
Middle Earth had possibly been nabbed by ruffians?
 
***
 
Oron dropped his fist which had been poised to hit Frodo a second time. 
He waited until Frodo dared to open his eyes again.
 
"Aw, I'm sorry," he said, stroking Frodo's face. "I didn't mean to hit you 
that hard."
 
Frodo tried to control his trembling, but he was so frightened that he could 
neither move nor speak. He had to get out of here, but he couldn't walk. 
He thought about his companions in Crickhollow. He was so glad that 
none of them were being subjected to this. He thought about Sam's 
loyalty. He selfishly wished for Sam.  But then he had no desire for any of 
his dear friends to see him in this terrible, humiliating situation.
 
Oron kissed his cheek, which was already turning red and swelling from 
the blow.
 
"There now, halfling, I'll not bother you tonight. You just sleep. I'm sorry. 
You and I will have a great life together, you'll see."
 
Frodo swallowed and his stomach turned cold. This man did not intend to 
willingly let him go.
 
"But I have to go," Frodo whispered. "I have business to take care of."
 
Oron's arms tightened around Frodo's waist, and his ribs flared in new 
agony. He did not dare even cringe.
 
"Frodo, all my life I've waited for someone as perfect as you. I've never 
been interested in marrying. I've always thought that a good regular 
halfling lay does just as well, without the bother of getting children. 
You're everything I've wanted in a permanant partner--you're sweet, 
innocent. I've always wanted a halfling from the Shire.  These Bree 
hobbits are much too coarse."
 
Frodo sent out a silent plea to Gandalf.
 
"You..you hurt me," Frodo whimpered.  His face throbbed and he 
wondered if his nose was broken.
 
"I'm sorry, Frodo," Oron whispered back, kissing the soft skin at the back 
of Frodo's neck.  "I'm so sorry. I won't hurt you again."
 
 
***
 
 
Frodo woke to the sound of harsh whispers.  The sheet he lay tangled in 
smelled stale, like sweat.  What had happened to him in the Prancing Pony 
came back to him when he tried to move. His ribs flared in new agony. 
His intuition told him to keep his eyes closed.
 
"So where did you find him?" The voice was unfamiliar, but Frodo felt 
unfriendly eyes staring down at him.
 
Oron let out a low chuckle.  "At Butterbur's inn. Jankit and Vik were 
trying to strike again. Wanted to take this halfling and sell him to that 
brothel across town. What a waste! I took one look at him and knew I had 
to have him for myself."
 
"No kidding. He's really beautiful.  Did you give him this bruise on his 
face?"
 
Frodo tried not to flinch as a rough hand stroked his face.  He feigned a 
sleepy moan and turned over.
 
"Shhh. Let him sleep a bit.  Yeah, I hit him good last night.  The 
ungrateful fool isn't quite ready for me. I wasn't going to force him this 
early. Don't want what happened to the last one to happen to him. If I do 
too much damage to his insides, he'll be useless later.  And don't think I'm 
completely heartless, Landor. I didn't enjoy watching that other little 
fellow die. I can't help this miserable temper of mine.  This little fellow's 
from the Shire. How lucky could I get?"
 
"The Shire? Are you aware that Bill Ferny and some of that slime from 
south of here are asking about a halfling from the Shire?  They're willing 
to pay a reward for this halfling. What is it about him?"
 
"I don't care if the shadow from the East comes and asks about him; he's 
mine and I'm not going to give him up for anyone."
 
There was a short silence and the rough hand stroked Frodo's cheek again.
 
"Ah, such soft skin.  I'd pay you to let me have a go at him some time."
 
Frodo tensed, his skin turning cold, as he listened to Oron's response.
 
"Well," Oron said slowly. "Tell you what. After I taste him myself a few 
times, then maybe something could be arranged. Nothing like tight 
halfling ass for pleasure, is there?"
 
Frodo waited a few moments and then opened his eyes. He coudln't bear 
to hear more. Somehow he had to get out of there that day.
 
"Good morning," Oron said.  "How do you feel?"
 
Frodo nodded.  "Better, thanks." He saw his shirt, his vest and jacket 
hanging against the post of the bed. He quickly got dressed under the 
leering stares of Oron and his friend Landor.  His ribs throbbed, but he at 
least he could move. He could walk if need be, at least for a short distance.
 
"Oron," Frodo bravely said.  He didn't think Oron would become violent 
in front of his friend.  "You know I am grateful that you saved me 
yesterday, but I...I'm to meet a friend in the Prancing Pony. I really must 
get back there."
 
Oron shook his head.  "You can't go back there, Frodo.  You see, word's 
already out that you cheated Mr. Butterbur out of a room."
 
"But you said--you said you would pay." Frodo hated it how weak and 
reedy his voice sounded.
 
"I decided not to." Oron seemed to be enjoying the dismay that had settled 
over Frodo's face.  "And they're already on the lookout for you. They'll 
drag you to jail. They don't have separate jails for hobbits here in Bree. 
You'll be locked in with lovely people like your friends who wanted to sell 
you."
 
"Oron, come on," Landor said. "They don't--"
 
"Shut-up," Oron hissed to him.
 
Frodo shook his head numbly. "No. No, it doesn't matter. I have to get 
back to the inn."
 
Jail would be better than enduring whatever Oron and his friends had 
planned for him.
 
Landor placed his hands on Frodo's shoulders and looked down at him, 
laughing cruelly. He massaged Frodo's shoulders and moaned in 
exaggerated pleasure. Frodo looked up at him in disgust. The man's breath 
smelled and half of his teeth were rotted.
 
"What's the matter?" Landor mocked. "Don't like living with Oron? He's a 
good man, little one. He knows how to show a halfling a very good time.  
So do I for that matter. You should give us both a chance."
 
Frodo took a big shuddering breath.  "I'm here against my will. Please do 
the right thing and let me go."
 
Oron's smile faded. A deadly gleam filled his eyes.  Frodo imagined that 
his enemies must have seen that look in his eyes before they were 
skewered by Oron's sword.  If Frodo didn't escape now, he never would. 
He pushed past Oron and his friend. He had just made it out the door, 
when he slammed into a third man on his way inside Oron's cottage.  The 
man grabbed his arm.
 
"What's this? Has Oron got a new little friend?"
 
"Let go of me," Frodo gasped. His ribs hurt him.  Black dots danced in 
front of his eyes. He would not faint. He could not afford to lose 
consciousness.  The man dragged him back in the cottage.
 
"Thank you, Mort," Oron said.  "Throw him on the floor."
 
Mort shoved Frodo so that he fell on the floor. The three men surrounded 
him.  Mort shook his head. "You don't want to displease Oron here. His 
last halfling friend didn't survive--did he?"
 
Oron shook his head in warning. "Don't go talking about that and scaring 
him."
 
"Ha," Mort said. "Oron beat him when he tried to escape."
 
Frodo looked up through blurred tears. He had to wait until the men were 
not so focused on him. Then he planned to put on the Ring and escape. He 
would run right out of Bree. He'd make straight for Rivendell. Gandalf 
would have to understand. He could not wait in this hostile village where 
there was no help for him.
 
"Take off your clothes, Frodo." Oron stood above him, his face red with 
fury.
 
Frodo looked up at him in dismay.  "What--why--"
 
Oron kicked Frodo viciously in the stomach. Frodo's breath was socked 
out of his lungs. He looked up again in agony.
 
"Don't look at me with those big eyes like you're too innocent to know 
what we want."
 
"No," Frodo whispered. Oron had said he would not force him. Now it 
looked like he was going against what he said.
 
Oron kicked Frodo again, causing him to yell in pain.  "You obey me, 
Frodo, or you're going to be bedridden a lot longer than a few days.  I 
won't be conscience-stricken if I have to beat you within an inch of your 
life."
 
Tears spilling over onto his cheeks, Frodo unbuttoned his vest with 
trembling fingers. He looked up at Oron beseechingly, but Oron's face 
remained impassive. His friends stared down at him with grins on their 
faces. 
 
***
 
 
Aragorn wandered around the room. He had come up with a strategy for 
asking about the halfling.  It made him feel sick to do it, but it was the 
only way to gain the trust of the scum that would have harmed Frodo.
 
"Excuse me," he said to a table full of raucous men.  "Would any of you 
gentlemen be able to direct me to a place where I could...uh...find a 
halfling for the night, if you know what I mean."
 
The men looked at each other in amusement.  "We don't have any halfling 
harlots here in Bree. Perhaps closer to the Shire."
 
"I don't think that's really true," Aragorn said softly. "I heard of a brothel--
" 
 

A man with a scar over his cheek nodded.  "Mostly girls. They'll 
occasionally use a good-looking, young male halfling. They're often 
damaged goods in a short period of time, though. They don't tend to live 
very long in that kind of captivity."
 
Another man at the table volunteered his services.  "I'd prefer a good girl 
myself, but I know some really prefer the tightness of a halfling.  Good 
luck. We sure don't see many in this area anymore."
 
"We saw one last night--remember?  Good looking fellow."
 
Aragorn's heart thudded. That was no doubt Frodo.  "Did you see where he 
went?"
 
"Naw..Just noticed him when he came in. He didn't stay in the common 
room.  Probably too scared."
 
Aragorn felt sick to his stomach. The halfling had come in, asked for a 
room, but when Butterbur had gone to check on him, he had been gone.  
"Could you direct me to the brothel?"
 
"I'd talk to those fellows over there in the back corner. They're always 
recruiting."
 
Aragorn forced himself to nod his thanks. He tried to control the rage that 
was building in his chest. He had very probably been directed to the very 
men that had taken Frodo, the gentle soul that was Gandalf's dearest 
hobbit friend, Bilbo's favorite, who carried the fate of the world.
 
Aragorn approached the men in the corner. He had to stay calm and civil.  
The men--one burly with a beard, the other blond and muscular--looked at 
Aragorn in open scorn.
 
"Gentlemen," Aragorn said in a deadly whisper. "May I converse with you 
outdoors. I have a matter that I wish to discuss in private."
 
 
***
 
Frodo had just finishing unbuttoning his shirt when Oron lost patience. He 
dropped to his knees beside Frodo and ripped off his shirt, flinging it onto 
the bed.  Frodo's stomach was red from where Oron had kicked him. His 
side was colored with black and blue bruises from the evening in the 
Prancing Pony.  Frodo's limbs felt numb.  All fight had left him. He had 
never felt so powerless in his life.
 
If they actually touched him, he didn't know what he'd do. He would fight 
back then.  But what if he resisted and Oron grew frustrated with him and 
accidentally killed him?  He couldn't die, much as he wished he could 
right now. He was the Ringbearer and it was his responsibility to get the 
Ring to Rivendell, with or without Gandalf's help. If only he knew for 
certain whether the men would simply use his body and then let him go 
when they lost interest. Then he could resign himself to it. Frodo 
shuddered at the thought. That was ridiculous. There was no reason why 
he should resign himself to it. He was not that weak.  He would fight. That 
was all he could do.
 
Oron ripped down Frodo's trousers, causing him to cry out in pain.  Oron's 
friends roared with laughter and knelt down to get a closer view.  Oron 
roughly flipped Frodo on his stomach and wrenched open his buttocks 
with bruising force.
 
Frodo glanced behind him in time to see Oron taking out his hardened 
member.  Frodo gasped when he saw its size.  He couldn't imagine it 
possibly fitting in his small hole.  The pain was going to break him apart.
 
"Please no," he said, trying not to whimper. "Please."
 
Oron chuckled and placed the tip of his member on Frodo's small hole but 
did not thrust inside.  Frodo felt Oron's hot, foul-smelling breath on his 
neck.
 
"Shut up, halfling. I'm not really going to do anything yet. I'm just giving 
you a preview of what you'll be enjoying later tonight. Do you think I'd 
take you for the first time in front of all my friends? Naw. You're my prize 
and I want you all to myself. This is just to remind you who's the boss 
here.  You don't fight me, you don't try to escape, you don't yell for help. 
Do you understand that now?"
 
Frodo nodded. "Yes," he whispered.  His throat filled in panic. How was 
he going to escape? Even with the Ring on, he was going to have to find a 
way to get outside of the cottage which had four or five latches on it, some 
of which were too high for Frodo to reach.
 
"All right then." Oron climbed off him. "You may get dressed."
 
"Good job!" Landor clapped Oron on the back. "I oughta get me one of 
these little fools."
 
"Aw," Mort said. "You'd spoil yours just be looking at him with your ugly 
face."
 
"I don't see you getting any--man, woman, halfling--so you're hardly one 
to talk."
 
Frodo pulled himself to his hands and knees. He felt nauseous. He tried to 
stand on trembling legs.  Oron's friends laughed as he wobbled and fell to 
his knees again.
 
"He wants you now, Oron," Landor laughed. "You may just have to oblige 
him."
 
Frodo looked up in muddy hatred. He never wanted to see another man 
again. He wished to go back to the Shire--Gandalf should never allowed 
him responsibility of the Ring.  With shaking hands he buttoned his shirt 
again. He found his vest on the floor and luckly when he patted the pocket, 
he still felt the Ring inside. So far he still had it. He would use it, despite 
the risk of bringing Sauron's forces to him.
 
***
 
"All right then." Aragorn had had the dagger in his hand and at Vik's neck 
and had his free hand around Jankit's neck before the two men could blink 
in surprise. "There was a halfling that came into the inn yesterday. Would 
you gentlemen happen to know anything about him?"
 
Vik squeezed his eyes shut.  "We didn't see no halfling."
 
Aragorn released Jankit only for a second to allow his fist to slam into 
Vik's stomach. "Let me ask you again. Did you see a halfling yesterday in 
the Prancing Pony--dark hair, blue eyes, good looking?"
 
"Damn, why'd you hit me?" Vik said, gasping for breath. "I said I don't 
know nothing!"
 
"Oh, yes we did," Jankit said.  "We saw the halfling all right. And you 
wouldn't believe what he said to us."  He winked at Vik.  "Remember, 
Vik? He said that if we followed him to his room that he would be willing 
to pleasure both of us--if we paid for his room for the night."
 
Aragorn felt a dull rage cloud his vision. But he forced himself not to 
squeeze Jankit's neck any harder. He could not kill these men, not until he 
found out where Frodo was. Until then, he had to remain in control. "And 
did you...do as he requested?"
 
Jankit and Vik, encouraged by what they perceived as belief of their story 
on Aragorn's part, nodded vigorously.
 
"Oh, yes," Jankit said. "Have you ever had halfling ass?  It's delicious. 
And this fellow was better looking than most. He said he'd let us enter 
him. Said he'd never had men before but that he was feeling saucy."
 
"Oh, yes," Vik agreed. "He'd have been nice and tight."
 
"What I need to know is where this halfling is now," Aragorn said.  "You 
lead me to him and I will allow you to live."
 
Vik and Jankit looked at each other. "We have no idea where he is," Jankit 
said. "He left with this big muscular guy with a sword."
 
"I'm through playing games," Aragorn allowed his dagger to cut into Vik's 
neck, just a little, and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. "I need to 
know where the halfling is now. You have ten seconds."
 
"I swear!" Vik pleaded. "I swear we don't know where he went! This big 
guy burst into the room. He forced us to leave and he took the halfling 
with him. That's all we know."
 
Aragorn could sense that they were now telling the truth. It dismayed him. 
He would have no idea where to look next.
 
"Do you have any idea who this big man might be?"
 
The men shook their heads.  Aragorn felt like he should kill them despite 
the fact that they were telling the truth. Reluctantly, he let them go. He had 
bigger fish to fry. The men ran as fast as they could down the street, away 
from the ranger.
 
Aragorn leaned against the wall, feeling defeated. He took out the small 
intricately painted picture of Frodo that Gandalf had given him.  He 
looked so sweet and carefree. His smile was guileless, and his eyes--even 
in the small picture--were the most beautiful shade of cornflower blue.  
His dark hair fell around his face in soft curls and contrasted with smooth 
fair skin. He could sense the hobbit's purity from the picture.  Someone so 
pure should never have been given a burden such as he had.  He should 
have been allowed to live his life in peace in the Shire.
 
He put the picture away with trembling hands.
 
"Please don't let anything have happened to him. Please let me find him," 
Aragorn said. He turned to go back to the inn to start asking about the 
blond muscular man with the sword.
 
***
 
 
 
Oron's friends stayed for hours, drinking beer and getting more crude by 
the hour. Frodo was forced to stand beside them. If Oron demanded he 
serve them more beer, he had to obey instantaneously or endure a bruising 
slap to his face. Sometimes one of men grabbed Frodo and forced a kiss 
on his lips. Other times, one of them might stick his hand down Frodo's 
trousers and squeeze until Frodo yelled.  All the men found that activity 
incredibly amusing. Frodo's stomach and back ached wretchedly from 
where Oron had kicked him that morning. He longed to lie down, but he 
feared it would invite the worst case scenario. Perhaps Oron would change 
his mind and violate him in front of his friends and then allow his friends a 
turn.  Finally, just when Frodo didn't think he could handle more rough-
handling, Oron's friends left, heading for the Prancing Pony for more 
drink.  Oron chose not to go with them.
 
He winked at Frodo.  "I have a delicious piece of ass here. Why would I 
go out with you guys?"
 
Frodo shuddered, preparing for the worst.
 
***
 
Aragorn had asked around to every man who came in the Prancing Pony. 
He was beginning to despair. He had very little information to go on. 
There hundreds of large blond men with swords.  Aragorn showed Frodo's 
picture to everyone he asked, in hopes that someone may have seen him.
 
He approached two men in a back corner who were tipsy yet clearly 
unwilling to stop drinking.
 
"Excuse me," Aragorn said in a voice low with lack of hope.  "I was 
hoping you might be able to help me. I'm looking for this halfling. Would 
either of you have seen him?"
 
The men looked at each other and raised their eyebrows as if they had 
discovered a hilarious secret. They guffawed.
 
"What about him?" one said.
 
"Have you or have you not seen this halfling?" Aragorn asked. His heart 
rattled in new hope.  This was perhaps the first genuine lead he had had.
 
"Hell, yeah. He's over at Oron's," the second man said.
 
"Shut up, Mort!" his friend said. "You waren't supposed to say nothing! 
Oron's likely to cut you apart for that!"
 
"Oh, don't be a fool. You think if you stay quiet he'll give you a piece of 
that halfling ass? I don't think so. He'll use that poor little fellow up until 
he's dead--just like the last one. You won't even get the leftovers."
 
Aragorn grabbed Mort by the lapels and yanked him to his feet. He longed 
to twist his neck. He would revel in the satisfying crack.  "Where might I 
find Oron?"
 
"What's your problem?" Mort gasped. "You a friend of that halfling?"
 
Aragorn shook him. "I'm asking you for the last time."
 
****
 
Oron turned to Frodo with a lavacious grin. Frodo tried to back away from 
him, but the room was small and there was no place to hide. He was 
foolish to try to run.  He was locked into this small, putrid cottage with a 
man bent on hurting him.  His face was bruised and dry blood crusted 
around his nose from a particularly hard blow earlier in the evening.
 
"Come here, you little fool!" Oron grabbed Frodo's arm. "The time is 
come for you to put out. Now will you do it willingly? It's much less 
painful for you that way. Though, frankly I'm too drunk to really care 
whether I cause you pain or not."
 
Frodo struggled as Oron stumbled to his knees.  He unbuttoned Frodo's 
vest and untucked his linen shirt from his breeches.  Instead of taking off 
his shirt, he moved on to unbuttoning Frodo's breeches. He ripped them 
down. He then wrapped strong arms around Frodo's waist. He kissed 
Frodo's neck with bruising force, biting until he drew blood. When Frodo 
yelped in pain and tried to push away, Oron hit him again.  Oron's crusty 
lips found Frodo's and kissed so hard that Frodo thought he might pass 
out.
 
Oron pushed him down on the dirty floor in the kitchen. Frodo shuddered 
at the filth that he now lay in. There was spilled beer, rank-smelling juice 
from rotten meat that had leaked out of the garbage, mud that Oron's 
friends had trampled in on their boots.
 
"I'm putting you in filth, Frodo, because that's all you are--a filthy, dirty 
halfling who deserves pain and suffering." Oron slapped Frodo again. 
Frodo watched through blurry eyes as Oron grew hard and his eyes 
brightened with delight. "In fact..."
 
Oron stood up, keeping a heavy boot planted on Frodo's chest so that he 
could not move. He opened one of the many garbage containers. From its 
foul smell, it had rotting food. He clearly had not taken the garbage out of 
his cottage in a long time.  Still grinning, Oron dipped his hands in some 
slimy, rotted substance that looked like chicken livers, and with a grin, he 
knelt over Frodo again and smeared the filth over Frodo's white shirt and 
flawless skin beneath. He rubbed it over Frodo's flacid member. Frodo 
turned away, trying not to retch. The smell was horrendous. It filled his 
nostrils and nauseated him. Frodo flailed his arms, but Oron grabbed his 
wrists and slammed them down behind his head.
 
Oron eagerly ripped down his own breeches. He smeared the filthy slime 
over his member. Frodo could not control his panic. He kicked wildly at 
Oron's member.  He made contact, and Oron fell backwards with a cry of 
rage. Frodo knew he only had seconds to get away. He could expect no 
mercy.  He scrambled to his feet, slipping in the goo on the floor and 
nearly falling again. If only his vest was with him. Oron was between him 
and the Ring.
 
Oron got up too quickly. The look in his eyes was dull and murderous. 
Frodo tried to bolt past him, but Oron slammed him down on the ground, 
knocking the breath out of him. Frodo fought with everything he had, but 
he simply was no match for a man. Oron flipped him over on his stomach 
and wrenched open his buttocks.
 
Frodo felt a burning brand at the tip of his hole. He struggled wildly, but 
Oron wrapped both his arms around Frodo's torso, pinning his arms to his 
body and squeezing so tightly, Frodo could barely breathe.  Hot agony 
burst inside his backside, shattering him, making him cry out. He had 
never felt such pain. He heard Oron grunting angrily. His voice was low 
and gutteral.
 
"...and afterwards I'll kill you, you little runt. I've no use for a halfling who 
gets violent. I'll slit your throat and throw you in the gutter and they'll just 
assume you're another of those damn fool halfling harlots whose just 
outlived his usefulness!"
 
He thrusted, each thrust angrier and more violent than the last.  Frodo tried 
to maintain consciousness, but the pain was too bad. He had never felt 
such deep, horrible, shattering pain. This was the worst thing that could 
possibly happen to him. He would die when it was over. He would find 
Oron's knife and stab himself.
 
Through a fading consciousness, Frodo heard the door burst open.  Frodo 
bit his lip and prayed for death. Oron's friends had returned. Oron would 
surely give them all a turn.
 
"Oron!" A voice yelled.
 
The stranger stepped into the kitchen and saw the scene before him.  He 
uttered a curse, and without another word, Frodo felt Oron's weight 
suddenly get ripped off his body.  He didn't have the strength to worry 
about whether the stranger would take his turn with him. He slipped 
gratefully into unconsciousness.
 
 
***
 
Aragorn swallowed to keep from retching, so foul was the stench in the 
cottage. He could not block his nose, as he needed both hands to rip Oron 
off the small figure sprawled on the ground. He could not look at Frodo 
yet.  His focus had to be on Oron. Oron was a warrior and Aragorn could 
not depend on him being as slow-witted as his friends Mort and Landor.  
Aragorn vowed not to take his eyes off him until he was dead.
 
Aragorn's sword was already drawn and he whipped it toward Oron's 
neck. Oron, though caught by surprise, dodged with an agility he should 
not have had with his pants down. He grabbed his sword in one swift 
movement and faced Aragorn, his eyes blazing. Aragorn thrust his sword 
at Oron's chest. He still had not looked at Frodo, but he knew by the 
broken way the halfling was lying that it was bad. He hadn't stirred yet. It 
was even possible that he was dead.
 
Aragorn clashed swords with Oron, but it was not as easy as it would have 
been with the usual brand of ruffian in Bree.  Oron had been well trained. 
He shoved Aragorn, nearly knocking him off balance.  Aragorn winced as 
his elbow jarred against the table.
 
Oran laughed, lifting his member for Aragorn to see. "He was good, ya 
know. Nice and tight. Squirmed under me, begging for more, he did!"
 
Aragorn refused to be baited. If he allowed the image of this man's 
horribly filthy, bloated member slamming inside Frodo's small body, he 
would throw up. He would lose his grip on the fight. If he lost, he would 
doom Frodo to a very short life of filth and torture.
 
Aragorn remained silent as he faced Oron.  His eyes flickered over Oron's 
body, looking for the unexpected. He had to incapacitate him first--then 
strike to kill.
 
"He was tasty," Oron sneered, thrusting his sword at Aragorn.  "I banged 
him good, but there may be something left over for you."
 
Aragorn's rage boiled over. He stabbed swiftly at Oron's member, that filth 
that had been inside Frodo. Oron nearly managed to jump out of the way 
but not quite. The point of Aragorn's sword jabbed into his testicles.  Oron 
screamed and dropped his sword.  Aragorn wanted this man to suffer. If 
Frodo's immediate health wasn't at stake, he would have drawn Oron's 
pain out. He would have tied Oron up and watched the man bleed to death 
while subjecting his filthy, evil member to every sort of indignity Aragorn 
could concoct.
 
But Aragorn did not have that kind of time. He heard a weak moan from 
where he knew Frodo was lying. The halfling was still alive. That was the 
important part. He had to get him out of this horrible place as soon as 
possible.
 
While Oron was clutching his bloody testicle, Aragorn swiftly thrust his 
sword into Oron's chest. Oron's eyes bulged, and he looked nearly 
surprised, as if he could not believe he had actually met his death. Aragorn 
yanked his sword out of Oron, barely hearing the thud as Oron's body hit 
the ground. Aragorn wiped his blood on Oron's cloak.  He was not usually 
so cold when he killed. He had rarely killed men, even in battle. And when 
he did, he did not feel good.  But at this moment, he felt more glee and 
triumph than he did when he killed an orc.  This waste of life would hurt 
no more hobbits. Aragorn kicked Oron's body with his heavy boot. 
 
He ran to the limp figure on the floor.  
 
"Frodo," he whispered in pity. The hobbit's breeches were pulled down to 
his knees.  Blood clotted around his anal hole and ran down his thighs. 
Aragorn groaned and rolled Frodo onto his back.  What he saw made his 
heart wrench. In contrast to the beautiful picture he had studied and 
memorized, Frodo's face was a mess.  His nose was disfigured--obviously 
broken. He had a nasty black eye. Bruising, both old and new, covered his 
face. Blood caked around his nose. His clothes were filthy. More than 
filthy--they seemed more worthy of an orc than a hobbit from a good 
family. Half of the buttons on his shirt were broken, and Aragorn could 
see cruel bruising all over Frodo's abdomen and side.
 
Bilbo's favorite nephew, Gandalf's dear hobbit friend, the best hobbit in 
the Shire, the Ringbearer--defiled, reduced to this broken mess on the 
filthy floor of some warrior's cottage. Aragorn clutched his chest, his eyes 
filling with tears. 
 
He could not just stare. He had to get him out of here. He would take him 
back to the inn and treat him there.
 
He pulled Frodo's breeches up so that they covered his backside and 
buttoned them. Frodo was severely injured, but he would not do anything 
about it in this filthy cottage.
 
Frodo groaned and his eyes fluttered open. He watched with growing 
concern as Aragorn buttoned his breeches, eyes glazed in shock. Aragorn 
met his blue eyes and smiled in what he hoped was a soothing manner.
 
"You're safe now," he said. "Oron is gone."
 
Aragorn was not sure what he expected Frodo's response to be, but he had 
not expected the sweet face to twist into a snarl of fury. Frodo struggled 
and backed away from Aragorn, kicking and flailing his arms with a 
strength Aragorn didn't think he could possibly have considering the 
extent of his injuries.
 
"Stay away!" he shouted in a hoarse voice. "Leave me!"
 
"I'm here to help you," Aragorn said, holding out his hands in a peaceful 
manner.  His heart pounded against his chest. Of course. Why had he 
expected that Frodo would trust him immediately after what he had been 
through? Frodo had backed into the wall, shaking like a cornered wild 
animal. The inital fury had faded, and Frodo's eyes were glazed in panic. 
Aragorn just had to catch hold of him. Frodo would surely see that he 
meant him no harm.  When Aragorn had almost reached him, the glaze of 
shock melted into determination, and before Aragorn could react, Frodo's 
foot slammed into his nose.  Aragorn fell back, clutching his nose in 
agony. Warm blood dripped into his hand. He was vaguely aware that the 
halfling had jumped to his feet.  He heard him whimpering in fear and 
rage as he staggered out of the kitchen. He limped to where his vest lay 
crumpled on the floor. He stumbled to his knees, gasping and holding his 
stomach.
 
"Frodo!" Aragorn shouted, uncovering his bleeding nose and blocking the 
hobbit's exit. "You're hurt. Please, you must trust me."
 
Frodo's face was filled with rage and pain.
 
"Get out of my way!" he yelled.  He put his hand inside his vest pocket--
and suddenly he was no longer there. Aragorn gasped in astonishment. He 
had never seen anything like it. Gandalf and Bilbo had both told him the 
story of Bilbo's adventure with the Ring, how it had made him invisible.
 
Frodo had put on the One Ring. In putting on the Ring, he would lead the 
Enemy to them.  Aragorn rushed around the cottage making sure to block 
all exits until he found Frodo. Hobbits were very quiet on their feet, but 
this hobbit was injured. He was not going to get very far or move fast.
 
"Frodo, please," Aragorn spoke quickly. He crawled on his knees and 
spread his hands outward, hoping to capture Frodo by feel. "I am here to 
help you. I'm a friend of Gandalf's. He sent me in his place to find you. 
I've come from Rivendell--"
 
He heard a scuffle against a nearby chair, and he exerted all his agile skill 
to grab in that direction.  He had guessed correctly. A squirming figure 
struggled in his arms.  Aragorn felt for the hobbit's fingers, trying to force 
the Ring off.  They could not afford to lead the Enemy straight to Bree.
 
"Take off the Ring, Frodo," Aragorn commanded. "You will draw them to 
you. Take it off now!"
 
Frodo gave out a terrible cry, and suddenly he was visible.  Aragorn did 
not think that it had anything to do with his own command. Something 
about the Ring had hurt or frightened him.  Frodo was newly aware of 
Aragorn then, and he fought with furious strength that Aragorn had not 
deemed possible from one so small and hurt. Aragorn hated to squeeze 
him with such force with all the bruising Frodo already had on his body, 
but if he didn't, Frodo was going to make his injuries worse. Aragorn had 
a sleeping herb in his pack; if he could subdue Frodo long enough to get to 
it, he could tranquilize Frodo long enough to get him somewhere where he 
could help him.  But he needed both of his arms to hold Frodo. 
 
Vicious teeth sank into his arm. Aragorn refused to react.  He inwardly 
writhed in pain. Very few injuries hurt worse than a human bite. He would 
not overreact and hurt the irrationally panicked hobbit. Frodo's teeth 
locked into his flesh, refusing to let go. Aragorn pinched Frodo's jaw, and 
the hobbit released his teeth.
 
"Let me go! I won't--not again!"
 
"Frodo, you must trust me. I'm a friend of Gandalf's. I am here to help 
you."
 
"No," Frodo shook his head. Sweat had broken out on his pale face.  His 
entire body trembled with the effort of his fight. Blood trickled down his 
nose. He was in poor shape. "I don't want to have anything to do with any 
of your race again! I want out of this horrible village!"
 
"Frodo," Aragorn said in a soothing voice. "Please. I know you've just 
been through something unspeakable. I am not here to harm you. But I 
will not let you go. If you keep struggling, you will injure yourself worse."
 
Frodo was shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut. "No, no, no. That's what 
he said when he saved me. Please." Frodo's rage deflated as he gasped in 
pain. He had a vulnerable, pitiful expression in his blue eyes.  "Please let 
me go. All I want to do is find Gandalf and reach Rivendell."
 
"I am here to help you do that," Aragorn said. He felt the hobbit relax in 
his arms. He couldn't tell whether it was the true beginning of trust or 
whether Frodo had simply given up.
 
Tenderly, Aragorn leaned down to kiss Frodo's forehead in comfort. As he 
did so, Frodo tensed. He became a fury again, fighting with all his 
strength. Aragorn rolled on top of him to stop his struggle. Frodo could 
not move under Aragorn's weight, but he yelled in agonized terror. 
Aragorn pulled out a few lengths of rope from his pack. The sound of 
Frodo's muffled cries tore at Aragorn's heart. He could not imagine what 
Oron must have done in a mere matter of days to change this gentle soul 
into a writhing, violent animal. Aragorn just needed to subdue him long 
enough to get him to sleep. He met the hobbit's eyes and saw only terror 
and pleading.
 
"You fool," Aragorn said to himself as he realized that he was on top of 
Frodo just as Oron had been. How he was going to gain the trust of this 
broken hobbit he did not know. 
 
Aragorn shook his head in regret. He hated to do what he was about to do, 
but he had to get him out of here. He wrapped the rope around Frodo's 
flailing arms. Frodo managed a wicked blow to Aragorn's face. Aragorn 
cursed and tried not to react.  He tied Frodo's wrists together and then the 
ankles. Aragorn felt terrible.  Frodo had gone completely limp. His wet 
eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Aragorn climbed off of him and now 
searched through his pack for his herbs. He found the sleeping herb. He 
was going to make Frodo swallow it dry, without the tea. He had no time 
to brew it. He knew one leaf would put a man into a deep sleep.  He ripped 
the leaf in half, guessing that a hobbit would need half the dose as a man.
 
Frodo's eyes opened again, and Aragorn finally saw a desperate calm in 
those blue depths. Frodo tried to speak several times, but his voice kept 
catching in his throat. Aragorn watched him patiently, hating more than 
anything that he was the cause of the hobbit's terror.
 
"Please," Frodo finally whimpered, tears streaming down his face. "I'm 
hurting so bad back there. Please--if you have any mercy in you. Please go 
slow. And please make it quick."
 
 
***
 
"Oh, Frodo, no," Aragorn whispered, his heart cracking at the resignation 
in Frodo's voice.  Oron had destroyed forever Frodo's view on men. From 
the many years spent guarding the Shire, he had learned much about 
hobbits. He knew that they were warned from a young age to stay away 
from the Big People. That Big People were violent and unpredictable.  
Before, Aragorn had often felt dismayed that hobbits had such ingrained 
prejudices. It was such a waste. Such beautiful and unique friendships 
could be forged if only they would get to know and understand each other. 
Even the hobbits in Bree tended to stay out of the affairs of Big People.
 
But now--was such a prejudice not now forever justified for Frodo? 
Aragorn looked down at Frodo's battered face in dismay. His blue eyes, 
glazed with terror and exhausted fury, gazed up at him. His chest moved 
rapidly up and down, as if he couldn't get in enough air.
 
However, Frodo did not fight him as he pinched the sides of Frodo's 
mouth to force it open.  Aragorn fully expected teeth to clamp down on his 
finger as he put a torn piece of the herb in the back of Frodo's mouth. 
Frodo did not try to bite him. He gagged, and new tears sprang to his 
agonized eyes.
 
"This will help you sleep," Aragorn said softly, wiping the tears away with 
a gentle caress. "Then I will untie you."
 
He knelt beside Frodo, stroking his trembling hands. Frodo kept his pained 
eyes on Aragorn, his lips slightly parted in pain and terror.  Aragorn 
stopped stroking him, as it seemed to terrify him more. Frodo seemed to 
have no voice left. Aragorn released his hands, which were so small and 
white, no bigger than those of a nine-year-old child. That the warrior had 
used so much force on him turned Aragorn's stomach. Again, he wished 
he could have done more damage to the brute.
 
Finally, Frodo's eyes fluttered shut. Aragorn waited until Frodo's breathing 
was even and deep before he scooped the hobbit in his arms. He pulled 
Frodo's tattered cloak around him so that he would be warm in the chilly 
breeze outside.  He also wanted to spare Frodo the indignity of anyone in 
Butterbur's Common Room seeing him in his state.
 
Frodo was completely limp as Aragorn carried him through the streets to 
the inn. The few people he passed in the streets glanced in curiosity, but 
nobody questioned him. Anger stirred inside his chest. Someone should. 
At least one person should demand to know what a suspicious Big Person 
was doing carrying a sleeping halfling through the streets. That was the 
root of the problem. Frodo had been in danger, and nobody had stopped it 
because nobody looked after anyone else.
 
He entered the inn. He held Frodo as close to him as possible, trying to 
cover him with his cloak. He waved Butterbur over.
 
"What is your burden?" Butterbur asked, none too pleased to have to deal 
with Strider again. Aragorn again felt a twinge of anger. Butterbur was so 
busy being suspicious of him that he had failed to note the people in his 
inn that were truly poisonous--like Oron and the men who had initially 
dragged Frodo upstairs.
 
"Butterbur, I have found the halfling that I was seeking. He is severely 
injured. I'd like to stay in one of your upstairs rooms."
 
"Injured?" Butterbur asked in concern.  He tried to get a peek of Frodo. 
His face contorted in disgust. "Something reeks terribly."
 
"Not here," Aragorn said. "I don't want anyone to see him. Lead me to one 
of your rooms and you can hear more. I will need your help."
 
"Very well."
 
A few men looked curiously as Aragorn and Butterbur made their way 
through the room to the corridor in the back.
 
"There's a room on the second floor available," Butterbur said. He looked 
sick.  "What a terrible, terrible shame.  There was that little fellow from 
Staddle who was assaulted outside here not too long ago. He's in the 
healing house, still unconscious. Then there was the fellow who was beat 
to death and left in the street to die not too long back. I had a few hobbit-
sized tables and chairs made a few years back, but lately they've been 
completely empty. They brought such a sweet joy to the place."
 
"Butterbur," Aragorn said as if he had not been at all listening to the 
innkeeper's rambling. "I need you to fill the bath with hot water."
 
Butterbur covered his nose. "Is it the hobbit who smells so rank?"
 
Aragorn placed Frodo on the bed and unbuttoned his cloak from his neck. 
Aragorn's mouth twisted in disgust at the smell.  "It is his clothing. 
Luckily it appears that he has a change of clothing in his pack because I 
don't think we can save these. You can take these out to the rubbish out 
back."
 
"Why have you bound him?"
 
"He is very frightened," Aragorn said, untying the rope from Frodo's 
wrists. "I had to drug him."
 
"He looks so fragile," Butterbur said, his voice soft in pity, as Aragorn 
handed him the soiled shirt. "What a terrible shame."
 
"Not as fragile as he looks," Aragorn said with a wry smile. He thought 
about the fury in Frodo's eyes as he had kicked Aragorn in the face. "Take 
a look at what he did to my face."
 
"This little hobbit gave you those bruises?" Butterbur said in surprise. He 
laughed a little. "Why, doesn't that just take it all! Ranger out of the wild 
beaten by a hobbit."
 
"Like I said," Aragorn said, his smile fading. "He's been through 
something terrible, and I expect he'll fight me again when he wakes. I need 
you to help me restrain him if need be. He's injured badly, and thrashing 
will make it worse, possibly activate internal bleeding. He's been kicked 
rather viciously in the abdomen and back, not to mention..." His stomach 
rolled in memory of what Oron had been doing to the hobbit when 
Aragorn arrived.
 
Aragorn peeled off Frodo's breeches, taking a care not to aggravate the 
hobbit's bruised and abraded backside.
 
"Oh, no," Butterbur said softly. "Not that." He closed his eyes in dismay.
 
Aragorn handed the soiled breeches to Butterbur. More bruising had 
formed over Frodo's backside. He was still bleeding down there. "Go now. 
Take these out back to the rubbish and return with the hot water. I want to 
bathe him before he wakes."
 
Butterbur left, shaking his head.  Aragorn sat beside Frodo's bed. He took 
out the picture of Frodo that he had gazed at many times during his search 
for him. His blue eyes had been so guileless, his cheeks rosy with joy. At 
that time Frodo had never left the safety of the Shire. He had never faced 
hardship.  He had lived with Bilbo in Bag End, studying elvish and 
learning about the wide world. He had greeted Gandalf with such joy 
whenever he had visited the Shire.  Gandalf had claimed him the best 
hobbit in the Shire. He was so dear. A lump filled Aragorn's throat.
 
In sleep the hobbit almost looked at peace. His long lashes glistened with 
tears. Aragorn traced his finger over a glaring yellow-blue bruise on his 
cheek. Blood caked just under his nose. Anybody who wanted to hurt this 
special creature should have suffered much more than Oron had at the end.
 
Butterbur returned with two servants. The servants stared at the battered, 
naked hobbit, but turned away quickly when Aragorn glared at them.  
Steaming water was dumped into the bath. The servants left without a 
word.
 
Aragorn lifted Frodo. He was so light, especially without his clothes on.
 
"All right, I'm going to put him in. Hand me the soap, please. His hair is 
soiled, too. I'm going to ask you to hold him up so that his head does not 
sink underwater. Hold him by the shoulders in case he should wake."
 
Butterbur nodded nervously. After handing Aragorn the soap, he clasped 
his two meaty hands over Frodo's white shoulders. Frodo's head lolled 
backward, leaning on the edge of the basin. Still, he did not wake. Aragorn 
soaked a cloth in the water and rubbed the rough soap until suds squeezed 
from it.  He wiped Frodo's face. Frodo groaned. The two men tensed, but 
his eyes did not open.  Aragorn rubbed the cloth over Frodo's shoulders 
and down to his bruised stomach. He would wait until the end to clean off 
the hobbit's filthy, damaged backside. 
 
Next he soaked Frodo's soiled curls with soap and water. His hair was so 
soft. Aragorn felt a shudder through his fingers as they slipped through 
Frodo's wet, silky hair. Frodo groaned again. The hobbit was waking. It 
would be best if they cleaned his backside quickly before he was fully 
awake. He couldn't bear to have Frodo in pain.
 
"Prepare a towel, Butterbur," Aragorn said. "I will take over."
 
Aragorn flipped Frodo over, grasping him around his chest. He lifted him 
enough so that his backside was in view. He dabbed the cloth gently over 
the hobbit's tender backside. Blood seeped into the wet cloth.
 
Frodo's eyes flew open and he cried out in pain. Before Aragorn could get 
a better grip on him, Frodo yanked back, slipping out of Aragorn's grip. 
Unaware of where he was, he slipped backward in a daze, cracking the 
back of his head against the side of the basin.
 
"Frodo!" Aragorn cried out, grabbing the hobbit before he could slip 
underwater. Frodo's eyes had rolled back inside his head. Aragorn felt the 
back of his head in dismay. He had moved so fast. He had slipped right 
out of his hands.
 
"Is he hurt?" Butterbur called out, waddling over to the basin with the 
towel.
 
Aragorn pulled his hand from the back of Frodo's head. Fresh blood had 
smeared over his fingers.
 
***
 
 
Frodo was first aware of the throbbing pain that radiated down his limbs 
and took over every inch of his body.  The horrid smell was gone--he was 
no longer in Oron's cottage, but he knew he must be somewhere just as 
bad. He could not bear to open his eyes.  While they were shut he could 
believe himself magically transported back to the Shire, back to Bag End. 
He would hear Sam whistling in the kitchen, fixing bacon and eggs.  The 
fragrance of lilacs would waft through the hole.   
 
The scorching shame! Frodo could never go back to the Shire after what 
had happened to him. He could not bear to have his friends look upon him 
now. They would turn from him in disgust. They would blame him. He 
had left them behind in a deceptive manner. He deserved to have this 
happen to him. 
 
The back of his head throbbed, his bruised stomach ached, his arms ached, 
his face was in agony, as if hammers were whacking into it. The worst was 
his backside, which felt as though a fiery log had been stuffed up his small 
hole. He would never be able to rid himself of the sensation of Oron's 
arms squeezing his torso, the hot and horrible brand which had slammed 
deeper and deeper into his body, even when he had been certain there was 
nowhere left for it to go.
 
Men.  Frodo's mouth twisted in involuntary revulsion. They were worse 
than Bilbo's most frightening tales. They were worse than Sam's most 
terrifying imaginings. No hobbit should ever leave the Shire.  Tears sprang 
to his eyes.  
 
"He's waking," he heard the distant voice. No, he did not want to wake. He 
could not bear more. Like Oron, this stranger was deceptively gentle--it 
was the way of men to use kindness to lure hobbits into their sick fits of 
lust. Frodo tightened his lips.  He would never make the same mistake 
again. He would fight against this man with everything he had.
	
"Frodo?" A gentle hand rubbed his cheek. Gentle perhaps, but the bruising 
on his cheeks flared under his touch,  so much so that he cried out. His 
eyes flew open.  The man had speared Oron and had taken him for 
himself. Wasn't that the pattern?  Oron had done the same thing. He had 
not killed the two men who had initially grabbed Frodo in the inn, but he 
had sent them on their way. Oron had been so sweet and gentle, so 
concerned for Frodo's wounds. Frodo's throat filled with rage. He was no 
longer a naive halfling who would fall for the same trick twice. Somehow 
he had to gain control of the situation.
 
"Listen to me," the man said. "My name is Strider." He raised his hands in 
mock fear, his low attempt at humor. "Now, please don't hit me again.  My 
bruised face can't take any more. I'm trying to help you."
 
Frodo's eyes focused on the second man in the room. It was Butterbur 
from the inn! So perhaps he had assessed the siutation wrong.  They had 
come to arrest him for fleeing the room without paying.  He nearly felt 
relief. After all, if this frightening man who had worsted Oron was the 
law, then surely he did not intend to do to him what Oron had. Far better 
to sit in a cold jail cell than to endure more of what Oron had dealt out.
 
But he could not forget the Ring--and his obligation to Gandalf. Gandalf 
was not here. The entire reason that all of this had happened to him was 
that Gandalf was not here. Frodo's face twisted in new anger. The anger 
was easier to bear than the undercurrent of worry for his wizard friend. 
Gandalf must have known how unsafe Bree was for hobbits. He never 
would have had Frodo meet him there if he had even suspected that he 
would be delayed.
 
"I'm sorry," Frodo whispered to Butterbur. "I will find a way to pay you. 
My friends can bring it to you. Gandalf will pay you, too, when he 
comes."
 
Butterbur looked at Strider in puzzlement. Strider put his hands on Frodo's 
shoulders.
 
"Listen, I want to--"
 
"What do you want?" Frodo's voice was shrill as he stared up into Strider's 
face. Just looking at the hard gleam in his eyes was enough to start him 
trembling again. He was too fatigued to fight. Perhaps if he kept Strider 
talking, he wouldn't hurt him.  Strider turned briefly to Butterbur.
 
"Butterbur, please get me more boiled water. And if you wouldn't mind, 
could you wrestle up some food and drink for us?"
 
"Yes, sir," he said, and he was gone, leaving Frodo alone with Strider.
 
Strider leaned close to Frodo. Frodo shrank away, but Strider caught his 
shoulder.
 
"Frodo, your nose is broken. I would like to push it into place, but it's 
going to hurt."
 
"Am I going to jail?" Frodo asked in a small voice.
 
"What?" Strider looked puzzled.
 
"Jail. Is that why you've brought me here?"
 
Strider sighed.  "No. I'm not here to take you to jail.  I brought you here 
because you are hurt after what that brute did to you and I wish to help 
you. I've been looking for you. I only wish you would trust me."
 
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. Something wasn't right.  His vision was 
blurring.
 
"I...I can't see. I don't know what's wrong with me."
 
"You've had a nasty knock on your head, which I will look at in just a 
moment. Now, Frodo, I'm bringing my hands to your nose. Hold tight. 
This is going to hurt."
 
Aragorn put his hands on either side of Frodo's nose. Frodo's chest 
hitched, and he bit his lip, desperately trying not to cry out. With a single 
movement, Strider wrenched his nose into place. He bandaged it, securing 
it with tape on either side. Frodo looked up at him, his eyes filling with 
weak tears.
 
"There, it's over." Strider smiled. Frodo shuddered and looked away. His 
smile looked predatory, like Oron's.
 
"No, no," Frodo said, turning his face into the pillow.  
 
"Frodo, I'm going to give you a cold compress for your face. It will make 
the swelling go down. Then I will have to take a look at...your backside. I 
fear there was great damage done."
 
Strider's eyes seemed to glint.  On anyone else Frodo might guess that he 
was trying to hold back tears of his own, but Frodo had figured out what 
was really happening now. Everything came to him in a sickening rush. 
This man--who played at concern and kindness--wanted to make Frodo 
better for a reason. He wanted to heal him so that he could use him as 
Oron had.
 
Frodo could not bear it. He would kill himself before allowing that.  Far 
better that he just got the pain over with before he was healed.  If he had 
cooperated with Oron, perhaps things would not have escalated. Perhaps 
he would not have been hurt so badly.
 
Nobody would ever take him by force again.
 
He took Strider's hand in his. He managed a sweet smile, though his lips 
trembled. "Come," he whispered. "I must tell you something."
 
Strider's face filled with hope. Frodo felt triumph. He had read the 
situation correctly. He would cooperate and then Strider wouldn't hurt 
him. In fact, he may be kind enough to spare him the use of his backside, 
at least for awhile. Yes, he would cooperate and when he recovered, he 
would make his escape.
 
When Strider bent down to his level, Frodo wrapped his arms around the 
back of his neck and pulled him down. He kissed him with vicious glee, 
biting his lips, shoving his tongue into Strider's shocked mouth.  His nose 
throbbed with new pain as it bumped against Strider's, but it did not 
matter. To be in control made all the difference. Aragorn returned the kiss 
for a second before he pulled violently away.
 
"Frodo!" he shouted. "What...what was that? What are you doing?"
 
"Come, Strider," Frodo said, breathing quickly.  "Please. Let's get this 
done with. I'm yours."
 
He pushed away the sheets. While unconscious, someone had dressed him 
again--in clean clothes. He wore only his breeches and a linen shirt 
buttoned up. He worked on unbuttoning his shirt.  Strider stared at him. He 
was a good actor to pretend that he hadn't already had this planned.
 
"Frodo."
 
Frodo had completely unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled down his breeches, 
writhing in pain as they went over his sore backside.
 
"I'm very sore," he said. "But I'd rather be done with it now, while I'm still 
in pain.  Come, Strider, don't be coy."
 
The words clotted in his throat. No, he decided. After this, he might as 
well be dead. He might as well never return to the Shire. He could never 
look his friends in the eye.  Oron had been right. He was filthy. Something 
he had done had encouraged Oron's attack on him, and now look at him!--
He was begging this new man for a turn.
 
His steady gaze upon Strider turned to puzzlement as he saw a single tear 
trickle from the corner of the hardened man's eye.  Had he misjudged his 
intentions?
 
He had no time to wonder. Butterbur burst in the door. He gazed at 
Frodo's naked form in puzzlement for a moment. His message was too 
urgent to ponder it for too long.
 
"Strider!" He breathed heavily. "I came all the way up two steps at a time-
-More hobbits have arrived!" He leaned agaainst the door, wiping his red 
face with his apron. "Asking about a hobbit by the name of Frodo! I came 
up here straight away--"
 
"Merry and Pippin--and Sam!" Frodo cried out, throwing his cover over 
his naked body.  "Oh, no! Butterbur, please send them away! They cannot-
-" He glanced at Strider. "I don't want thhem in danger."
 
"Frodo," Strider said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You need your 
friends. You need them now more than ever.  They are not in danger. You 
will not trust me, but I know you trust them. You must trust somebody 
now, Frodo."
 
Frodo shook wildly, clutching his hands together. "They cannot see me 
like this. Please, Butterbur. Please. Do not let them in."
 
"Would it not ease your pain to see your friends?" Strider asked.
 
"No," Frodo said, his eyes wet with pleading. "I don't want them anywhere 
near me."
 
Strider walked across the room and spoke quietly to Butterbur. Frodo 
could not hear all what they said, but despite himself, he found Strider's 
low voice soothing. He caught words from the conversation and figured 
out that Strider wanted Butterbur to put them in a different room in the inn 
until Frodo was ready to see them.  A new hope filled him, lightening the 
lead weight in his chest. His friends had come for him.  They had followed 
him doggedly from Crickhollow. They could not see him now, but 
somehow it comforted him to know that they were near.
 
***
 
 
Butterbur hovered in the doorway, wiping his sweaty brow again. "I'll be 
back in a jiffy then with your boiling water and some bread and meats," 
Butterbur said. He cast a sympathetic glance toward Frodo.
 
"And I'll also need some cold water," Aragorn said.
 
"Aye," Butterbur said, and he left, letting the door slam behind him.
 
Aragorn turned back to Frodo. The hobbit shrank back in his bed, pulling 
the sheet up to his face. Aragorn was overwhelmed by fatigue. He could 
think of nothing more he could do to gain Frodo's trust.  Frodo had gone 
through something unimaginable. Aragorn knew that the victims of such 
abuse often found it impossible to trust again. It might be years before 
Frodo would willingly go near a Man again--and maybe he never would.  
And especially for Frodo, who had lived such a sheltered life in the Shire, 
to have gone through something so heinous on his first trip outside the 
borders of his country! But if Aragorn couldn't gain his trust, then he 
could do nothing to heal him.
 
"You didn't want me?" Frodo finally asked in a soft voice.  His teary eyes 
glittered--such beautiful orbs of blue--filled with keen intelligence under 
the surface of the terror. Aragorn wished that he could have met him under 
different circumstances. He had often joked with Bilbo that he would 
come with him to visit Frodo in the Shire. He should have truly done so.  
His heart sank at the prospect of Frodo's ancient uncle learning about what 
had happened.
 
Aragorn had to take drastic measures. The hobbit needed care or he would 
die of infection, despite having been saved from Oron.
 
"Frodo." Aragorn sat on the edge of Frodo's bed. His voice was harsh, and 
a hard gleam crept into his gray eyes. "I am not a monster who would use 
a battered, frightened hobbit for pleasure."
 
"I don't believe you," Frodo said in a dull, weak voice.
 
Aragorn clenched his hands on his sword hilt in frustration. "I don't know 
what more I can do to gain your trust, Frodo. I can tell you that I am a 
friend of Gandalf's and a friend of your dear uncle Bilbo's until I am blue 
in the face. But if you will not believe me, it does not matter."
 
"You are disgusted by me?" Frodo asked, barely audible. "For what I 
did?"
 
"Why should I be disgusted by you?" Aragorn asked. He longed to trace 
his finger over Frodo's parted lips. He wanted to comfort him, but he knew 
that was out of the question.
 
"Oron...he...I'm filthy. I should have fought him harder. Maybe something 
more I could have done."
 
"No," Aragorn said. His skin felt chilled at the resigned tone in Frodo's 
voice, but he felt some hope.  The hobbit was not fighting him, nor was he 
trembling in panic in his presence.  "There was no way you could have 
fought him. He was many times stronger than you and he was determined 
to do evil. It looks to me like you fought very hard and bravely."
 
"And then..." Frodo's wet eyes focused on his. "I...I willingly offered...said 
you could...could."
 
"Let us not speak of it," Aragorn said, the cold lump in his stomach 
growing heavier.
 
"You would not have me."
 
Aragorn impulsively took one of Frodo's cold hands in his. If he flinched 
or pulled away, this moment of tentative trust would be shattered.  "Frodo, 
you are a beautiful and desirable hobbit. I will not deny that.  But the only 
way I would take you is if you were willing both in body and spirit--and 
you were in far different circumstances. Right now all I want to do is to 
make you better again."
 
Aragorn swallowed the last sentence, which was an overt lie. His desire 
for the hobbit tingled under the surface of his skin. Of course, what was 
true is that he would never, never act on it. He would probably never get 
the chance. Even if Frodo grew to trust him, he would probably never 
want to have a man's hands on him again.  Aragorn could no longer deny 
that his heartbreak over Frodo's condition was in part because he had 
fallen for the hobbit in the picture, combined with what he knew about 
Frodo from Gandalf and Bilbo. And though Frodo in person was broken 
and terrified, Aragorn greatly admired the fight he had put up. No warrior 
could have bragged of more bravery. Aragorn ruefully felt his nose, which 
still throbbed from Frodo's kick.
 
Frodo stared at him, speechless. Then he turned his face away, his chin 
trembling.
 
"How will I face my friends? I ran away from them. I did not want to 
bring them into danger with me. And then I got myself in this kind of 
trouble. If I had not trusted Oron--" Frodo looked at Aragorn, his lips 
slightly parted, and Aragorn's heart lurched as he watched the quick 
transformation over Frodo's face. Frodo's eyes hardened and his face 
twisted into panicked rage.  "Get back! Get away!  I won't go anywhere 
with you! You don't know Gandalf and you don't know Bilbo! You're just 
very good. Very experienced at luring hobbits--"
 
Butterbur came back then.  He carried a pitcher of cold water, a tray filled 
with cold meats and bread, and a pot of boiling water.  He stared at Frodo, 
his fat face lined with pity.
 
"Enough, Frodo!" Aragorn shouted.  He had been a fool to think the 
hobbit would trust him so easily. "You can distrust me all you wish--but if 
I don't treat your wounds, you will die. Is that what you want?"
 
He crushed some athelas leaves and let them fall into the boiling water. He 
then folded a cloth. He dipped it in the cold pitcher of water, saturating it.  
He placed the cold, wet cloth on Frodo's bruised face, holding his chin 
firmly so that he did not turn away. "Hold that here! No, stop turning away 
from me and hold still!"  
 
He disliked having to be so harsh with Frodo, but soothing and gentle 
wasn't working. Being stern was the key. When he was kind, Frodo 
associated it with when Oron first found him. Frodo now stared at him 
with wounded eyes, but he did not fight.
 
Frodo's hand slowly came up.  His small hand covered the cloth.  He let 
out a shuddering sigh, as if recognizing that the cold cloth felt wonderful 
over the ache on his nose and bruised face.
 
"All right," Aragorn said, keeping his voice brusque. "Now I'm going to 
turn you over and look at the damage done to your backside. It's going to 
hurt, but you will not struggle against me--understand?"
 
Frodo did not answer--but he did not protest.  Aragorn lifted Frodo's 
shoulders. The hobbit trembled, but did not fight him.  Aragorn turned him 
gently on his stomach. He pulled down Frodo's breeches as slowly as he 
could. He remembered the pain that had spread over Frodo's face when he 
had pulled them down earlier.  Frodo clutched the sheets with his hand not 
holding the cold compress. He buried his face in his pillow, and Aragorn 
heard muffled whimpering.
 
Aragorn longed to apologize for hurting him; he wanted to reassure him 
that he was not doing to him what Oron had done, but he knew that would 
not soothe Frodo at all--it would only make him more agitated.
 
"I'm going to examine your wound, Frodo. I won't lie. It's going to hurt. 
Just sit tight!"
 
Frodo did not answer. He seemed to have become resigned to his fate.  
Aragorn pried open the hobbit's buttocks. Frodo moaned in deep pain.  
Aragorn frowned. The skin felt very hot. He reached forward and put his 
large hand over Frodo's forehead.  The skin burned under his hand. Frodo 
had a fever, which meant that something was infected.  Bruising had 
spread over his entire backside. Around his hole, a red, swollen mass had 
spread in a thick ring.  Pus and blood seeped on his finger when he 
touched it. 
 
Frodo bucked and yelled. Aragorn kneeled over the back of Frodo's legs to 
keep his bottom from moving.
 
"Butterbur, help me here!  I need you to hold him down at the front!"
 
Butterbur waddled over and gripped Frodo's wrists.  He swallowed and 
tried his best to comfort Frodo. "Come, little hobbit. Strider here's gonna 
help you feel better. I know it hurts.  Strider, his skin is very hot."
 
"He has an infection. That sorry excuse for a man put rotten meat inside 
him."
 
Aragorn dipped the cloth into the boiling athelas water. He put the pan 
closer to Frodo's face so that the hobbit could breathe in the soothing 
herbs.  Aragorn wiped the cloth over Frodo's swollen hole. He cleaned 
away the dried blood and pus.  Frodo writhed in Butterbur's grip and then 
went limp. Aragorn taped a clean bandage soaked with athelas over the 
hole. He pulled Frodo's breeches up and turned him back over onto his 
back.  Frodo had lost consciousness. Aragorn felt his forehead again. His 
fever was dangerously high.
 
Butterbur looked down on Frodo, his fat face drawn as if he were the one 
in terrible pain.  "The other hobbits were pestering me, Strider. They are 
threatening to break into every room until they find him."
 
Aragorn sighed. He dreaded this part more than anything. "I will talk to 
them. They should know what happened before they see him. Frodo 
shouldn't have to tell them.  Where are they, Butterbur?"
 
"Five doors down. I'll wait here with Frodo."
 
"I will be brief. I cannot leave Frodo for long.  While I'm gone, please 
wipe his face down with cool water. That will help bring the fever down."
 
***
 
The three hobbits recoiled when Aragorn knocked and then pushed open 
their door.
 
"Who are you?" a portly hobbit with golden hair asked.  
 
"Sam," A smaller hobbit with brown curly hair said. "I don't think you 
should--"
 
"I'm sorry to frighten you, gentlemen, but I need to talk to you about 
Frodo."
 
"Where is he?" Sam yelled, jumping forward. "What have you done to 
him?"
 
Aragorn felt some disquiet at the sight of the three fierce hobbits. If one 
injured hobbit could do as much damage to him as Frodo had, imagine 
what three of his very worried companions could do. "I'm a friend of 
Gandalf's, and--"
 
"Where is Gandalf?" the small one with the brown curly hair piped up. His 
eyes were curious, no longer frightened. Aragorn inwardly groaned. The 
hobbit had trusted far too quickly.
 
"Shhh, Pip," Sam said. He turned a furious glare on Aragorn. "You take 
me to Mr. Frodo right now or there's going to be trouble, see!"
 
"Gandalf has been delayed," Aragorn said.  "I must return to Frodo as he is 
very ill, but--"
 
"Ill?" all three hobbits cried out.
 
"Where is he?" Sam demanded. "I won't listen to another word until you 
take me to him!"
 
Aragorn was weary; he had had little sleep since he realized Frodo had 
been taken by Oron. On one hand, he was glad that Sam did not so easily 
trust, but Aragorn had no time to deal with a new round of suspicious 
hobbits.
 
He yanked his sword from his sheath and faced the hobbits. His gray eyes 
gleamed with menace. "Sit down and stay quiet!"
 
Sam stared at him, his mouth hanging open.  The other two hobbits sat 
quickly on the edge of one of the beds, clutching each other.  They pulled 
Sam down beside them. Six huge eyes stared up at him in frightened 
silence.
 
"Merry--" the small one that Sam had called Pippin said.  
 
"There," Aragorn said, sitting across from them on a stool. "That's better. 
Haste is needed. Frodo is very ill, and I must get back to him. He is not 
ready to see you yet. Something really terrible has happened to him. I 
want to tell you about it, but it's going to be very difficult to hear."
 
"Terrible?" Merry asked in a small voice.  Fear was written all over his 
face. "What?"
 
Sam looked at him appealingly.  "What happened?"
 
"Frodo was abducted by a very bad man." Aragorn knew he was speaking 
to these adult hobbits as if they were children, but the Shire folk were very 
sheltered. They may not even know what rape is. He did not know how he 
was going to tell them.
 
"Did the man hurt him?" Merry asked, again in a small voice. The fear in 
his voice made it clear to Aragorn that perhaps these Shire folk were not 
so naive.
 
"Yes," Aragorn said. His throat caught. He so hated to be the one to bear 
this news to Frodo's dearest friends.  It was best that he be blunt and let the 
hobbits ask questions if they needed to. "He's been raped quite brutally."
 
The hobbits paled.  Sam gave a cry and covered his eyes. "Mr. Frodo, Mr. 
Frodo! Oh, dear, Mr. Frodo!"
 
Pippin looked confused.  "Rape--but how?"
 
"He's also been beaten quite badly," Aragorn continued.
 
"What a horrible, brutal man!" Pippin said.  
 
"Oh, dear," Merry said, his throat catching. "Please can we see him? He 
needs his friends! He's all alone here in this horrible village--"
 
Aragorn shook his head and sighed. "He's badly traumatized. Right now, 
he is deeply ashamed to be seen by his friends.  He does not want to see 
you."
 
"Not want to...?" Sam said in a hoarse voice.  Tears ran down his face. "Of 
course he wants to see us! He can't be alone without his Sam! You must 
let us see him."
 
Aragorn shook his head firmly. "I am sorry, but I must respect his wishes. 
He barely trusts me as it is.  I think the best thing for Frodo right now is to 
have some time to get used to the fact that his dear friends are near. 
Believe me, he is comforted that you are near. You must be patient."
 
The hobbits clutched each other and wept.
 
"He will live?" Merry finally managed.  He looked at Aragorn with such 
openness that it nearly broke him inside. These hobbits, despite what 
Aragorn had just told them about what had happened to Frodo, were 
already ready to trust him.
 
Aragorn looked at the ceiling, debating how much to tell the hobbits of 
Frodo's dire condition. He decided to be as positive as he could.  "With 
proper care, he will fully recover."
 
***
 
 
 
Frodo lay perfectly still. If he kept his eyes squeezed shut, perhaps the 
men would believe him to be asleep. He didn't hear voices, though he 
could hear a man's heavy breathing. It could not be Strider. Strider moved 
with stealthy grace.
 
Frodo's eyes burned. His skin burned. Though he did not move, dizziness 
washed over him. He clutched the sides of the bed, certain he would fall 
off into a tilting abyss. He was so sick. It would be better if he died.  He 
was alone. Utterly alone.  He should never have believed Strider and 
Butterbur when they had claimed that his friends had arrived.  It was just 
one more ploy to throw him off guard. Frodo choked back tears. He did 
not know why Strider's cruelty hurt him so. He desperately longed to trust 
him. He wanted to lie limp in those strong arms and allow Strider to 
comfort him.
 
But something about his help was wrong.  Why, for example, was 
Butterbur feigning kindness? Frodo had taken a room and then he had not 
paid for it. Oron had said that Butterbur was a stickler. He didn't let 
anyone get away with not paying. There had to be an underhanded reason 
for his present kindness.
 
The answer crashed over him like a bucket of cold water, and he could not 
help but let out a whimper. He opened his eyes.  Strider was gone, but 
Butterbur was sitting beside his bed, a concerned look on his flushed face. 
Frodo shrank from him.
 
"It's all right," Butterbur said. "I've wiped you off with cool water. You 
got a nasty fever."
 
Frodo stared at Butterbur, his burning eyes wide with terror.  He was no 
mere innkeeper.  His inn acted as a brothel, and Butterbur and Strider had 
successfully trapped him here.  Of course it made sense that they would 
want him to heal as soon as possible so that he could be of service.
 
He had to escape, especially while Strider was gone.
 
"Please, Butterbur," he said in as sweet a voice as possible. "Could I have 
some tea please?"
 
Butterbur jumped up. "Oh, certainly, little master. I'll be right back. Then 
I'll sponge you down again--see?"
 
As soon as he was out the door, Frodo rolled over until he fell out of the 
bed.  Pulling himself to his feet was going to hurt. He hoped his aching 
muscles would cooperate. He struggled to his feet, but his leg muscles 
were weak and trembling. He was mostly already dressed. He found his 
vest with the Ring still inside the pocket, but he had no idea where his 
cloak or jacket were. He would have to go without. He would leave the 
inn, find where the hobbits lived, and find a nice hobbit hole. There he 
would beg for help and rest for a few days.  He would have them contact 
the law to check out the inn, just in the rare case that Strider had not been 
lying about his friends being there. If his friends actually were in the inn, 
then they would be in danger.
 
Once again, he wished more than anything that he could trust Strider. 
There was something almost familiar--something that reminded him of 
Bilbo or Gandalf--beneath the rough ranger's exterior.  There was 
something tender in his callused hands. Frodo could not deny that the 
ranger had wept real tears after Frodo's disgusting offer. But was that not 
how men lured hobbits?  They knew that hobbits were much more openly 
emotional. Strider may have realized that the way to gain Frodo's trust was 
to cry in front of him.
 
He shivered violently.  A buzzing filled his ears. He swayed on his feet. 
Despite the soothing herbs Strider had used on his bottom, walking 
aggravated the pain. He bit the insides of his cheeks. He had to endure the 
pain until he got to a safe place. He knew he was very feverish. He had 
heard Strider say something about an infection.  He had no time to 
contemplate.
 
He grabbed his bag and staggered to the door.  The pain ripped over his 
backside and abdomen.  Sweat broke out on his face, and he collapsed to 
his knees. He would never make it.  He had to. This was his chance. His 
muscles ached from the fever that burned his skin and made his vision 
waver.
 
He grabbed the side of the door and pulled himself to his feet. He lurched 
out the door and down the empty hallway, praying not to run into anyone. 
He heard nothing. He padded as quietly as he could on his hobbit feet.  He 
reached a wood staircase.
 
A new pain seized his abdomen, nearly causing him to pitch down the 
stairs head first. His knees collapsed, and he grabbed the railing. He did 
not have enough strength in his arms to hold his weight.  He slid the 
remainder of the way down the stairs on his knees. Each bump jarred his 
injuries. Tears sprang to his eyes.  He stifled a pain-filled sob. At the 
bottom of the stairs, he covered his face with his hands and writhed.  He 
bit his arm to keep from sobbing aloud. He had never been in so much 
pain in his life. His arms trembled and sweat broke over his face. He could 
not be caught here. He had to make it out the door. He forced himself to 
his feet again.
 
He made it down the stairs. He had reached the door.  He pushed on it, a 
new sob of gratefulness filling him.  The door stuck. He pushed again. 
Nothing. He was locked in. Fury overtook him.  He flung his battered 
body against the door, ignoring the shooting pains in his ribs. How could 
he have not guessed that they would lock him in?  All this effort and pain 
for nothing. He fell to his knees again. Strider and Butterbur would find 
him sobbing in pain and desperation. This time they wouldn't care about 
healing him.  They would beat him, and then they would each take a turn 
with him. 
 
He gave the door one more mighty push--and it opened! He nearly fell out 
the door.  He had made it. He looked at the star-filled sky, gasping in 
relief. He was free. He only wished he had his cloak. His aching muscles 
trembled in the new chill. He forced his legs to move. He had to find the 
hobbits.
 
He shuddered.  Any of Oron's friends could be around, the same men who 
had wanted a turn with Oron's halfling treasure.  Frodo swallowed the 
lump in his throat. If that happened, he would die. His heart would simply 
stop and they would be violating a broken corpse.
 
He had only walked a few feet, when his leg muscles simply gave out.  
Blackness seeped in front of his eyes.  A grinding nausea erupted from his 
abdomen.
 
"No, no," Frodo groaned, weakly beating the ground. "Not here. Not 
here."  He was doomed to die among strange men who wanted to harm 
him.  He could not move any more. His muscles were heavy and would 
not obey his commands to move. He looked up. A group of gritty men 
walked in his direction, though they had not noticed him yet.
 
Everything tilted, and the men, the inn, and the whole village faded.
 
***
 
Aragorn left the three hobbits with firm instructions not to leave their 
room.  "Bree's not been safe for hobbits for some time now. Frodo doesn't 
need any of you getting into trouble. Just stay put and I'll hopefully be 
back to get you soon."
 
He walked down the corridor in the direction of Frodo's room, and on the 
way, he met Butterbur carrying a steaming pot of tea.
 
"You left him alone?" Aragorn demanded. His heart battered. Frodo 
should not be left alone for a minute, not in his state.
 
"He asked for tea, Strider. I didn't know how long you'd be."
 
Aragorn pushed past him and into the room.  His skin felt cold. Frodo was 
gone. His bag was gone. Aragorn's throat dried, and his limbs trembled. 
Where had the hobbit gone?  He could not have gone far--not with the 
extent of his injuries.
 
"Oh, no," Aragorn said.  "I'm going to search the streets right now. He 
can't get far."
 
His heart sank until it became a heavy weight in his stomach. Frodo 
wouldn't make it far. If he collapsed far from help, he would die.  
Aragorn's rage at Oron bubbled over. The man had taken this innocent 
hobbit and brutalized him. Frodo would never be the same again. His 
physical injuries would heal, but the innocence had been ripped from him. 
He would be fearful and angry toward men the rest of his life.  Again and 
again, he thought about stabbing Oron in the gut. He tried to gain 
satisfaction from the pain and shock that had gone over the warrior's face 
before he had died. But he got no satisfaction.  Oron should have suffered 
more. He should have had to beg for a mercy that never came, just as he 
had made Frodo do.
 
Aragorn clenched his fists. He would not tell the other hobbits that Frodo 
was gone. Not until he had made a thorough search of the area. And if any 
other man dared lay a hand on Frodo, Aragorn would not be as nice as he 
had been to Oron.  Oh no. He would pay with more than his life. He would 
pay with all he had to give. 
 
***
 
 
Aragorn's heart beat in a raw panic. He had not seen Frodo in any of the 
dark corridors of the inn.  He checked briefly in the Common Room, but 
he had little hope.  Sure enough--Frodo was not there.  He rushed out the 
front door, looking back and forth over the dark street. He saw nothing.  
 
Frodo wouldn't have walked out the front door. Aragorn was almost 
certain he would not have gone anywhere near the Common Room, which 
was full of so many strange men. Frodo in his injured, frightened state 
would have slipped out a back entrance.  Aragorn's heart sank. Frodo 
might have begged for help from the first passerby he saw.  Even if the 
man had no intention of doing Frodo harm, he would want to take him 
somewhere to treat his injuries, and then it would be difficult if not 
impossible for Aragorn to find him. 
 
Aragorn shook his head. Frodo would not voluntarily put himself into the 
hands of any man.  He would try to make his way to other hobbits.  He did 
not trust men. But would he have any idea where to go to find hobbits?  
Aragorn turned the corner into the alley behind the inn.  A group of men 
were bent over something. Aragorn's heart sped, rattling in his ears.  He 
ran toward them, brandishing his sword.  As he neared, he could hear one 
of the men say, "Little fool should've stayed out of this neighborhood."
 
"Move away!" Aragorn shouted.  The men started in surprise.  One of 
them carried a limp Frodo in his arms. Aragorn
 
"Give me the halfling," Aragorn said.  The men not holding Frodo 
recoiled.
 
"He is badly hurt," the man holding Frodo said. "Who are you?"
 
"I am his friend and he has wandered from his sickbed in delirium." 
Aragorn took Frodo away from the man with one arm while still holding 
his sword in the other.
 
"Looks like he's been beaten," the man said, looking at Aragorn in open 
suspicion.  "Maybe you had something to do with it."
 
Aragorn did not answer. He peered at Frodo's pale face, listening for 
breath. It was there, though faint. There was a clammy sheen of sweat over 
his face.  Aragorn did not now think that these men, gritty as they 
appeared, had intended to harm Frodo. Still, Aragorn wished to get Frodo 
away from them before he regained consciousness.  Frodo would be 
terrified to be surrounded by four men in the alley behind the inn. 
 
"Can we be of help?" one of the men asked in a soft voice.
 
"No," Aragorn said brusquely. "It is best I get him back to the room 
immediately. He is frightened of men."
 
"With good reason it seems. I would bet my ale it wasn't a hobbit that did 
that to his face."
 
"Indeed it was not," Aragorn said. He looked at the man, his expression 
softening at the concern he saw in the stranger's eyes. "If you want to be of 
help, keep your eyes open and try to stop the next attack on a hobbit in this 
area."
 
Aragorn carried Frodo back into the inn, up the same flight of stairs that 
Frodo had fallen down, and to the room.  Butterbur was not there. Feeling 
responsible, he had probably gone on his own search of the building.
 
Aragorn placed Frodo back on the bed.  Immediately he unbuttoned the 
hobbit's shirt. His soft skin was still hot, but there was a pale clammy 
quality to his face that was disturbing. His heart rate was rapid and weak.  
Aragorn propped Frodo's feet under a pillow to raise them above heart 
level.
 
Frodo's eyes moved under his lids, and he let out a weak groan.  Aragorn 
glanced down at his stomach with dismay.  The bruising was extensive, 
where Oron had kicked him so many times.  But now he saw that it was 
pink and distended over his abdomen.  Aragorn had seen injuries like that 
in battle, and it almost always indicated dangerous internal bleeding.
 
"Oh, Frodo," he whispered to himself in dismay.  There was very little that 
he could do in this inn. In Rivendell, he would be able to easily heal him 
of these injuries. Here he could not rely on Elven skills and magic.
 
Frodo probably would not survive.  Hot tears filled Aragorn's eyes.  His 
chest filled with grief that he had met Frodo under these horrific 
circumstances.  Bilbo had told him so many stories about Frodo--how 
Frodo would climb up trees to escape Hobbiton social obligations, reading 
unnoticed for hours on end, how Frodo had sat beside Bilbo's bed for days 
once while he was ill with pneumonia reading to him in butchered 
Quenya, how Frodo always begged to know everything about the outside 
world, how Frodo made the best pound cakes in the Shire. But most of all, 
Aragorn thought about the picture where Frodo's smile had been so 
carefree and trusting, and that image was like a dart in his heart.
 
Aragorn realized he had been staring at Frodo for some time, wasting 
precious healing time.
 
He was going to have to cut into him, risky even under the most ideal of 
circumstances and very dangerous in the circumstances under which he 
would need to work.  He would need help.
 
He decided to fetch Frodo's friends.  Frodo was most likely not going to 
make it, and at least they should be reunited for a short time. Frodo was so 
weakened that he would not protest their presence. Aragorn suspected that 
Frodo had fled the inn, truly believing that Butterbur and Aragorn had 
been lying about his friends having arrived.
 
***
 
Frodo wandered through a maze of dark, narrow streets. He was lost. He 
did not recognize anything. He turned, fully intending to go back to the 
inn in defeat. But now he could not even find the inn.  A chilling mist 
floated in the streets.
 
"Frodo." A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned around with a 
gasp.  Oron stood above him, grinning maniacally.  His tunic was stained 
with blood.
 
"You're dead! You were supposed to be dead!" Frodo yelled, backing up 
in terror.  Nobody had heard him. The streets were empty.
 
"My sweet, I could not bear to be away from you. I want you again. I want 
to taste your flesh. There's nothing like a tight halfling for pleasure, is 
there? I want us to live together forever."
 
Only then did Frodo notice that Oron was wearing the Ring on his index 
finger. It emitted a glow that bathed his cold hand in golden warmth.
 
"No, no," Frodo tried to back away, but Oron grabbed him. 
 
"You cannot escape, halfling! I have the Ring and now I command the sun 
and the moon." He ripped Frodo's shirt off.  "I will have you."
 
"Help me!" Frodo screamed, but Oron knocked him down with a violent 
blow across the face. The Ring cut into his nose.
 
Oron flipped him onto his stomach.  Frodo cringed, waiting for the 
inevitable, letting out short, painful gasps. He felt his breeches ripped 
down. The throbbing pain in his backside could surely not absorb more 
abuse.
 
Pippin and Merry wept in the background. The dark street faded.  He felt 
cool sheets on his burning skin.
 
"No, Oron, no!" Frodo cried.
 
"He's going to die?" he heard Pippin's voice.
 
Strider's voice was low in response.  "He is dreaming. Now please hand 
me the scissors. They should be sterile now. Careful not to touch the 
edges."
 
Frodo was vaguely aware of lying in a bed.  He felt debilitating relief at 
the sound of Strider's voice. With Strider around, Oron could not harm 
him. Oron was gone. He had been speared by Strider. Frodo caught a brief 
glimpse of Sam's face above him.  Could it be true? He could no longer 
trust his senses.
 
"Sam," he tried to say, but another name erupted from his throat.
 
"I am here," Strider said with a gentle caress on his cheek.  Frodo heard 
him say in a nearly inaudible voice, "It doesn't look good, but I will do 
everything in my power to heal him.  He's put up a very brave fight."
 
"Thank goodness you got to him!" Merry said, his voice tight with agony. 
Small hands grasped Frodo's cold hand. It was real. A dream would not 
have such vivid sensory details.  His friends had found him. He was not on 
a dark street being raped by Oron again.  The Ring!
 
"...still have it?" Frodo managed to whisper. He still could not see 
anything. He couldn't keep his eyes open long enough. The bed tilted 
again, trying to knock him into the darkness.
 
"It?" Merry asked in puzzlement.
 
"You know what he means," Sam said.  There was silence as the hobbits 
searched through Frodo's clothing.  Frodo did not know whether Strider 
was still there.  The man did not seem so threatening while his hobbit 
friends were with him.  Strider was curt and frightening, but everything he 
had done to Frodo so far had made him feel better. Sam was suspicious of 
everyone, but he seemed to obey everything Strider told him to do. Sam 
would not comply with anyone that he thought was out to harm Frodo.
 
"Yes, you silly goose," Merry said. "You still have it. And you have us. 
You'll not get rid of us so easily again."
 
Frodo sighed in relief. He felt a gentle kiss on his forehead before he 
slipped into more darkness.
 
***
 
 
Aragorn turned to the frightened hobbits.  
 
“Now I’m only going to say this once. I need clear heads and quick hands.  
Frodo’s life is in serious danger.  I don’t want to lose him any more than 
you do. That is why I am going to give you commands and you will need 
to obey quickly and without question. Is this clear?”
 
Three heads nodded. A tear trickled from Sam’s eye.  “What can we do to 
help?” 
 
Aragorn’s face softened.  He took out his leather medical kit from his 
pack. The kit had served him well in many battles.  
 
“Merry and Pippin, help Butterbur fetch us some more boiling water and 
some clean towels. Sam, I will need you to sit beside Frodo and monitor 
his pulse. Do you know how to do that?”
 
Sam shook his head, trying to remain cool but shaken by Frodo’s deathly 
cold skin.
 
Aragorn placed Sam’s finger on Frodo’s wrist.  “Do you feel a beat?”
 
Sam shook his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back tears. 
“No, no. Is he dead, Strider? Is he dead?”
 
“Sam.” Aragorn put his hand under Sam’s chin. “I need you to stay calm.” 
He wrapped his fingers around Sam’s wrist. He moved Sam’s finger to 
various points on Frodo’s wrist. “His pulse is faint because he’s in shock, 
but you should still be able to feel it.”
 
Sam nodded with some relief. “I feel something.”
 
“Your job is to inform me if it suddenly increases or decreases 
dramatically.”
 
Sam nodded.  Merry and Pippin returned with Butterbur.  They set the 
boiling water on the nightstand beside Frodo. The towels Aragorn put at 
the side of Frodo’s head. Aragorn took his knife, the special silver knife 
Elrond had given him as a gift many years ago, and held it in the fire to 
kill any germs that may have gotten on it. He also stuck his long needle 
into the fire. He slipped a long strand of horsehair through its eye.  He last 
disinfected a pair of scissors.
 
Aragorn shook his head. “I can’t imagine his pain and terror if he wakes 
while I am cutting. We need to be prepared for it.  I’ll need Merry and 
Pippin to secure his legs. Butterbur, if you would hold his shoulders down, 
that would make me feel better about this. I can’t have him struggling 
while I have the knife on him.”
 
Aragorn undressed Frodo from the waist up. He wiped his abdomen with 
athelas and boiling water. He put towels on either side of his abdomen.  
He prayed Frodo would not wake. He still had some of the sleeping herb 
with him, but he did not want to give him anything that might affect his 
already weak heart rate.
 
“How’s his pulse, Samwise?”
 
Sam nodded. “It’s still here.”
 
Aragorn smiled at him. The hobbits were trying so hard to be brave. Such 
amazing creatures they were! His heart twisted when he looked down on 
Frodo’s battered pale face.  Frodo had called to him before he had lost 
consciousness. On some level, Frodo no longer hated him. Aragorn was 
determined not to lose him. He placed the towels on either side of his bare 
abdomen.
 
Aragorn held the knife firmly. He was skilled. He had performed this 
surgery a number of times. Still, about half of his patients had died of 
shock, another quarter had died because the injuries were too severe to 
save with surgery. Which meant only a quarter had survived. But a quarter 
remained alive that would not have survived had the surgery not been 
done. He had to accept that Frodo was too weak to withstand this surgery. 
He had to accept that he had a three-quarters chance of dying. The idea 
wrenched his heart. He could not allow it to happen. Somehow Frodo had 
to live.
 
Aragorn sliced into Frodo’s abdomen.  The towels caught the daunting 
trickle of blood.
 
“He’s bleeding so much,” Pippin said, panicked. “You’re hurting him!”
 
“Not another word,” Aragorn said in a brusque voice. “Or you will have to 
leave the room.”
 
Pippin bowed his head in frightened shame, trying to hide his tears.  Merry 
reached his hand to his shoulder. “Shh, Pippin. He’s doing his best to help 
Frodo.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Pippin said. Aragorn ignored him. Later there would be time 
to comfort Frodo’s friends.  Aragorn parted the skin. Inside the mass of 
blood, he could see the source of the problem. The organ shaped like a 
thick bent raindrop was ripped toward the front.  Aragorn stuck his needle 
in it and began to suture.
 
Frodo’s eyes fluttered under his lids. He let out a groan. Aragorn’s heart 
lurched. Frodo was waking, and Aragorn feared the pain might kill him.
 
“Mr. Strider, his heart rate’s going awfully fast.”
 
Frodo’s eyes flew open. He gasped as if he were choking.  He glimpsed 
the blood-soaked towels and arched his back in panic.
 
“Aggg,” he gasped, staring at Aragorn with eyes filled with pain. His chin 
shook. His mouth opened as the pain fully overtook him.  Aragorn lifted 
his free hand and struck Frodo hard across the face.  Frodo’s eyes rolled 
up into his sockets and he went limp again. Aragorn released his breath.  
He hoped he had not hit him too hard. He was familiar with how hard he 
had to hit to knock a man out, but with hobbits he had to be careful about 
using too much force.
 
“Why’d you do that?” Sam cried out, still holding his finger on Frodo’s 
pulse.
 
“I can’t give him anything to knock him out. You don’t want him in pain, 
do you?”
 
“No,” Sam said, shaking his head. New tears oozed from his eyes.  “Oh, 
Mr. Frodo, I can’t bear to see you like this!”
 
Aragorn returned to the task at hand.  The wound to be sutured was 
actually quite small, though it had been leaking blood at an alarming rate 
since Oron had kicked him so hard.  Frodo’s struggles against Aragorn 
and his attempt to escape had only aggravated the bleeding until he had 
nearly bled out.  
 
“He’s losing so much blood,” Merry said quietly. Aragorn looked down. 
The towels were both soaked. He could do nothing about that now.  
Aragorn drew another piece of horsehair through his needle. Now he 
would suture the outside wound.  So far so good. Frodo had not died from 
the shock or loss of blood yet.
 
Suturing the outside wound took much longer. They would have to be so 
careful of infection. As neat as Butterbur tried to keep his inn, this was not 
a pristine healing house.  Sam’s hand trembled over Frodo’s wrist.  
Aragorn glanced at him.  His wet eyes were full of hope.  Frodo was 
nearly stitched up and he hadn’t died yet. Merry and Pippin had been 
silent.
 
“He’s still alive,” Sam said.
 
“Yes,” Aragorn said. “That is a good sign. But he’s not out of the woods 
yet.”
 
Frodo’s nose was leaking blood from Aragorn’s blow.  Aragorn finished 
the last of his suturing.  He wiped Frodo’s abdomen clean of blood. He 
threw the bloody towels to the floor.
 
“You can release him now,” he said to the others in the room.
 
“You did it,” Sam gasped, his eyes shining with gratitude. “You really did 
it.  I could never repay you enough, Mr. Strider.”
 
Aragorn sank into the chair beside the bed.  Now that he was finished, his 
limbs trembled with fatigue.  He had to sleep. He hadn’t slept in months, it 
seemed. Frodo’s friends were here. He didn’t need to be in a state of 
constant vigilance. 
 
“I will take just a small rest,” Aragorn said to the hobbits. “Wake me 
immediately if something goes wrong.”
 
Butterbur stepped from the bed, trembling.  He turned to the hobbits. 
“Would you want something fresh to eat?”
 
“Yes please,” Pippin said. He glanced at Frodo’s slowly rising and falling 
chest with relief.  “I am hungry all the sudden.”
 
“Poor Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, stroking Frodo’s hand. “He’s been through 
so much.”
 
“Let him sleep,” Merry said. “I imagine he’ll be in quite some pain when 
he awakens.”
 
“Right you are,” Sam said, pulling away from him. “And I’m embarrassed 
to say it with Mr. Frodo’s suffering so much, but I could use something to 
eat.”
 
Aragorn smiled to himself. He hoped that he would soon see Frodo with 
cheeks flushed with enjoyment, eating food as voraciously as hobbits 
should. It was the last thought he had before he slipped into a heavy sleep.
 
***
 
Frodo could not recall a time when he had faced such relentless pain.  
Thousands of hot pokers jabbed his abdomen from both inside and out.  
His backside throbbed with new vengeance.  His jaw smarted as if Oron 
had delivered him a few good slaps while he had been sleeping.
 
And he had never felt such weakness.  He could not move his limbs.  Yet 
now he could not sleep. He did not want to. His dreams had been restless 
and unpleasant.  He had been in a variety of places—once in Bag End, 
another time in Buckland, another time in the streets of Bree. Always 
Oron had appeared, his tunic caked with dry blood, his eyes gleaming with 
wicked glee. Frodo always ran, but the large warrior always caught him 
around the torso and forced him down on a filthy floor or ground. 
Sometimes Frodo mercifully woke before the enormous burning brand 
was jammed into his backside. Other times he suffered through it again 
and again.
 
He opened his eyes with a groan.  He was in a simple room, vaguely 
familiar. The sun peeked in through the drawn drapes and a splash of 
sunlight marred the dark wooden floor. A weak fire burned in the 
fireplace.  It seemed a homey, friendly place.
 
His heart lurched.  Strider sat in a chair beside the bed.  His eyes were 
closed, but they opened when Frodo stirred.
 
Strider was still here.
 
The last Frodo remembered, he had been in the dark street, desperate to 
escape Strider—who had deceived him with his kindness and efficient 
care--and to find out where the hobbits of Bree lived.  He had thought at 
one point in his dark dreams that he had heard the voices of his friends 
intermingled with Strider’s stern voice, but surely he had dreamed it all.
 
He tried to speak, but nothing came out of his throat.
 
He shifted position, but a flare of agony hit his stomach.   He cautiously 
reached under the coverlet.
 
“Do not touch it, Frodo,” Strider said quietly. “The wound is freshly 
sutured.”
 
Frodo remembered another dream in which Strider had hit him in anger. 
He touched his face, where a fresh bruise had developed. Perhaps it hadn’t 
been a dream.  He couldn’t remember what he had done to deserve such a 
hard slap, but men grew violent over the oddest things, as he had learned 
from Oron.  It was best not to question them.
 
“I am very sorry I had to hurt you,” Strider said.  “I couldn’t have you 
awake during the procedure.”
 
“Procedure?”
 
“Do you remember anything?”
 
“I dreamed my friends were here.” Frodo felt his chin tremble.  “I wish so 
much I could see them.”
 
When first Butterbur had announced the arrival of the other hobbits, Frodo 
had not wanted them to see him in his state. Now he wished more than 
ever that he could see their sweet, jolly faces.  They could penetrate the 
darkness in his heart.  They could make him laugh.  No.  He would never 
laugh again.  He shuddered, feeling Oron’s arms around him again.
 
“Your friends are here,” Strider said.  “I sent them downstairs to eat.  
They’ll be back—“
 
At that moment, the door burst open. Frodo gasped in joy as Merry, Pippin 
and Sam rushed to him.  He smiled for the first time since he had left his 
friends.
 
“I knew he would wake while we were down there eating!” Sam cried. 
“And if Mr. Pippin hadn’t insisted on a third helping of supper…”
 
“Who ordered a third ale?” Pippin said, slapping Sam’s arm in accusation.
 
“Easy,” Strider said.  “Don’t jostle the bed.”
 
Sam grabbed Frodo’s hand and kissed it. “How do you feel, Mr. Frodo?”
 
Frodo turned to Strider with tears of gratitude in his eyes and then back to 
Sam. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re really here. I thought…I 
thought he was lying to me. I—“
 
“Mr. Strider did a fine job,” Sam said. “You would have been lost without 
him. He cut you open and sewed you up like you were a pillow losing its 
stuffing, if you get my meaning. And such tenderness I’ve never seen.  
He’s a miracle, Mr. Frodo.  A real miracle.”
 
Pippin puffed up with self-importance. “And I am to give you this, 
Cousin. Butterbur found a letter addressed to you from Gandalf that he has 
neglected to give you.  Poor Mr. Butterbur is in quite a state, thinking all 
your troubles might have been prevented if he had given it to you 
immediately.”
 
“Let me have it!” Frodo said. “From Gandalf?  Where was he? Why didn’t 
he meet me?”
 
Pippin handed him the letter, and Frodo tore it open with weak, trembling 
hands.  He read in Gandalf’s sprawling writing about him possibly being 
delayed, about how Frodo should have left the Shire months ago.  And 
then—Frodo’s heart sped--how he could trust a man called Strider.  Frodo 
read the poem at the bottom of the letter.
 
“All that is gold does not glitter,” Frodo murmured. He looked at Strider.  
“You are a friend!” Strider chuckled modestly.  There was no gleam of 
deceit in his eyes. But now the thought did not comfort Frodo.  He took in 
cold, rapid breaths as he realized how viciously he had fought against 
Strider. Frodo saw the kindness in his gaze, and his heart sank with shame 
until it formed a painful ache in his chest.
 
“Are you in pain?” Strider asked, tensing. ”We shouldn’t have allowed 
you this excitement so soon—“
 
“No, no,” Frodo said, his throat filling with an urge to weep. “But—I’ve 
treated you abominably!”
 
“You have a good punch, Frodo,” Pippin said, looking at the bruise on 
Strider’s face in admiration. “I never would have guessed from a frail 
hobbit like yourself—“
 
“Don’t joke about it!” Frodo said fiercely.  Pippin shrank back, clearly 
ashamed, which made Frodo feel worse.  He was alienating the very 
friends he had longed for.
 
“I’m sorry, Pippin,” Frodo whispered.
 
Strider put his strong hand on Frodo’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I 
would have been worried if you had passively accepted my help after what 
you went through. I do not blame you for fighting me.”
 
“No, no,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I…you’re a good man.  A good 
man to tolerate me after--How could I have fought you so bitterly but not 
fought Oron enough?”
 
His friends grew quiet. They had not expected Frodo to be so open about 
his attack.  Frodo turned to them with tears in his eyes. “I know Strider 
told you what happened to me. I’m too weak to keep it inside right now.  
If after what I say, I understand if you don’t want to go with me anymore, 
if you want to go home. I would not hold it against you.”
 
“We know,” Merry said quietly, squeezing Frodo’s hand.  His chin 
trembled.  Pippin looked miserably down at his hands.  Sam’s teary eyes 
hardened with rage.  “We would never leave you. And we won’t let you 
leave us again.”
 
Frodo’s voice cracked with fury and pain.  “I didn’t fight him hard 
enough. I should have kicked him and bit him, like I did to you, Strider—
you, who least deserved it!  But he easily overcame me and I didn’t do 
enough. I know I couldn’t have won against him, but at least I could have 
made it harder for him!”
 
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said in a strangled voice.
 
“Let’s take this back to reality, Frodo,” Strider said dryly.  “You fought 
me off with good skill.  I still have the bruises to prove it.  But I didn’t 
want to hurt you. If you had fought Oron with as much vehemence, he 
may have killed you—or at least hurt you a lot worse than he did.”
 
“He couldn’t do worse,” Frodo said, shaking his head. “He couldn’t hurt 
me worse. I wish…I wish he had killed me.”  He had gotten a good kick 
into Oron, and afterward, when Oron had grabbed him for the last time, 
Oron had vowed to slit his throat.  If Strider hadn’t come at that time, he 
would be dead. Death would have been far preferable to this pulsating 
pain in his heart and body.
 
“No!” Pippin cried out.  Sam shook his head, his lips pursed in fury that 
anyone had hurt his Mr. Frodo this badly.  He could not seem to speak.
 
“Never say that,” Merry said, rubbing Frodo’s hand between his two 
hands.  “We need you too much.”
 
“I feel so dirty,” Frodo said.  Speaking aloud of his agony had somewhat 
eased the pit in his chest.  “I can still smell the filth he spread on me, and I 
feel like it still belongs on me.  I can never go back to the Shire because it 
is pure and peaceful.  My very presence will defile it.”
 
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. He gently pushed Merry out of the way and took 
Frodo’s hand in a firm grip. “You must stop saying such terrible things! 
You could never defile your Shire. I don’t care what that brute’s done to 
you, you’re the purest--”  He stopped, obviously embarrassed by what he 
was about to say.  “No, you’ll never be dirty to me, Mr. Frodo,” he quickly 
finished.
 
Strider got up from his chair and put a kettle on the fire.  “I’m going to 
make you some tea that will help relax you.”
 
“I don’t need to relax,” Frodo said. His abdomen throbbed furiously from 
his labored breathing.  A few tears ran out of his eyes and down his 
cheeks.  “Don’t any of you understand? I can never go back to the Shire. 
I’m used and filthy. No lass will marry me. Even if…even if I wished to 
partake in such…such…what Oron…”
 
“Frodo,” Strider said quietly, gently catching his soft cheeks in his big 
hands.  “You will cause your wounds to reopen.  Please--”
 
Frodo continued as if Strider hadn’t spoken. “…with a lad instead of a 
lass, I’m surely damaged beyond repair.”
 
Strider flushed and looked away.  Frodo felt immediately ashamed.  He 
had said too much. Strider no doubt had been reminded of the shameless 
way Frodo had offered himself to him.  At the thought, Frodo began to 
weep. He covered his face and turned his head away from his friends.
 
“Sam,” Strider said quietly. “Please prepare the tea. I have the herbs on the 
small table by the fireplace.”  He turned back to Frodo.  “Frodo, I know 
you’re hurting. I want to make it clear that nobody here thinks you are 
dirty or that you didn’t fight hard enough.  You will need to accept that 
Oron was the filthy one. You did everything you could.”
 
“I went willingly to his cottage,” Frodo protested in a hoarse voice.  “He 
did not force me. I willingly lay in his bed.  His bed, which stank of sweat 
and…and I can’t bear the thought of it! Of course he must have thought it 
was okay—I put myself in that position--“
 
“Frodo,” Merry added quietly. “Why don’t you tell us exactly what 
happened from beginning to end. Why don’t you let us be the judge of 
whether you fought hard enough?”
 
Frodo looked at his friends through blurry eyes.  None of them had turned 
away. None of them had left the room in disgust.  Even Strider watched 
him with such compassion.
 
“Here, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, lifting a steaming mug of tea to Frodo’s lips.  
“I’ll help you drink this.”
 
Frodo sighed.  He took several sips of the tea.  He didn’t deserve such 
compassion from his friends. He was a filthy halfling who had gone 
willingly with the large warrior—
 
He had to stop such thinking! Perhaps his friends were right. Had he really 
had a choice in the matter?  He had been so small and Oron so strong and 
commanding. He felt a surge of self-loathing at being a hobbit and feeling 
so defenseless in a world of men.
 
“Yes,” he said quietly.  His eyelids felt heavy.  “I will tell you.  But not 
now. I am very tired.”
 
“Yes, Frodo must rest,” Strider said.  “When he next wakes, I will change 
the dressing on his wound. You other hobbits may stay, but you must be 
quiet.  I want him to sleep undisturbed.”
 
Frodo thought that he might actually sleep well. He felt safe for the first 
time since arriving in Bree.  He had opened his heart, told his deepest 
shame to his friends—and they had stayed.  He would tell them everything 
when he woke. Then they could make a final judgment of him. His friends 
could decide whether he was worth all the trouble they had gone to in 
following him to Bree. And Strider could decide whether he was worth 
saving.  As Frodo slipped into sleep, he found himself hoping that Strider 
still found him worthy.  Frodo smiled, remembering the pleasing sensation 
of Strider’s hands on his face.
 
 
***
 
 
The other hobbits had retired to their room to sleep.  Sam had gone 
reluctantly, and only with the promise from Aragorn that if he got sleepy 
that he would get Sam to watch over Frodo.  Aragorn was far from sleep. 
There was an ominous pit in his stomach and an extra chill to the air. 
Years of being a ranger in the wild had taught him to trust his intuition.  
He kept a sharp eye out the window for shadows.
 
His eyes returned to the small figure under the blanket. Frodo’s wan face 
looked peaceful for the first time since Aragorn had rescued him from 
Oron’s cottage. He hoped that Frodo’s confession and the subsequent 
support of his friends had allowed him some peace.  That Frodo would 
entertain the thought that he could somehow defile the Shire was 
heartbreaking. Aragorn strove to remember as much about hobbit culture 
as he could.  They were a modest people; they generally did not discuss 
what went on in the bedroom.  To be a victim of such a heinous crime 
might put him apart from the community.  Yet--
 
Frodo had casually mentioned possible relations with a lad, and his friends 
had barely reacted.  Looking at Frodo’s face, sweet in the peacefulness of 
sleep, his heart sped a little.
 
Aragorn had to free his mind from such thoughts.
 
Frodo might have begun to trust him, but he was a long way from the 
possibility of engaging in a relationship with a human.  And even in the 
best case scenario, if Frodo gave him his heart, Aragorn could never 
expect to have the kind of physical intimacy with him that he might have 
if Oron hadn’t assaulted him.  At the least, it would be a long recovery—
both physically and emotionally.  In a man and hobbit coupling, and 
Aragorn had never known any in his lifetime, the size difference was so 
great that the man would have to move with tender care and utmost 
gentleness to avoid harming his smaller partner.  But Oron had acted out 
of power and rage.  Aragorn’s stomach clenched as he remembered seeing 
the warrior atop Frodo’s crumpled form, thrusting with all his strength, 
even after the pain had rendered Frodo unconscious.  
 
Frodo stirred in his sleep with a light groan.  Aragorn tensed. He wanted 
Frodo to rest as long as possible.  Aragorn touched his forehead. The 
hobbit’s skin still felt warm. Now that he had recovered from his near fatal 
shock, his temperature had risen again.  The infection on his backside 
needed to be inspected again.
 
Frodo’s eyes opened.  For a moment, they widened with fear, and 
Aragorn’s heart sank.  T