Title: Seeking (1/4) Story: "Strength" Series: Of Hobbits and Men Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) Rating: PG this chapter (NC-17 later) Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn, Frodo/Sam Category: Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit from this, but the dreams are sure great! Summary: In Rivendell Frodo notices Aragorn's sadness at the unattainable Arwen and decides he needs comforting. Notes: This whole idea began when an idea came to me in response to a remark by Lorelei that there weren't enough fics where Frodo and Aragorn approach each other as equals. ***** Foreword: "It is plain indeed that in spite of later estrangement Hobbits are relatives of ours: far nearer to us than Elves, or even than Dwarves. Of old they spoke the languages of Men, after their own fashion, and liked and disliked much the same things as Men did. But what exactly our relationship is can no longer be discovered." -- J.R.R. Tolkien, "Concerning Hobbits", Fellowship of the Ring. **After a space of many years when Hobbits and Men had little dealings, there came to pass events which forced four hobbits to leave their lands and roam the wide world, learning of Men, and of Dwarves, and of Elves. There they found the lands of Men, and with great Men they did learn of strength and loyalty, wisdom and honor. This is the tale of Hobbits and Men.** Tale One: "Strength" Chapter 1: Seeking October 28, 1418 Shire Reckoning: In Rivendell the days were full of feasting and the nights rang out with joyous song, but Frodo felt a shadow amidst the joy, a dark blot of sadness in one lone figure who was often absent when the others gathered to laugh and sing and dance. Frodo had seen Arwen Undomiel for the first time only a few nights ago, before Elrond's Council--he had been awed by her beauty as any mortal might. But he had also noted something strange. Where she was, Aragorn was not; if she came into a room, Aragorn would silently slip away, shoulders bowed and a hollow despair in his face. Frodo had asked Bilbo about it, and had been told of the love of Aragorn and Arwen, and of the mandate of Lord Elrond. "It is a classic love story," Bilbo declared from the depths of his padded chair in his room, puffing on his pipe and confessing that he meant to put it into song if ever the two of them should actually end up together. An odd dark anger came over Frodo at his words, but at first he could not put a name to the feeling. Then he noted Sam watching him and realized: it was jealousy. He was jealous of Arwen, angry that the mere sight of her should send Aragorn into shameful creeping and hiding. Something had happened within his heart in his time with the Ranger since their meeting in Bree. He had tried to convince himself it was respect and admiration he felt for the grey-eyed Ranger, but that had not stopped the thrum in his belly every time their eyes met or the shameful images that came to him whenever he caught a glimpse--any glimpse--of skin. The Dúnadan was a master at stealth and hiding; Frodo had thought a time or two he had caught Aragorn looking at him, appraising him, but every time just as he took notice of it, Aragorn had turned away. Then after the night on Weathertop, the looks had ceased. Aragorn had become his protector and savior instead, and in such an unequal relationship, even when the pain of his wound had been manageable, nothing had been possible between them, not even simple friendship. And yet he so wanted to be friends, not just companions who had faced danger together. There was something in Aragorn's loneliness that mirrored his own soul and cried out to him. Until he had learned of Arwen, it had seemed this would be the time and place to pursue something, but now he knew Aragorn's heart. It was a delicate time for Frodo too; just after he awoke from his terrible wound, Sam had confessed his love to him. Sam was dear, so very dear to him he could not even put it into words, but Sam was not his equal--not yet--he was younger and still innocent in many ways. If they survived this, they would be both wiser and tougher, and bound together forever. Right now, he was torn. He needed strength, wisdom, and endurance. Who better to learn it from that a man who had been fighting evil since he himself was a tiny tot in his mother's arms? But he would not go asking without giving equally in return. And what could he possible give that Aragorn needed? Better to forget the whole thing. "Mr. Frodo, your thoughts wandering again?" Sam's gentle voice brought him out of musing to note that Bilbo had fallen asleep in his chair by the fire and the sun was swiftly setting behind the trees on the hill overlooking Elrond's house. It would be time for another dinner among the elves, probably with Elrond and his daughter. They were heaping him with praise for his decision to destroy the Ring; he was now the most honored guest at the table, with Sam by his side. It made his head spin. "Yes, Sam--I'm sorry. I seem to do a lot of that here, I'm afraid." Sam smiled, raising a hesitant hand to pat his knee. "It don't trouble me none. Something about this place seems to lend itself to deep thought, though I don't know quite what--I'd almost say there was a magic in this valley, as it were. 'Course you have plenty to be thinkin' on, too." Frodo took Sam's hand and rubbed it encouragingly. "If I neglect you, please tell me. I've been alone so long I fear it has become second nature for me to lose myself to my thoughts--I shall be as bad as dear Bilbo someday, I expect." "I heard that," Bilbo mumbled, shifting in his chair and opening one eye. He grinned, then closed his eyes once more. Frodo saw Sam watching him, silently, and berated himself for not feeling more grateful, for feeling almost indifferent. He loved Sam, he was almost sure of it, but something wasn't right with him, something needed doing . . . he wasn’t sure. He was sure that Sam couldn't possibly understand, though. He tried to smile and leaned in to kiss Sam on the cheek. A clear high note rang out from the main hall, from a wooden chime the elves used to signal a gathering. "That would be the call for supper," Sam said, rising to his feet. He had lost some weight in their trek from Bree, but he was gaining it back rapidly thanks to Elrond's magnificent table. Frodo drank in the sight of him, so familiar and comfortable, before rising himself. "Are you coming to dinner, Bilbo?" he asked, but this time the old hobbit really had fallen asleep. *** It hardly surprised him that Aragorn was missing again, for tonight Arwen looked utterly breathtaking, ethereal and glowing as if by moon and starlight. When she spoke a few words to him, he stammered something he hoped was appropriate as a reply, but always his gaze sought Aragorn. Sam whispered in his ear, "What is the matter, master? Something is clearly troubling you tonight." "It's Aragorn. I can't say more here," Frodo whispered back, then Elrond was asking him about the meal and he was nodding and trying to bestow adequate praise--Elrond *did* set a fabulous table. When the meal was over (without so much as a glimpse of Aragorn), Frodo kindly thanked the elves and left a few minutes early towards the Hall of Fire where perhaps Aragorn would be waiting for a distant glimpse of Arwen before he disappeared to his room for the night. On the way there, he felt Sam keeping close behind him, his worry almost tangible, and wondered how he could possibly explain his odd behavior. "You're for him, aren't you, Mr. Frodo. Don't tell me nay--I know the look in your eyes when you talk of Mr. Strider. Shall I leave you to him, then?" Frodo glanced quickly at Sam, cursing himself for underestimating him; once again he had seen right into his heart, piercing any deception. At the thought of Sam leaving, his heart lurched in fear. He stopped and faced him. "No, Sam, please. You're right--I seem to be drawn to him, but not for love. Something else; something I'm struggling to understand. He saved my life; he saved all our lives, in truth, and I feel I need to repay him, or I need healing from him--I don't know . . . I just feel there needs to be an exchange between us, for both our strength. Do you see how alone he is, here where he is supposedly home? I feel that way too. We are more alike than different, he and I." Frodo shook his head. He could see pain in Sam's eyes, in his bowed stance. This was all wrong; he didn't know how to explain this or what would happen if he left Sam, even for a night with another . . . "I'm so sorry, my dear blessed Sam. I wish I could be so much more for you--you deserve better." "Nonsense, sir--" Frodo would not let Sam console him this time. "No, I'm behaving terribly, I know. It's only . . . he seems so sad, Sam. I want to console him." Sam made a swipe at his eyes, muttering about an eyelash, but Frodo caught the trail of moisture across his cheek when he lowered his hand. "I think I'm understanding things. If you must, you must. I'm still coming with you to Mount Doom. You'll have to bury me in the ground to keep me from doing that. I love you no matter what." He stood defiantly waiting for Frodo to naysay him. By his face, Frodo knew Sam's heart was breaking; he could feel the pieces cutting into him, like knives. He surged forward and hugged Sam hard, burying his face in his sturdy shoulder. "Please don't tell me this is over for you and me--I don't want that--I don't know what I want . . . " Sam's hand steadily patted him on the shoulder. "Give yourself a night, sir, and we'll see what the morning brings. More than anything I want your happiness, whether it be with me or no. You'd best be talking to Strider--this needs clearing up for all of us. Come on, let's see if he's there." They broke apart as the first of the elves could be heard leaving the dining hall, and walked quickly to reach the Hall of Fire, pausing in the doorway to survey the room. In the back of the great chamber, almost completely hidden in the shadow of a stone column, stood Aragorn. He was dressed in an emerald velvet surcoat and black hosen, his beard neatly trimmed and his hair swept back, his rough hands holding a goblet of wine, slowly swirling it as he kept watch on the doorway. He spotted Frodo and smiled warmly; instantly heat flowed through Frodo, and he almost had to lean on Sam for support as strength left his legs--oh his reactions were growing worse each time! He was an embarrassment and an imbecile to desire such one so high above him. "Let's go have a talking with Mr. Str-Aragorn, Mr. Aragorn there," Sam said in a soft voice, taking Frodo by the elbow from where he wavered by the doorway and gently steering him towards Aragorn's niche. Frodo tried to read the emotions in Sam's face, usually so open, but for once it was unreadable. They had almost reached Aragorn--enough to where Aragorn knew they were coming to speak with him, when Sam suddenly left his side. "Good luck, sir--I know you'll do what's best; you always do. I'll be in my chambers if you need talking, afterwards . . ." Then Sam left Frodo alone with Aragorn. Title: Asking (2/4) Story: "Strength" Series: Of Hobbits and Men Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) Rating: PG-13 this chapter (NC-17 later) Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn, Frodo/Sam Category: Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit from this, but the dreams are sure great! Summary: In Rivendell Frodo notices Aragorn's sadness at the unattainable Arwen and decides he needs comforting. Strength: Chapter 2: Asking ***** Frodo felt the open space at his side keenly, but somehow it was good. Sam was right; this was necessary. He allowed his eyes to linger on the broad chest of Aragorn before him, delineated by the sheer velvet surcoat, shivering as he traced the outline of muscles with his eyes and imagined his small hand reaching up to rub one hardened nipple . . . He smiled a dark, secret smile, and looked into Aragorn's face. The Dúnadan's cheeks were flushed; he was almost sure of it. "Good evening, Frodo. I hope you are feeling well these days? The wound is troubling you less?" The smell of soap and pipeweed clung to him; pleasant smells, reminding Frodo of home. Aragorn's eyes were dark and intent on him, revealing nothing. “I am doing much better, thank you,” Frodo said, wishing Aragorn would sit or kneel; anything to lessen his height advantage, though he could hardly fault the view from his vantage point. He caught Aragorn glancing at the entranceway as a party of elves arrived. “Actually, I was wondering how you were doing. I’ve seen so little of you as of late. Bilbo mentioned to me it might be because of Arwen’s presence; I do seem to find myself in Elrond’s and her company often. It pains me to think that perhaps you are in need of comfort and are avoiding her.” There; he could watch Aragorn’s reaction to that and see more what the situation was with Arwen. Frodo felt hot, nervous, a coil of uncertainty in his gut, warning him that he must be more cautious in his approach. It would never do to offend the Ranger. Aragorn crouched down now, a warrior's crouch, frowning as he looked hard at him, boring into him with his clear grey eyes. "Bilbo told you of us?" "I asked and he told, yes—I don't believe he thought it a secret. I'm sorry—I don't mean to upset you. It's only that I care about you, after all you have done for me, and I wanted to assure myself that you were well. Your strength has been an inspiration to me, Aragorn." Now that he was down at the correct level, Frodo felt daring enough to lay his hands on Aragorn's shoulders, gently keeping him down, massaging him through the thin fabric of the velvet. He fought to keep the satisfaction out of his face when he felt a shudder go through the man. Aragorn lowered his eyes and bowed his head. "And your strength to me, Frodo. We both bear our wounds well, do we not?" Aragorn raised his head to look again into Frodo's eyes, and this time his heart gave a leap; he saw desire there, before it was mastered and hidden away. Frodo brought his hands up to gently smooth back the long dark mane of hair and the bristly short beard. Oh, how he longed to comfort this great man . . . Aragorn drew back a little and Frodo pulled back his hands. Not ready yet, then. Well, his next words would show if this was a possibility or just hopeless fantasy. "Sam declared his love for me," he said, watching Aragorn's face carefully. A series of emotions flashed across his rugged face, too quickly for Frodo to really interpret—he saw shock, dismay? Frustration? Joy? In the end, Aragorn hid them all and gave a shuttered smile, avoiding his eyes. "I am pleased but a little surprised—in the Shire I was not aware . . . you are a modest people . . . " "Appearances can be deceiving. Just as we keep ourselves hidden from Big Folk generally, we tend to hide our private dealings as well, but we love life and indulge much—food, drink, merriment, and oh yes, love. In all its forms." They would not continue this conversation long here if Aragorn was this shy. More elves were arriving, and any moment Arwen would appear. Frodo's plan would be foiled. He felt another stab of anger at her. Aragorn licked his lips, and Frodo had to fight with all his being not to lean in and taste the moisture glistening on his bottom lip. He sighed—he couldn't help it. "You are like the elves in this regard," Aragorn responded, "They love freely, whether male or female; there is no censure among them. They are above such things." "And you grew up with the elves," Frodo all but purred. It was time to make his next statement. He saw Elrond enter, and Arwen had to be close behind. He did not think he could bear to wait another day to try this. "Sam and I are having a problem right now, though—I can't seem to give myself to him fully. He thought I should see you. I'm drawn to you—something within you. More than drawn, actually. I want you." He forced himself to keep his eyes up, to breathe slow and steady though his heart was pounding. He was blushing—there was nothing he could do about that, and he longed to either curl up against Aragorn's hard chest or run away—he wasn't sure which. He only prayed he had not judged wrong; hoped he hadn't just made an utter fool of himself. His vulnerability must have shown; Aragorn caressed his cheek with one rough hand, his lips parted in disbelief and—could it be? Wonder. But he also noticed Elrond's entrance, and by the look in his eyes, Arwen had arrived as well. He paled; Frodo gasped at the sudden change over him, reaching out a hand to steady him, afraid he would suddenly sway forward. Nice though it might be to have the tall man on top of him, he didn't think he would be able to support the sudden weight. "I have to go—I cannot bear to look upon—" Aragorn's voice was choked, though his eyes remained dry. How many years, Frodo wondered; how many years had he endured this pain and longing? Frodo helped him to his feet, looking at him pleadingly. "Aragorn? Let me help. I know I'm no substitute . . . but please, let me repay all the kindness you've shown me. I need to feel my own strength. I can with you. I know it." He could see by the strain on Aragorn's face he had not fully convinced him—he had been a fool then. Well, he had tried, and risked his relationship with Sam to do so. He would have to find strength on his own, it looked like—alone, as always. Frodo turned away and made a move to leave. Aragorn put one hand over his shoulder, heavy and huge it suddenly seemed to Frodo. He looked up. "Come with me. We'll continue this discussion in my room." Smiling in victory, his insides trembling with anticipation, Frodo followed him. Title: Receiving (3/4) Story: "Strength" Series: Of Hobbits and Men Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn, Frodo/Sam Category: Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama Warning: Graphic sex, interspecies Disclaimer: characters not mine, not making money, yada yada yada. Notes: Thanks to Baranduin for her great beta reading! Chapter 3 of Strength: "Receiving" ***** Aragorn's chambers were much larger than those given to the hobbits-- which made sense, as he had lived here for extended periods much of his life. Frodo noted with interest the mixture of styles of the room; both the swaying graceful lines of the elves in the design of the dresser and bed, but also hints of Man, of Númenor and Gondor in an old sturdy chest of beechwood stained dark with the passage of years and a large comfortable chair by the window. There was a small oak table for taking private meals (perfect for tea, to Frodo's mind). Aragorn set down a fat cushion for Frodo on one high oak chair before seating himself across from him, keeping the barrier of the table between them. Frodo narrowed his eyes. Oh, this would never do. He decided to remain standing, watching Aragorn eye him with mixed need and doubt, his hands on the table clenched together, his legs pressed together, trying to hide a rather unmistakable sign of his arousal . . . Frodo laid one hand very gently on his knee, and felt the Ranger jump. "You don't want me?" Frodo asked in as mild a tone as he could manage, given that his pulse was racing and every part of him was tingling with expectation. He felt a muscle flex under his hand on the top of Aragorn's thigh, and felt his own erection pulse in response. Such wonderful strength in those long limbs. It was a heady experience just to rest his hand there. "You're a hobbit," Aragorn whispered, putting one of his hands over Frodo's but not pushing away; almost it seemed he was trying to keep it there. Frodo took the hint, ignoring the Ranger's weak protest, and began to slide his hand up the thigh, gently rubbing and pressing. The Ranger drew in a shaky breath. Frodo smiled as his hand neared its goal. "And you're a Man. Is this a problem?" "The size—I don't want to hurt—" Aragorn all but groaned. "I'm sure we can find a way to make it work." Frodo's hand had reached the hard length in Aragorn's hosen, and the Ranger moaned and sat back, spreading his legs as Frodo firmly rubbed up and down the length of him, his own member beginning to ache in return; he stepped into the space between Aragorn's legs to press himself up against the Ranger, all the while keeping his gaze firmly on Aragorn's face. Sam had complained that his gaze drove out any sensible thoughts. He would see if he had that effect on the Ranger as well. Unfortunately the Ranger too had an intense gaze; it was several moments before Frodo could think of anything besides the warmth and admiration mirrored there and the desire that now burned fiercely. He blinked only when Aragorn moved his hands to encircle his waist--a thrill went through him that the large man could almost span the entire way around, squeezing and pulling him forward . . . Aragorn bent his head and melded his lips to Frodo's. Groaning, Frodo reached up to cradle Aragorn's head in his small hands, sinking into the kiss, the bristle of Aragorn's beard tickling his cheek--so different. So enticing. Aragorn's lips were soft, hungry, his slick tongue seeking entrance . . . Frodo opened himself up to him, shivering with the pleasure of being taken so gently, so skillfully. His fingers curled in the Ranger's dark hair, pulling. Aragorn slid off the chair to kneel before him, his hands sliding down to stroke his legs, down to his calves, rubbing a very large erection against Frodo's thigh as his own member pulsated against the Ranger's hard belly . . . Aragorn pulled away with a shuddering gasp. "I need this," he said in a choked voice. He bowed his head, cradling it against Frodo's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him, holding him in a desperate embrace, clutching. After a moment, he raised his head, again wavering, his face full of pain. "But I don't know if this is right." Frodo stroked his chest, his own breath coming out in soft sobs, the tightness in his chest so great he could scarcely breathe. Aragorn's pain cried out to him and released his own. Images nearly overwhelmed him with a sense of failure for both of them--Merry, Pippin and Sam in the Barrow-wight's cave and him unable to help; the pale faces of the Nazgûl; and Aragorn's stricken face when he found Frodo wounded . . . he suddenly grew aware of the Ring's presence around his neck, pulling his down. "I don't know either--only I know I need something. I'm so lonely . . . so are you, I think. Sam can't understand--the fight against the darkness, how it lures me. He hasn't fought evil, not like this. But you have. I need you. I need you to teach me how to fight despair." He pleaded with his eyes, with his hands. Aragorn closed his eyes, leaning in as Frodo began to unbutton his surcoat. "I don't know how much I can teach . . ." Aragorn whispered. Frodo noticed he did not move to stop his undressing, his hands still wrapped tight around the hobbit. "Only share your strength, then. Just for one night," Frodo whispered back. The surcoat was unbuttoned; he began to unlace the ties of the silk shirt underneath. The Ranger trembled at his touch and opened his eyes, soft and caring. "You are so precious, Frodo. I want you." Frodo coaxed Aragorn's arms from around him so that he could pull off the surcoat. "Then have me." He slipped the shirt over Aragorn's head and stepped into the warmth of his bare chest to coax his lips open with his own, tasting pipeweed, wine, and desire. Aragorn groaned and lapped at him, each thrust of his tongue setting off a warm heat snaking down into Frodo's belly; his hands now furiously worked to release the small buttons of Frodo's weskit, pulling it off of him then pulling back to lift Frodo's shirt away from him. The movement sent the Ring back on its chain to fall down Frodo's back. Aragorn hardly gave it a glance, but paused at seeing the silk bandage over Frodo's left shoulder. "Does it pain you much?" Oh no, he wasn't going to let the wound stop him, even if it did ache a bit. He removed the sling and the bandage to prove it was much healed. "Not terribly. Distraction will help I think." He winked. Then he too paused, for the first time actually *looking* at the Ranger's bare upper body, at the soft patch of dark curly hair and the scars of many years . . . A white jagged scar ran from the curve of one shoulder down the back about four inches--it must have been the swipe of a blade seeking to remove Aragorn's head from his shoulders. Several rough patches of skin- -very old—ran along one side down to his hhip--perhaps from dragging? Years of a hard life marked him; he was lean and sinewy. Frodo tried to calculate how much time Aragorn had spent in the wilderness often by himself, living off of stars above knew what, open to all the elements of sun and rain and ice. There was even a scar that reminded Frodo of his own wound under the rib cage on the right side--a stab wound, now long healed. Two other puncture wounds made little white stars above his left nipple; arrows, probably. Frodo's hand drifted to his own new scar, red and livid . . . then he smiled. What was a scar? A triumph against death, against the enemy. He bent to nuzzle Aragorn's chest and softly kiss the two scars by the nipple, then brushed his lips over the nipple itself and sucked, exulting in the way it hardened against his tongue. He nipped and tongued it alternately until Aragorn was gripping his shoulders and muttering, "Bed . . . to the bed." Unlacing his breeches as he went, Frodo approached the bed--massive by hobbit standards, then frowned. There was no stepstool in this room to help him get up. He swallowed his pride and looked to Aragorn, but before he even asked, the Ranger had lifted him up gently and was stretching out beside him, his hands busily removing his hosen and then Frodo's breeches, the rough calluses brushing up and down the hobbit's torso and legs as if Aragorn couldn't get enough of the feel of him. Frodo enjoyed his touch for a moment, before continuing his own explorations down Aragorn's back, the tightly muscled arse, around to the front and a dark patch of curls. His fingers found Aragorn, and his eyes soon followed—free of clothing, Aragorn's cock looked enormous, dark purple at the head, slowly leaking pre-cum. Frodo stroked it, his thumb and forefinger not quite able to touch, running up and down the length until the Ranger was thrusting his hips up at him. Frodo gulped. His mind balked at the thought to taking something that size . . . "We will do only what you want to do." Aragorn must have noticed his goggling; feeling foolish, he looked back to Aragorn's face, concentrating on the feel of him—less frightening than the sight. Very soon, though, the Ranger was pulling his hand away to push Frodo flat against the bed, rising up over him and bending to suck first one nipple then the other, alternating back and forth even as his hand cupped and fondled him, back from the tender spot behind his balls up to the head of his cock; Frodo writhed under the attack, moaning. When Aragorn dipped his head lower to nip and tongue his navel, he thought he would go mad. When Aragorn reached his cock, all his movements abruptly stopped as he waited, poised as upon a spear point. Aragorn took him in. Frodo cried out, bucking, gripping the blankets as he was completely engulfed in wet heat; stars above, there was at least one advantage to their size difference! He tossed his head from side to side to keep from thrusting up as Aragorn moved his tongue around him, sucking in great long strokes that felt like they were going to pull his essence straight out from his toes . . . he shook his head at the ceiling. "No, no—not yet. My turn to give." He certainly didn't have the strength to push Aragorn off, but the Ranger complied, lying back down next to him and drawing him in for another heated kiss. To concentrate on the Ranger's pleasure—that would be the best thing to make this last, Frodo decided, and went on his knees and his good arm to slide down the length of Aragorn's body, his smooth white skin in stark contrast to the rough bronzed hide of the Ranger, down to that mighty erection. There was no way he could take it all into his throat. Best to concentrate on the head; let his fingers do the rest of the work. Alternately sucking and licking, he wrapped one hand around and stroked evenly, while teasing his balls with feather light touches with his other hand. Aragorn groaned deep in his throat, letting him know he was growing close. Perhaps it was only his movements; perhaps something more nefarious, but Frodo suddenly found the Ring had slipped from his back to his front again and now banged against the Ranger's thigh . . . the world seemed to suddenly tilt away and he was falling into darkness. A mist gathered before his gaze. He had to stop, fighting to gain control as a sudden desire most definitely not his own swept over him . . lure the Ranger to take the Ring . . . Aragorn sat up, sensing his struggle. "Frodo, are you all right?" His touch on Frodo's cheek seemed to push back the black veil coming over his vision, return him to the warmth of the chamber and his physical body. He flung the Ring back around to fall behind him. "I'm all right. We all have our wounds, right?" Even to his ears that sounded bitter. "Do you want to continue?" Well that was interesting—he hadn't asked if they should stop. He nodded. The experience had dampened his ardor a little, but simply looking at the Ranger's lean form curled up over him was bringing him back to life. He suddenly wanted—needed—more. "I don't know about any relationships you've had; whether with any males you might have . . ." Oh dear, this was so awkward to ask—how could he possibly make this request of the heir of kings? "I find myself suddenly longing to be in you." He flushed at his brazen request. Must be the Took in his line coming forward. He was surprised when Aragorn suddenly kissed him, hard, passionately. "I would be most honored, Frodo. I shall take your strength on my journey as well; we shall both have need of it." He suddenly leaned far over to the small night table by the bed and took out a little jar. Frodo laughed at the smell as he uncorked it—chamomile oil, something he had used to bring down the swelling on his wound. Well, why not. It certainly smelled pleasant enough. He allowed the Ranger to rub the oil on his member, sighing and closing his eyes at the gentle yet firm touch, then the Ranger lied down, and Frodo was struck by the utter trust, and yes—he never would have believed it— vulnerability. He was moved almost to tears, smiling, he blinked away sudden moisture from his eyes and knelt between Aragorn's legs to pour a little oil over him, trickling down to his rectum, then massaging it in, pressing inward. It gave easily to his index finger, showing him how much the Ranger wanted him, that he was this open, this relaxed. To the knuckle, then in, then a second, stretching him. It wasn't until the third that he managed to find the sweet spot; he was gratified by the deep sigh Aragorn let out; his only indication that he was indeed enjoying Frodo's ministrations. Well, this shouldn't be hard at all. Rising over him and keeping his weight mostly on his right arm, Frodo positioned himself at the entrance, keeping his gaze firmly on Aragorn's eyes. Strong—so strong . . . he pushed in, gasping at the exquisite tightness, the heat. Oh, already the tension was gathering at the back of his spine—he bit his lip and concentrated on those eyes to keep himself from going over the brink, sinking all the way in. He hissed his pleasure as Aragorn moaned and brought his legs up to hold him in place. Pressed this way up against the Ranger's body, he could feel that enormous cock twitching. When he was far enough back from the brink to trust himself, he began to move, gaining speed quickly—he just couldn’t' hold back any longer. He wrapped his left hand around Aragorn's cock and despite any pain in his shoulder began to pump it as he rammed in full force, unafraid of hurting the Ranger; in fact, the harder he moved the better Aragorn seemed to like it, nodding and throwing his head back, gripping Frodo's dark curls in a vice hold and wrapping his legs around him. "Yes, oh yes, Frodo, thank you---Ohhh!" He cried out and his whole body stiffened as he came in Frodo's hand and down their bellies; immediately afterwards Frodo trembled and thrust all the way in, his eyes rolling back as his own climax came with such force it was a wonder he remained conscious. After the stabbing pleasure began to recede and he began to shrink, he pulled out and collapsed on top of Aragorn, his curls now damp, trailing across the broad chest. "Oh thank *you*," he murmured, burying his head into Aragorn's chest, finally able to acknowledge the love he felt for a true friend and leader. Aragorn did not speak but held him close for many long moments, softly brushing through his curls with his fingers. Frodo closed his eyes and listened to the heart beat of the Man, slower and steadier than his own frenzied pace. Yes, he was understanding it now, how Aragorn faced things—patience, respect, acceptance. This was a better lesson than he had dreamed of it being. For perhaps the first time since his first glance of the Nazgul, he felt totally safe. And strong. Title: Releasing (4/4) Story: "Strength" Series: Of Hobbits and Men Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) Rating: PG Pairing: Frodo/Aragorn, Frodo/Sam Category: Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama Warning: no happy ending. (yet) Disclaimer: All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no monetary profit from this. Summary: Sam waits for Frodo, knowing he has been with Aragorn . . . Notes: Thanks to Baranduin's beta-ing! Chapter 4: Releasing: An Epilogue/Prologue . . . Night fell, and a cold autumn wind blew through the vale where Elrond's house stood, sending showers of golden leaves rustling against the window of Sam's room as he sat wrapped in a blanket, a candle now burned low next to him on the bench. His eyes were fixed on the starry skies above the canopies of the trees, but his ears were attuned to the hallway outside his door, listening for the slightest noise. He caught snatches of song still taking place at the Hall of Fire, but not the sound he was listening for--the sound of hobbit feet, or a door opening and closing to the chamber next door. All was silent in the guest wing. He drew a shuddering breath and expelled it, willing the tears to stay away. Well, he was as great a fool as Sandyman had ever called him. "Don't go mixin' with your betters," his Gaffer always said, and of course he was right. What a mess he had made, breaking his promise to himself that he'd never reveal his feelings. He'd just been so happy to see Mr. Frodo up and well again, after so very nearly losing him. It had happened after the Council, after he stood up from sitting on the ground in the corner, after he had declared that Frodo wasn't going anywhere without him. Following the words of praise, and the blessings, and the well wishes of all the great people gathered there, Frodo and he had walked the grounds, the weight of their promises suddenly falling heavily upon them. After so long a time listening to different tales in different accents of faraway places--some of them thick and difficult to decipher, like the Gondorian--Sam had felt nothing so much as numb. And weary. And desperate to tell Frodo why it was he must come, what it was that had made him jump up and interrupt like that. "I love you, sir," he said--just like that. Blurted out with no preamble. Years of pent up emotions, so many nights of dreaming . . . and it had come out as easily as a breath of air. "I love you too, Sam," Frodo said, then realizing the *manner* in which he meant it, stopped to look deeply into his eyes, so deep until Sam was sure his soul must be leaking out his ears. "Why Sam--I never knew . . ." And Sam started to cry, for he had been so certain Frodo would laugh, or push him away, but instead he found love there in those bright eyes, and profound respect, and companionship. It was only a second later that those eyes closed, that fair face leaned in, and Sam felt a rush through him, knowing what was coming next. When they kissed, he knew things were complete, as they had never been before or would likely be again; he almost forgot where he stopped and Frodo started. Frodo gave himself to him utterly, letting him plunge his tongue in deep, their fingers entwined in each others hair, their bodies pressed together from heart to toe. Sam thought Frodo's mouth was sweeter than strawberries grown in his garden to perfection. But all too soon the kiss was over. A troubled look came over his master's face. "What is the matter, sir? Should I not have said anything?" Frodo had returned the kiss fervently; it seemed he *did* feel something, Sam thought in a feverish panic, his body aching for the return of his touch. Had he judged wrong? But no, Frodo was shaking his head, his fingertips tenderly brushing at Sam's jaw, his cheek, smiling at him fondly. But it wasn't right. It wasn't the heart melting look of joy that had crossed his face a moment before; it was a look of compassion, of pity almost. The moment had been lost. Sam wasn't certain just what had happened, but he suspected he knew the cause. Frodo had just closed himself off. Just like a Baggins. "No, Sam, dear spirits above, I'm glad you spoke up. It wasn't right for you to suffer in secret. I just need some time, that's all, to . . ." He smiled wistfully. "Well, to open up. It's hard for me, you have to realize. I'm a little bit afraid of love. It's too easy to be hurt by it." Now that was a funny thing for Mr. Frodo to say, but suddenly Sam remembered the day Bilbo left and the look on Frodo's face at peering into his empty room . . . and a comment he made about losing another guardian . . . well of course. It all made perfect sense, come to think of it. What a foolery to have not thought of it before. His parents' drowning, Mr. Bilbo's leaving--huh, probably even the growing bond between his once close cousin Merry and young Pippin . . . Mr. Frodo was a bud who would need a bit of coaxing to bloom. Well, he was a patient hobbit. He could wait. At least, that was what he had thought was the problem at the time. Now he just wasn't sure. It could be the Ring Frodo was struggling with, afraid to open himself up to anything or anyone lest it weaken him against his burden. Or perhaps he was trying to protect Sam--that was certainly a possibility. But Sam did not want protection. He wanted to be protector, to share with Frodo the pain that was so evident in him. Whatever he had was Frodo's; he had only to ask. And therein lay the rub. Mr. Frodo would not ask, and Sam couldn't force him. They had not made love yet the way Sam knew lads could--not that he had personal experience, but being next to youngest, one heard things. He'd also fooled around a little with the Cotton boys in his tweens. Frodo was more experienced--Sam was certain of that by the way he kissed, but he hadn't asked how. He was afraid to know. Frodo *had* made love to him with mouth and with hands, and it had been glorious, but still, not quite right, not perfect as he knew it *could* be between them. If Frodo would only let down his barriers and let Sam in . . . Sam choked on a sob, then suddenly his ears perked at a sound--just the softest patter, outside his room. He jumped up from the bench at a soft knock on his door. Grabbing up the candle, he flew to the door and opened it to find Frodo, slightly mussed, flushing, one hand raised hesitantly to knock again . . . and smelling of another. Frodo swallowed, not meeting his eyes, and Sam saw he had missed a few buttons on his weskit, and his hair was matted with sleep, his lips still red from kissing. Sam willed away the hurt and jealousy but it burned in his gut nonetheless, roiling about until he feared he might be sick. Silence stretched between them. "I thought you might stay up," Frodo said at last, in a soft sad voice, but not sad with regret--more like pity. Sam resisted the urge to slam the door in his face and block out that pity; it was like a festering wound. Instead, he lowered his head so Frodo wouldn't see the impotent rage he felt. None of this was Frodo's fault, after all. It was purely his, for revealing himself as he shouldn't have, trying to make something happen with someone he never should have aspired to in the first place. He forced himself to be calm, to lock away the hurt. Sam was amazed his voice was steady. "He gave you what you needed?" He dared to raise his eyes a moment to see Frodo's reaction. A slight nod, and his eyes--fulfillment. Peace. Happiness. The jealousy twisted in Sam's gut. "May I come in? I know you're upset . . ." Oh there was that pity again, dreadful, dreadful pity! It was getting harder to hold back the tears, and Sam had never been much of one for holding back his feelings anyhow. He nodded glumly, standing aside so that Frodo could enter. Frodo took a seat on the bench where Sam had spent most of the night, immediately taking notice of the puddle of wax left from the candle; absently he set to scratching it away from the smooth surface of the wood, his shoulders hunched, trying to be all but invisible. Sam closed the door as quietly as possible lest it awaken Merry and Pip across the hall and stood, uncertain what to do next. He was shivering. He pulled the blanket covering his shoulders around tighter and asked, "Are you warm enough in here, master? With your wound you shouldn't--" "I'm almost too warm, actually. But you, you look a sight, dear Sam. Please, sit with me. I want to try and explain." Frodo's gaze was still intent on the wax; the blob looked a bit like a ring now, as he smoothed away the edges . . . "There's nothing to explain. You needed Aragorn, and he needed you too, apparently. I'm just sorry I opened my big mouth and made you worry for me." That wasn't entirely true, Sam realized. In a way he was glad he had revealed himself now, so that Frodo was . . . hurt? Torn? No. He couldn't want that, could he? He was supposed to only want what was best for Frodo. Yet somehow the pain now on Frodo's face warmed him. Oh dear. What a monster he was becoming. "You're right, just as you always are, but that's not all. It is done. We both talked afterwards, and agreed: only once. It was all I needed--I just needed to feel my strength, to find the warrior within me. I'm ready now, Sam. Ready to face my quest, ready to give to you. I'm here now, aren't I? I didn't want to sleep in his arms, you know--it just didn't feel right. I want to be in *your* arms. You're my soul, Sam. He might have been my strength, but you're my soul. I need that even more." Frodo looked up, and even by candlelight the power of his eyes was unquenchable; it burned through any and all of Sam's defenses, searing his chest, inflaming the ball of hurt there . . . Sam blinked, but it was useless. Tears began streaming down his face. He wasn't ready to forgive Frodo, but Frodo gave him little choice; in seconds he had crossed the room and flung his arms around Sam, and in the power of that grip Sam could not hold on to his anger. He loved Frodo too much; to be held so in his arms was breathless joy. After all, Sam thought to himself, he chose *me*; he made a trial with Strider and came back to *me*. That had to mean something; it meant everything, in fact. "D-do you love me?" Sam asked in a weak whisper, needing to hear it spoken, see it in Frodo's eyes. Frodo smiled, and now there was no pity, only love--cherishing love. The ball of pain loosened and melted away, and now Sam was crying for happiness. "Yes, Sam. I really do love you. I want to be with you, and only you." For emphasis, Frodo kissed each of Sam's cheeks, along the trails of the tears, removing them. "But Strider--" He hadn't mistaken that look of fulfillment, of sated happiness when he opened the door. *He* hadn't been the one to give that to Frodo, so how could he possibly keep him happy? "Aragorn loves Arwen. But he knows Elrond frowns upon the match; discourages them from even talking until he claims his birthright and becomes King. Aragorn keeps his distance to spare them both pain, but I don't think it's working. I tried to convince him to talk to her. I hope he does, for both their sakes. He's loved and been denied her for a very long time. I saw his love and that's when I knew it for certain. I truly love you, Sam. I was thinking you didn't understand me, but I've changed my mind. I think you understand me all too well. I promise not to do this to you again." Holding Sam's face in his hands, Frodo tilted it and then began kissing him on the lips, forestalling any further protests. Two more tears leaked out the corner of Sam's eyes, and he really didn't know what kind of tears they were; he was a mixed up mess of feelings now. All he knew was that he loved Frodo, needed him desperately. Perhaps tomorrow he would sort out his worries. It was late; the dawn lay only a few hours away. And Frodo's mouth was insistent, opening him, ravaging him until the pleasure was almost pain and he was trembling with desire. This was what he had wanted all along. Frodo was giving his all now; no holding back. "Will you make love to me, Sam? We can do what I know you've wanted to do. I want to lie beneath you and feel you inside." Oh Sam couldn't help the moan that image brought, and his body was rapidly responding to Frodo's hands as they roamed, the blanket falling off his shoulders to puddle at their feet. He wasn't feeling cold any longer. Very well. Take what was offered and be grateful. He hardly had the right to demand any kind of vows or loyalty from Frodo anyway. He was the servant, and would always be. And this was more, so much more than he had ever dreamt possible when they left Bag End on the way to see those wonderful elves that held so much meaning for his dear master, live inside those romantic tales. Perhaps it wasn't exactly perfect, but he should be happy with it. He *would* be happy. At least tonight. "Oh Mr. Frodo, it scares me, how much I love you. Anything you ask, it's yours. Always," he mumbled between kisses, then they were fumbling their way to the bed. ***** End of "Strength". Next Tale: "Loyalty".