Ironically, Frodo could not think of anything but home while he traveled. It took a while for the light from the burning city to disappear, and he noticed the exact moment that it did. A mindless, numbing terror drove him on, even though all he wanted to do was sleep. He patted Sam absent-mindedly and nudged the pony back into a trot. He wasn’t making very good time, and he knew it. But his stomach was cramping and he was uncomfortable and bloated and worried and tired, and he just couldn’t force himself to go any faster.
Sam seemed to agree with him, and began to slow down again. Frodo sighed and applied pressure with his tired thighs. “Come on, Sam. I promise I’ll let you have some apples tomorrow morning.” It was weak as incentives went, but it was all he had.
The pony snorted indignantly, but didn’t slow down any further. Frodo sighed. It had been too long since he’d last ridden; his lower body felt like it was on fire, and he had several severe muscle cramps. How he wished Aragorn were here to give him one of those amazing massages.
He chewed on his lip nervously as he thought about Aragorn. Still in Minas Tirith. Still in danger. How could Kaleb have been so certain that Aragorn would meet him this morning? How could he possibly know that the king would not be overtaken, or injured, or even...killed?
Frodo knew without a doubt that Aragorn would be fighting right alongside his guards and his people. He wasn’t one to run and hide, not ever. Nor was Frodo, for that matter, and if it hadn’t been for the little one inside him, he would not have left Aragorn behind so easily. Now he was alone in the dark forest with no home and no destination and no instructions except to ride until dawn.
Sometimes, Frodo wished he’d never heard of Men.
***
When the first streaks of light appeared on the horizon, Frodo was finally able to breathe with relief. He was dog-tired, and the baby kept insisting on thrashing about inside him. He practically fell off of Sam at the first respectable camping point. So what if the sun wasn’t actually up? Technically, it was no longer night, and even if it was, it wasn’t as if anyone had been following him. So he figured he’d be safe for now.
As he began to heat some water for his hot water bottle, he wondered exactly how long he should wait for Aragorn before he got worried. As tired as he was, sleep was simply not an option right now.
He wrapped himself more tightly in his cloak and stared at the rising sun. Sam was grazing nearby, and Frodo held out a slice of apple to entice him closer. He tried to tell himself that there was nothing to fear, at least not at the moment, but his paranoia would not be quenched.
The water began to steam, and he filled up one of his bottles and propped it against his back. Recently, he’d found that a warm water bottle helped relieve the aching agony at the base of his spine.
He sat quietly and wondered again how long it would be before his worries would be validated.
***
Frodo woke sometime in mid-afternoon. The water bottle had long since gone cold and the fire had been reduced to smoldering logs. Aragorn was still not there.
Frodo sat up slowly. Sam dozed nearby. He was aware of a growing ache in his belly. He just couldn’t tell if it was because he was hungry or because the baby was acting up.
He grabbed an apple and was just about to begin his pitiful breakfast when he heard it. The sound of heavy footsteps among fallen leaves and underbrush.
He forced himself not to panic and kicked leaves and dirt over the blackened fire circle. He grabbed Sam by the halter and tried to pull him with him into the bushes. Sam whinnied and threw his head back.
Sorrowfully, Frodo removed the halter and slapped the pony on the rump. “Goodbye, Sam,” he mouthed. Sam started and dashed off in the other direction. Frodo scrambled into the bushes by himself. Hopefully whoever was coming would think Sam was a wild pony.
He was breathing hard as he settled back into the underbrush, unconsciously curling into himself to appear smaller. He prayed that it was Aragorn come to find him, even as he knew it was not the truth. He could clearly hear two pairs of feet, and now that they were closer, he could hear voices. Through a gap in the bushes, he could see two dirty, vicious looking men.
“I’m telling you, I don’t think the little runt could have made it this far.”
“Shut up, slime bucket. The boss said to look for the king’s halfling, and that’s what we’re gonna do. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don’t see why it matters, though. We got the king locked in his own dungeons, and there ain’t no way he’s gonna escape. I don’t see why one measly halfling matters.”
“Shows what you know. Haven’t you heard? The hairy little creature is carrying the king’s heir.”
Frodo was able to recover from the wave of sick shock long enough to be indignant about being called a ‘hairy little creature’. But other than that, he was fairly certain that in a few moments he was going to be sick. They had Aragorn. That’s why he hadn’t come yet. That’s why he wasn’t going to come. He was trapped and captive and probably going to be tortured to death and here Frodo was, hiding in the bushes, perfectly safe and sound. Aside from a few insignificant stomach cramps, that is.
Frodo was intensely disgusted with himself, even more so when he couldn’t control himself and retched quietly to one side. The men lifted their heads as though they’d heard, but then a sharp whinny came from the trees, and they dashed off after poor Sam.
Frodo sat up and wiped his mouth. He was nearly certain they were gone, but fear had a good grip on him and he couldn’t move from where he sat. Darkness came and still he crouched in the bushes, face pale and legs cramped.
When the moon rose, Frodo finally crawled out of the bush and into the clearing. His meager supply of apples was still there, hidden under a log with his single cooking pot.
As hungry as he was, he was also exhausted and sore and drained from fear. So he laid down in a small hollow spot on the ground and covered himself with his elven cloak, hoping that if the men did come back, they wouldn’t notice him.
***
Dawn came the next morning, and the morning after that, and Frodo still refused to move from his camp. He had to believe that somehow what the men had said was a lie, that they were trying to bait him into revealing himself. So he waited for Aragorn, still hoping against hope that he would come like promised.
A week later, Frodo was munching on some wild berries he’d found near a stream when he realized that his due date was in a week in a half or so.
Nausea washed over him as he realized that it was possible he’d have to have this baby alone, in the forest, with no help and no companions and no comfort. He shuddered. If that was the case, he’d surely die.
Not for the first time, Frodo thought about returning to Minas Tirith, if only to check on the state of the fair city. What if the ruffians had been driven out days ago and his fear was the only thing keeping him here?
Worse was the thought of Aragorn locked alone in a cell in the dungeons, starved and injured. If he could possibly rescue him...
If he had not been pregnant, he would not have hesitated to go to Aragorn’s rescue. But...now he had their child’s life to think of as well. He would have been able to handle it if he were forced to give himself up to save Aragorn. But he could not bear the thought of harming their baby through his foolish actions.
***
On the ninth day, Frodo gave up and realized that Aragorn was not coming, and that he should see about finding shelter somewhere else. He was filthy and starving and lonely and sore and he wanted more than anything to go home to Minas Tirith.
But he dared not risk it. So on the eve of the tenth day, he set off North towards Rohan.
He’d not been walking more than ten minutes when he heard the sound of crunching leaves again on the road behind him.
Having learned his lesson the first time, he ducked behind the first cover he could find, and peered out between gaps in the foliage.
A man was coming down the road, mounted on a sweaty and panting horse. The man himself didn’t look very well; he was slumped in the saddle and his stringy hair fell across his face, obscuring Frodo’s view of him. Frodo thought he could make out dried and crusted blood on the shirt the man wore. Mingled in, of course, with the fresh.
The horse stopped in front of the bushes and held his head down to graze.
Frodo was able to see the man’s face for only an instant before he toppled off of the horse in a dead faint.
“Aragorn! Aragorn!”